The List- Alyssa's Revenge Page 2

  Even six hundred forty miles away in Atlanta, Emily, her twin, sensed her sister’s distress…perceived Alyssa’s death before Wyatt confirmed the tragedy. He berated himself for not staying in touch after Alyssa moved to Washington and wished he could feel her presence like Emily. Only in nightmares did she come to him, scratching at the ice barrier holding her beneath the surface… mouthing silent screams, begging him to save her.

  The night terrors now woven into the fabric of his mind, mingled with atrocities he left behind in Afghanistan and swirled into a perfect storm of psychotic chaos. No one knew about the horrors creeping through his tortured thoughts. If they had, he’d be locked up in some veteran hospital and drugged into a comatose oblivion. Tormented at the prospect, he forged on in silence, a happy-go-lucky smile carved into his features. Wyatt couldn’t speak about the thoughts silently strangling him every hour of every day.

  Despite the accident that cut short his military career, he still relished the high escaping danger evoked and the elation of trouncing enemies. Hell, that thrill, the sensation of being invincible, led him into the Marines in the first place. After watching the devastation of 911 unfold in living color, all he could think of was joining the military and taking out those bastards. Pushing his education into the background, he enlisted in the Marine Corps after high school and advanced to Staff Sergeant in record time.

  Deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan on two separate tours, he specialized in Explosive Ordnance Disposal, disarming and destroying improvised explosive devices. The intense training began at Eglin Air Force Base in Florida. For one hundred forty-three endless days, not counting weekends and holidays, he learned how to identify bombs, how to safely explode them and what tools and methods worked best, along with the difference between biological and chemical warfare. He mastered IEDs and weapons of mass destruction both underwater and on land. He aced each segment to qualify for his position. For five years, he’d led the life he’d trained for and moved up in rank exponentially. Then in the blink of an eye everything went dark.

  Oddly, Alyssa’s death had ripped him from the edge. Emily––an investigative journalist in her own right––vowed to find Alyssa’s killer and joined forces with Ashton Frasier, the detective assigned to the case. While Wyatt flew to West Virginia to break the news to their parents, the investigation tied Alyssa’s brutal murder to a dangerous faction threatening America’s democracy. Frasier recruited a few of his closest friends to dig deeper, until the case exposed a group of global titans attempting to take over the White House. The real-life Game of Thrones fell way beyond their paygrade.

  Luckily, Frasier’s connection to the Director of NCIS, drew her into the case––a woman who already had assembled a team of trusted agents, marines, cops, and associates into a small squad willing to risk their careers and lives to defend America’s democracy. The crew identified as New Patriots, but they paled in comparison to the magnitude, financial support, depth, and breadth of the shadow government known as The Association.

  By the time Wyatt arrived in Atlanta to help with funeral arrangements, the New Patriots had used Emily as a decoy to lure the murderer from the shadows––a plan Wyatt would have nixed immediately had he landed earlier. He agreed to join the crew, if for no other reason than to protect the only sister he had left. His military skill and expertise made him the perfect choice. The New Patriots needed a second in command. Under any other situation, Wyatt would have leapt at the position…but his past decisions flew in the face of taking the offer.

  Never in Wyatt’s wildest dreams had he imagined Harper Drake lived in D.C., let alone was now Director of NCIS. Expecting Emily at Ronald Regan Airport, he almost fell flat on his face when Harper stood at the gate, waiting to meet him. They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries then strolled through the airport toward her car, speaking only of Alyssa’s murder and the suspect they had in custody. They never broached the past. But Wyatt knew one day in the not too distant future he’d have to explain his decisions.

  His mind spinning with thoughts of Harper, he strode farther along the shadowy trail toward the spot where he could best see the old aqueduct. How vivid he could still remember the first time he saw Harper Drake…The moment his gaze met hers almost twelve years earlier in Afghanistan, he froze. Kneeling beside a mountain stream with a few other soldiers, she was washing the desert dust from her face and hands. When she removed her helmet, a fat braid unraveled, displaying deep brown locks that curled as they fell over her shoulders. Shaking the mop loose, she paused to flash Wyatt a smile before continuing. His breath caught in his throat and from that day forward he made it his business to find out more about Sgt. Harper Drake. Though she was seven years older than him, the age difference meant nothing. They connected on a level he’d never known before and the relationship spanned over two years.

  But seeing her again…after so much time had passed, he hesitated to accept her offer to join the New Patriots. She deserved to know why he walked out of her life, but how could he tell her when he couldn’t make sense of the decision himself?

  Before he arrived in Washington to make arrangements for Alyssa’s funeral, he hadn’t seen Harper since the bomb detonated ten years earlier in Afghanistan. That last day they’d spent the night clinging to each other. Her fragrance, a soft jasmine, lingered on his fatigues. How anyone managed to retain any scent residing in the middle of a dust-ridden war zone, aside from the stench of sweat and human waste, baffled Wyatt. But that day he’d relished the trace that wafted hints of jasmine every time he wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve.

  Though he prepared for worst-case scenarios, he’d never imagined leaving Kabul that morning that his life would change so drastically only a few hours later. In a heartbeat, his future went up in smoke. After the explosion, the chopper medevacked him to a temporary hospital where he healed for six weeks before they sent him home.

  Unable to face Harper, or worse, let her see him ripped to shreds by an IED that left only a fraction of the man she loved, he made a choice. The thought of leaning on her…expecting her to take care of him for the rest of her life turned his stomach inside out. How could he do that to her? She deserved to have a whole man who could offer her the world…not a helpless veteran who’d need a nursemaid the rest of his life. Wyatt refused her phone calls, spared her from living her life chained to half a man.

  Once he was fit enough to function on his own, he slid quietly into the real world. He relocated to Atlanta close to his sisters, until Alyssa moved to Washington. Hired by Congressman Derek Winfield, she thought her internship would open the door to a career in politics. She dreamed of changing the world. Instead, the position got her killed.

  Working with the New Patriots would keep Wyatt hyper-focused and monopolize his time. As long as he concentrated on the case, he could keep his demons on lockdown. Far too much needed to be done for him to slip back into his hellhole.

  He accepted the job and clung to the case like a lifeline thrown into a sea of madness, as if finding answers would help him deal with Alyssa’s death or somehow keep them connected. Focused on investigating the murder, he had little time for introspection and fell into bed each night exhausted from the day’s events. For the first time in ten years, he felt free from the past and claimed a new sense of worth and confidence, until Alyssa’s casket was lowered into the ground. Emotions spun within Wyatt’s soul. His nightmares resurfaced, this time haunted by his own sister. He cursed the ambiguity. Why now? After the tragedies had ended and he finally saw a glimmer of hope…a purpose in his life again?

  He shook his head and forced the grisly ghosts into the caverns of his mind, tucking them into dark crevices where he prayed they’d stay hidden. Bending down, he snagged a few small stones and skipped them across the water, centering his thoughts so they shifted to the present, here on Roosevelt Island. Wyatt loved walking these trails at night when the park fell quiet. He savored the solitude. It was almost like having his own secret island, a pla
ce where he could roam the woods or walk along the beach and gaze at the river to clear his mind.

  Hidden from the world, the secret compound nestled into a small island off the Virginia shoreline of the Potomac River, and once protected the meetings of an elite group of patriots called the Masons. Decades ago, the government dismantled abandoned dwellings and landscaped the island with several trails running around and through a natural panorama to honor an American president. But during that makeover, a handful of Masons masterminded the creation of a clandestine underground bunker intended as an epicenter for their organization and, unbeknownst to the world, that complex now slept beneath the recreation area known as The Theodore Roosevelt Island Memorial Park.

  Every day, tourists fill the parking lots then stroll across the bridge to the island, a fifteen-minute walk connecting Virginia hiking trails to the preserve and memorial statue. No one would suspect the attraction a cover for a secret hold under the park, and even if someone did, the secluded foliage-covered entrance would challenge anyone to find the entry.

  When Wyatt first passed through the gateway, he noted a lighted stairway leading downward, which opened to a grid of secret tunnels, reaching like fingers beneath the surface of the murky Potomac River.

  Only a short walk from the George Washington Memorial Parkway and the Rosslyn Metro Station, the bunker now contained high-tech security and impenetrable soundproofing, an ideal setting for a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility known in the industry as a SCIF. Here stealth investigations could be conducted under the radar, a distinct advantage for The New Patriots to interrogate enemies of the state who intended to corrupt world power and destroy democracy.

  After the New Patriots solved Alyssa’s murder and tied the bastard to the bought-and-paid-for presidential candidate, Carlton Hughes––which tossed the entire election into chaos––Wyatt relocated from Atlanta to Washington to further investigate the shadow government and the global elites involved in The Association. Intent on exposing the Deep State threat, he spent every waking minute working on the project and even resided in one of the many living quarters contained within the bunker the New Patriots now used as a home base.

  His thoughts drifted back to Harper. Only recently, had she pushed him to discuss what happened in Afghanistan, drudging up feelings he thought were better left dead and buried. He couldn’t open those flood gates. If he did, the torment would drive him over the edge. Again, he shuddered, shaking off the angst scudding down his back and twisting into his gut. Nausea rolled in his stomach and the bile burned into his throat. Light-headed, he bent over. “Son-of-a-bitch.” Palms shooting to his knees, he grabbed, instead, two handfuls of cold titanium. His stomach heaved. Resisting the sensation, he drew in two long breaths to ease the vise now clenching his neck. A surge of emotion heated his cheeks. Anger raging, he grabbed a large rock and thrust it across the river as far as he could. Listening for the splash, he heard in its place a voice.

  “Wyatt?”

  Her voice. Tensing, he snapped around, searching for the woman intruding on his madness.

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. What the hell are you doing out here” ––she inspected him from head to toe––“without a jacket?” Harper brushed a hand over his bare arm. “God. You’re freezing.” After briskly rubbing her palms over his forearms several times, she looped an elbow under his and drew him close then tugged him toward the compound entrance. “Come on. I’ve got something inside to show you.”

  To douse his dark dreams, Wyatt flashed one last gaze across the river toward the old aqueduct before complying, sucked in a long breath, then whooshed it out. “Sorry. I just needed some air. Staying cooped up in that damn compound all day with no windows makes me stir-crazy.”

  Harper coughed into her free fist. “I suspect staring at the spot they found your sister might not be the best alternative.” She crinkled her brow and eyed him.

  “Busted.” He paused and kicked at the leaves blanketing the trail. A full moon flickered between the branches of naked trees, casting an eerie silhouette over the landscape. With all his heart, he wished he’d been here last March. For God’s sake, his military training surely could have kept that bastard from murdering Alyssa. “I should have been here.”

  “So, the stoic façade finally shows signs of cracking.” Harper turned to face him, squaring her body with his. “You had absolutely no way of knowing Alyssa was in trouble. Don’t torture yourself like this.” Draping her arms over his shoulders, she pressed her weight onto her tiptoes and softly kissed his lips.

  Her fingers brushed the back of his neck, and a warm tingle slid down his spine into his groin. He clenched his jaw and drew back, turning his head to the side. God how he wanted her, but he couldn’t yank her into his tormented existence. He wasn’t the same man she fell in love with twelve years ago. “Harper, please. Don’t…” He grabbed her soft warm hands from his shoulders and drew them together, clasping his own around hers. “Like I told you last week, I can’t go there again.”

  Harper’s jaw jutted forward, and she shook her head. “Then talk to me, Wyatt.” Her fists shot to her waist. “Tell me why you said you loved me and discussed plans for a future when our tours of duty ended. Why did you walk out of my life without saying a word and never look back?” Arms now folded beneath her breasts, she glared.

  “Those events were a lifetime ago.” He huffed and marched toward the compound. “And I didn’t walk out of your life, Harper. I couldn’t. My God damn legs were blown off.”

  Shadowing him, she rushed forward. “Do you honestly think I’m that shallow…that I’d love you less because you lost your legs…or that you somehow morphed into less of a man?”

  As the path twisted under an evergreen arch, her voice echoed into the empty darkness and mingled with the hum of the rushing river.

  Wyatt’s gait never faltered. He said nothing.

  She stomped her foot. “Damnit, Wyatt. I never stopped loving you.”

  Halting, he turned to face her. “Love? What we had, my dear, Harper, was nothing more than a tryst between two lonely souls finding solace in the midst of a raging war.”

  Her gaze shot daggers. “You bastard.” She whisked past him, slammed the door open and disappeared down the dusty hallway.

  “Fuck,” he whispered and leaned against the door, barely noticing the sound of crunching brushwood approaching through the darkness.

  Chapter Three

  Snapping his gaze to the left, Wyatt stiffened and listened. His military reflexes instantly switched into gear. Sifting through logical explanations, he mentally scanned each scenario. At dusk, the park closed, and rangers lowered a gate to prevent pedestrians from accessing the bridge to the island. Only New Patriots had access––but few, if any, roamed the trails this late at night aside from Wyatt. Still, someone…or something…rustled through the woods. Hmm. He ran a hand over the scruff of his beard. The sound was too heavy for a squirrel or rat.

  He slid his fingers around the grip of his Glock, pressed his body against the vines covering the entrance then edged toward the source of the snapping brushwood. Tilting his head, he cautiously peered around the corner. Dense foliage cloaked the threshold of the compound, an intentional precaution to ward off curious passersby. And the path––an offshoot of the landscaped Swamp Trail that circled the island––narrowed. An arch of evergreens draped the approach to further shelter the stealth bunker. Even beams from a full moon couldn’t penetrate the pathway.

  Seeing nothing through the darkness, Wyatt stepped onto the footpath. Taking slow, calculated steps, he inched toward the northern riverbank. Long slow breaths steadied his nerves and he savored the earthy scent of leaves still damp from the morning’s rain.

  Rrrrrrrrrrrrr. The growl lingered, low and deliberate.

  A wolf…nah…maybe a coyote or a fox?

  Rrrrrrrrrrrrr. The volume intensified.

  But the tone hit a familiar note… “Duke?”

  The mom
ent Wyatt spoke, the animal bounded toward him and bounced off his front paws several times.

  “Duke. What are you doing out here, boy?” Wyatt knelt, greeting the German shepherd with open arms. He playfully rough housed a few moments.

  When he stood, Duke bounced again then grasped his master’s arm, his powerful jaws clasped loosely, yanked Wyatt toward the riverbank.

  “Wrong way, buddy.” Wyatt turned and stepped toward the bunker. “It’s too late for a walk, boy. Time for bed.”

  Duke stood firm, barked out three woofs, then spun and darted down the path in the opposite direction.

  “Duke…” Wyatt blew a sharp whistle. “Damnit.” With the dog no longer in sight, he took off after him. The animal knew better than to run off like that. Pets for Vets trained him to freeze on command. Something didn’t sit well with the dog’s disobedience and Wyatt’s own training had him alert and ready for what he might find when he reached the end of the trail.

  Catching up to Duke at the riverbank, Wyatt proceeded with caution, hovering in the shadows as he edged closer. He could see the dog’s tail protruding from a gathering of Virginia Creeper woven into the underbrush. Only a few feet away and he still saw nothing, but Duke’s behavior wasn’t tempered by fear. Whatever he wanted to show Wyatt held no danger.

  He slid his gun back into its holster, but kept the snap open and his hand poised, just in case his instincts betrayed him. Now, within spitting distance, he slid a hand under the Creeper leaves and pushed aside the vines. “Jesus.”

  Duke nudged him then stepped deeper into the hollow and coiled next to his find.

  “Mother of God.” Wyatt reached into his back pocket, withdrew his smartphone and knelt…he pressed the flashlight app, shining the light off to one side so as not to startle the child.