State Sanctioned Read online

  And for a while, things did improve, though not before descending into near chaos. Even under the new leader, things had improved, though once the iron grip was established, the old ways started to return.

  And he had spoken out against them, tried to warn others of what was happening, tried to remind those who had been through it, and educate those who hadn’t, what they risked returning to should things go unchecked.

  And he had been given a beating the likes of which he would never forget, his poorly set clavicle reminding him every time he put on a jacket.

  He had used his contacts to get into Poland the very next day with his wife and daughter, and eventually made it to England, eventually gaining his British citizenship.

  “Just thinking of your grandparents.”

  “I wish I had met them.”

  “So do I.”

  And you still could, if you had only kept your mouth shut.

  His parents were still alive, though they had no idea he still was. For their own safety, he had never contacted them in the almost fifteen years of self-imposed exile.

  And it killed him inside a little more each day.

  “They were wonderful people, but life is hard back home, and they died too young.” He patted her hand then placed several bills on the table to pay for their lunch. “Not like here. You’ll live to a ripe old age, I’m sure.”

  She rose, grabbing her jacket from the back of her chair. “So will you, Father.”

  He smiled. “Let’s hope so.”

  They stepped out onto the street and he drew in a slow breath. “It is a beautiful day.”

  “So, you did hear me.”

  He smiled. “I always hear, Anna, though sometimes it takes a while for me to actually listen.”

  She growled. “Men!”

  He chuckled. “And speaking of men, how is Michael?”

  Her eyes widened. “How do you know about him?”

  “A father knows.”

  “Uh huh.” She eyed him for a moment. “Sometimes I wonder if you weren’t a spy in your former life.”

  He tensed for a moment, then held his silence a little bit longer.

  “See, I think I’m on to something.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You hesitated.”

  He shrugged. “Then I guess I wouldn’t have made a good spy, now, would I?”

  She laughed. “My father the spy! What a notion!” She took his arm and rested her head on his shoulder. “I miss Mom on days like these.”

  His eyes burned and his chest heaved a single time. His daughter noticed and patted his arm as he whispered, his voice cracking, “I miss her every day.”

  It had been a car accident. A drunk driver. Hit and run. The murderer, for that’s what he or she was for getting behind the wheel of a two-ton killing machine, had never been caught. If he were a more suspicious soul, he might have thought it was a message from his former employers that he had been found, and that if he caused any more problems, his daughter might be next.

  But accidents happened.

  Drunks got behind the wheel.

  And they too often got away with it.

  Whoever had done it was lucky. If Kulick knew who it was, they never would have seen the inside of a courtroom. They’d have died a long, horribly painful death before given a chance at formal justice.

  “Now you’ve got me crying.”

  He smiled down at his daughter as she removed her gloves and wiped her tears away with the side of her finger. “I’m sorry.”

  “Never apologize for missing Mom.”

  He put an arm around her and squeezed. “She’s with me every time I see you. You look so much like her, it’s uncanny sometimes.”

  Anna put her gloves in her pockets and sniffed. “I know, I know, I’ll try to see you more often.”

  He laughed. “I thought I was being subtle.”

  “Yeah, like a hammer.”

  He opened the gate to his humble home, holding it open for a woman who mumbled a thanks as she left the neighbor’s to his left, his home just one of a long row of attached houses in the tenement. He closed the gate behind them, climbing the few steps to the front door. He unlocked it and pushed it aside, letting his daughter pass. She stepped inside and he followed, catching the toe of his shoe on the threshold, stumbling forward. She reached out for the door with one hand, for him with the other, and he cursed for the umpteenth time at the strip of wood that had caused him so many problems over the years. “I think it’s time I give up on the landlord fixing that, and just do it myself.”

  Anna stepped forward and knelt, one hand on the knob, holding the solid door open, as she examined the guilty party. “Wouldn’t you just need to sand it down a few millimeters?”

  He shrugged. “I was never a handyman, but I think so.”

  She pointed. “Just remove the two screws at either end and I can take it home with me. Michael, as I have a feeling you already know, is a carpenter. He can fix it.” She closed the door then pulled her shoes off, following him into the sitting area.

  “Or, you could bring him over here, and I can meet the young man.”

  She blushed. “Fine, Father, I’ll bring him over.”

  “Good, then that’s settled.” He set about making tea, a habit he had picked up upon arriving in his new country, and one he honestly enjoyed, when he gasped, his entire body spasming.

  His daughter rose from her chair, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

  He took a deep breath, trying to calm his hammering heart, then shook his head. “I don’t know. Just a wave of—” Every muscle in his body contracted at once, his fingers twisting unnaturally, his arms drawn up toward his face at the elbows before he collapsed.

  “Oh my God!” His daughter rushed around the counter and dropped to her knees beside him as he continued to shake uncontrollably, jolts of pain randomly shocking different parts of his body as he gasped for air, his breaths becoming shorter and shallower as his hammering heart slowed. He stared up into his daughter’s terrified eyes, trying to speak, trying to say goodbye, yet nothing but a strained sigh escaped.

  Anna leaped to her feet, grabbed the phone off the wall, and dialed 9-9-9. Suddenly she cried out, dropping to her knees then to the floor beside her father, the emergency operator’s voice a fading sound in the distance as Kulick slowly lost his battle to survive, destroyed inside at the knowledge his daughter would die with him, all because of a past she knew nothing about.

  For he knew who had done this to them.

  And that they would never pay.

  5 |

  Morrison Residence River Oaks Drive, McLean, Virginia

  Leif Morrison leaned back in his chair, his eyes burning from another long day at the office. His wife was visiting her sister for the week, and with the kids no longer living at home, he was alone in an empty nest.

  Save the security detail surrounding his property.

  As the CIA’s National Clandestine Service Chief, he was a high-priority target, and was protected appropriately, though as he knew from operations he had authorized over the years, any security could be penetrated if the opponent was determined enough. One just hoped one’s own security was enough to delay any foes from succeeding before backup arrived.

  Dylan got in no problem.

  He grunted at the thought of one of his top agents as he sipped his eighteen-year-old Macallan. He had a stable of agents that he could rely upon to do the job and do it well, but Dylan Kane was the best of the best.

  They should be making movies about him.

  Not only was Kane a skilled operator, he was also fiercely loyal, not only to his country, but to his friends, and though Morrison was his boss, he liked to think that he might be included among those numbers, even if only on the periphery. Kane had few friends, though perhaps more than most in the spy business. Yet they were all in the business themselves. It was a tight crew that Morrison never doubted he could rely on for the most difficult, and the most delic
ate, of missions.

  He sighed, two televisions playing CNN and Fox News, trying to find a balance in the reporting, yet finding none. The news networks had become nearly useless over the past few years, dominated by one-sided opinion. They were all guilty of it, and he frankly had no idea how to solve the problem as long as no side recognized it. He only watched them now in case something major was happening in the world, and even then, they were merely background noise, usually on mute or a very low volume. In his line of work, he typically knew what was happening long before the press did, and far before the masses.

  His phone rang, his private line, and his eyebrows rose at the number shown, a display quickly back-tracing the call to Salisbury, United Kingdom. A hospital.

  Odd.

  He answered, and a hesitant voice replied. “Umm, hello, who, umm, am I speaking to?”

  Morrison’s eyebrows rose slightly at the woman’s voice. “You called me, ma’am. How about you start?”

  “Yes, umm, of course. I’m sorry to disturb you, but this is a rather, umm, odd situation.”

  Morrison set his scotch aside, positioning a pad of paper on his lap and retrieving a pen from a beer stein sitting on the end table, the vessel purchased on a family vacation to Munich too many years ago. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Yes, of course. My name is Midge Aldrin. I’m a nurse at Salisbury District Hospital. We had two patients brought in a short while ago, both in critical condition and now in comas. I was going through their personal effects to find any family they might have, and found a curious note in the man’s wallet with this number written on it.”

  She had his full attention now, his heart rate rapidly increasing as he scribbled notes. “What did it say?”

  “It says, and I quote, ‘If something odd should happen, call this number, and tell him Whiskey-Alpha-Four-One needs help from Whiskey-Alpha-Four-Two.’”

  Morrison drew a quick breath and held it as a flood of memories threatened to overwhelm him. Moscow. 1988. It was something he hadn’t thought about in years, though they were memories he’d never forget. Like his callsign, and that of his Soviet counterpart, Igor Kulick, whom he had never seen again. “Does it say anything else?”

  “No, just that.”

  “Have you told anyone?”

  “Not yet.” There was a pause. “Why? Shouldn’t I?”

  Morrison didn’t respond. “Tell me what happened to him.”

  “He and his daughter were brought in. Some kind of poisoning.”

  Morrison tensed. “Tell no one you called me, and keep the note on your person. Someone will contact you shortly. And, ma’am?”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell your people to look into Russian nerve agents.”

  “Wh-what?”

  She sounded terrified.

  As she should.

  “Tell your people now. All of your lives may depend on it.”

  6 |

  Kane/Fang Residence, Fairfax Towers Falls Church, Virginia

  Dylan Kane collapsed on top of his partner, completely spent, completely satisfied, and completely in love. Lee Fang was everything he could have asked for in a woman, and more. She was the only woman he had ever loved, the only woman he didn’t have to lie to about what he did for a living, and the only woman he was fairly certain would have a good chance of kicking his ass.

  “I love feeling you on top of me. It makes me feel safe.”

  He propped up on his elbows and smiled down at her, her cheeks flushed, sweat drenching both their bodies. “Coming from you, that means a lot.”

  “I love you.”

  His smile broadened. “I love you too.” He leaned in and kissed her gently, then with a passion that threatened to signal the beginning of round four, their lovemaking having begun almost the moment he had crossed the threshold, returning from a three-week mission in Asia, the least exotic stop, Hong Kong.

  She was lonely here, and he hated that fact, though moving into the same building where his best friend lived with his girlfriend, both CIA, did help. They knew her back story, and they knew she was living in exile from a Chinese government she had betrayed to save it from rogue generals attempting to trigger a coup in America. It meant an isolated existence. She couldn’t work, she lived off a generous stipend provided by a grateful America, and kept busy staying fit, learning about her new country, and making him feel like the luckiest man alive. He had extracted her from China, then fallen in love, as they both recognized themselves in each other.

  It had been fate.

  “We’re supposed to have dinner with Chris and Sherrie in less than thirty minutes.”

  Kane grinned. “I can do thirty.”

  “But we both have to shower and get dressed.”

  Her gasps between each word told him she was seriously considering canceling their dinner plans. “Let’s save time and change the venue.” He climbed off her, somebody wagging hello, and grabbed her svelte, short frame, slinging her over his shoulder as he walked her caveman-style into the bathroom, her giggles and playful slaps of his ass signaling her consent with the manhandling. He lowered her onto the counter and she grabbed onto him, wrapping her legs around his waist, and he gasped as they once again became one.

  “Shower!” she cried as their passion grew, and he carried her over to the shower stall, pulling open the door and stepping inside, their bodies still entangled, then pushed her against the wall. She grasped for the tap, spinning it, and they both gasped at the ice-cold water that drenched them for the first few moments before it finally reached the temperature they were already at.

  His watch pulsed a coded signal into his skin, a signal only he could detect from the CIA modified Tag Heuer.

  He cursed.

  “What?”

  “My watch.”

  “Don’t…you…dare…” She cried out and he gave into his own desires, setting duty aside if only for a few more moments. Spent again, she slid down his body then stared up at him, slapping his cheek gently. “You may go now.”

  He chuckled. “Sometimes I think I’m just a piece of meat to you.”

  “I wonder if that’s why they call it ‘porking?’”

  Kane snorted. “Where did you hear that?”

  She shrugged as she lathered up. “Some old comedy on Netflix.”

  “Well, let’s not share that one in polite company.” He activated his watch and his eyebrows shot up at the message scrolling across the display.

  “What does it say?

  “Umm, don’t be late for dinner.”

  She paused her ablutions. “Huh?”

  He reread it. “It says, ‘Don’t be late for dinner.’” He looked up at her. “What do you think that means?”

  She resumed washing her incredibly fit body. “I’m guessing Chris is playing a trick on you.”

  He grunted. “More likely Sherrie. Chris knows better.”

  Chris Leroux was his best friend from high school, and after discovering they both worked for the CIA, their friendship had been rekindled, and they were as close as they had ever been. In fact, Leroux was one of the few people in this world he trusted, besides, of course, Fang and Leroux’s partner Sherrie White, a fellow CIA Agent.

  And, of course, his old buddies from his stint in Delta.

  Leroux was an Analyst Supervisor, an accomplishment for someone so young, but his skills were second to none, and Director Morrison had given him a chance with his own team. It had worked out brilliantly—once the painfully shy guy had gained some confidence and learned how to be a boss rather than just the guy receiving orders.

  He was his best friend, and they were due for dinner in only minutes.

  But Leroux would never abuse the CIA’s communications infrastructure for a joke message.

  Though he might use Kane’s own private network.

  Over the years, as a self-preservation measure, Kane had set up a series of secure servers around the world, known only to himself, in case he was disavowed for
some reason, or something were to happen to his country’s ability to communicate with him. This backup network assured communications with those he trusted, and a rare few knew how to send him discrete messages, those then relayed to his watch or other select devices.

  And it was something he couldn’t see Leroux abusing.

  But Sherrie…

  She was a joker, and did have access, yet again, he doubted it.

  He stepped back into the shower.

  “No hanky-panky.”

  He nodded. “No time.” He quickly showered as Fang stepped out, toweling off. She eyed him.

  “That message has you concerned.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You haven’t looked at me since you got it.”

  He paused for a moment, making a point of ogling her. “Better?”

  She snapped the towel at him. “A little.” She headed for the bedroom. “You don’t think Chris or Sherrie sent it, do you?”

  He shut the water off and began to dry himself. “No, I don’t.”

  “Then who?”

  He quickly towel-dried his hair. “No idea, but the list is very short.”

  “Who else knew we had dinner plans?”

  He stepped over to the vanity and grabbed the antiperspirant. “That’s just it. Besides us, Chris, and Sherrie, I can’t think of anyone.”

  Fang reentered, sporting a bra and panties, going to work on her hair.

  “Going for the wet look?”

  She frowned at him. “No time to dry my hair now, thanks to you.”

  “I think someone else can share in the blame.”

  She reached down and squeezed Kane Jr. “He rarely gets a say in the matter.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t start something we don’t have time to finish.”

  Her hand jerked away. “You’re insatiable.”

  He placed a kiss between her shoulder blades. “Only for you, babe, only for you.” He headed for the bedroom and quickly dressed, returning to join Fang in their shared bathroom, finishing up then admiring himself in the mirror. “How do I look?”