Sanctuary Breached WITSEC Town Series Book 3 Read online

  Sanctuary Breached

  WITSEC Town Series

  Book 3

  Lisa Phillips

  Copyright 2014 Lisa Phillips

  All rights reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental. Any references to real people, historical events, or locales, are used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form without written permission from the author, except for review purposes.

  Cover art by Blue Azalea Designs

  Photos from Shutterstock

  Chapter 1

  Early November

  Somewhere along the Afghan-Pakistan border.

  The low moon lit the sky like a beacon. Navy SEAL Lieutenant Samuel “Boxer” Myerson shifted the weapon hidden under his shepherd garb. The night breeze brushed against his neck and whipped at the legs of his pants. “You guys really stink.”

  Chuckles erupted in front. Swish turned back. “Not as bad as Peace’s sister.”

  Sam cracked a smile.

  “Eyes on the prize, boys.” Senior Chief Tommy “Gun” Locan’s voice sounded even more clipped than usual. At the front of the line, he walked so fast he almost barreled toward the enemy. They all knew where his head was at. Some things couldn’t be left at home, as much as any of them might want perfect focus.

  Sam had set one eye on Tommy’s mental state ever since the man’s teenage daughter had been diagnosed with leukemia about four months ago—give or take three days of hiking through the Afghan mountains and six hours of planning the rescue of a state department attaché.

  Their final destination was a mountain compound where the government suit had been taken after he was kidnapped. The marine convoy transporting him had been destroyed, but not before one soldier radioed-in the abduction. She’d been dead, too, by the time help got to her.

  Now the clock ran on the attaché’s life. Provided he actually was still alive, and this wasn’t a complete waste of time.

  Sam touched his shirt, where a ring hung from the chain around his neck. Wash caught the action. “Missing your lady?”

  Sam shrugged it off. “We’ll be home soon enough.”

  Wash didn’t buy it. Neither did Swish, who broke into a grin and said, “I’d be pining, too, if I was going home to the president’s ballerina daughter. All that class packed into a tiny little—”

  “Swish.” Tommy halted and spun around. “Your chatter is going to expose us. And I have no intention of carrying your sorry behind all the way back to the rendezvous point. Got me?”

  “Chief.” That was all Sam needed to say. Sam was one of two officers in their platoon, and this was his team, despite the fact Tommy had been in the Navy years longer.

  Tommy turned and started walking again. If Swish’s talking was going to expose them, then the very-obviously military way Tommy was walking would do the same. They were supposed to be Afghani shepherds—although they seemed to have lost their goats somewhere.

  The ruse wouldn’t hold up for long, given their Western coloring and the lack of facial hair. But it should work long enough to get in, get the attaché, and get out.

  Swish hung back and leaned close to Sam’s face. “Seriously, Box. How’d you swing the president’s daughter?”

  Sam’s nickname “Boxer” was born when the guys found out his father’s best friend was Sam Tura, the famous boxer he’d been named after. The boxing hadn’t come into it until middle school, when he realized he had to pack extra punch since he was smaller than all the other guys in sixth grade. Sam was a “smurf” SEAL. Five-eight and one hundred seventy-five pounds. Nearly all the other SEALs he’d ever met were taller. The name had stuck, though, despite the fact he hadn’t seen his father’s friend in years.

  Tura had disappeared from the public eye after his wife was brutally murdered. Sam had looked for him, but hadn’t been able to track the man down. Sam’s own father had passed away from cancer six years back. So what would he have had to talk to Sam Tura about anyway? Maybe there was nothing in common between them anymore.

  “The president’s daughter?” Sam pushed away the morose thoughts and shrugged one shoulder, keeping his face dead-straight. “Maybe I just have mad skills with the ladies.”

  Swish barked a laugh. “You?”

  Sam shoved him. “Beth…” He shrugged. “We met when we were kids, stayed in touch, and finally made it official a few weeks ago.”

  It wasn’t precisely the truth, but he’d explain the story to the guys later when he had more time. For now they’d get only what was in the press release.

  “Sweet.” Swish drew the word out.

  Wash snorted.

  “Does she have a sister?”

  Sam cuffed Swish on the back of the head. The man might be an adult, but he rarely acted like one. “No, bro. She does not have a sister.”

  “Shame.”

  Peace nodded. “Shame.”

  Wash agreed, “Sure is.”

  Swish and Sam shared a smile—they’d gotten their nearly silent teammate to air his opinion. Since Wash’s wife had left with their kids and gone home to New Mexico, he’d been even quieter than usual.

  It was nearly the opposite situation to Sam’s. His wife—for longer than anyone realized—was Mrs. Myerson, and yet the time they’d spent together was minimal compared to the years they’d known each other. For nearly a decade they’d done little more than snatch time together, waiting until it was right for them to go public with their relationship. They’d lived their lives, Sam doing the only thing he knew to do that would be all-consuming…to the point he’d barely have the energy, or the time, to miss her.

  Beth had gone to school. She’d danced professionally in New York for years. Her father had run for president and been elected. Once Thomas Sheraton had gotten settled in office, Sam and Beth had finally been able to bring their relationship out into the open.

  Now he had everything he’d ever wanted, but somehow it felt…exactly the same.

  He was still fighting a war, while Beth was stateside doing whatever she’d decided to do now that she’d quit dancing. He’d find out when he got home.

  And then he’d get busy figuring out what was missing.

  “I just have one question.” Peace’s thick brows were crinkled.

  “Yeah?”

  Peace nodded. “You’ve had the ring on that chain around your neck for years. You got married, but then you didn’t give it to her to keep? And you’re not wearing your wedding band.”

  “She has it.”

  “Big fuss—the president’s daughter gets married to the hotshot Navy SEAL Lieutenant. Whirlwind month-long romance, and then comes the wedding. ’Cept you’ve had her name inked on you long as I’ve known you.”

  Swish nodded. “Yeah, dude, it was there on the first day of BUD/S.”

  They’d been classmates, he and Swish. But that was six years ago. “Y’all were there. You saw the wedding.”

  Swish shook his head and went on, “And we looked slick in our dress whites. But that’s not my point. Seems to me like it was all for show—just you going through the motions. I mean, really, what did you accomplish? ’Cept stirring up all those gossip magazines.”

  Tommy snickered from the front of the line. “You’d be right about that.”

  Swish’s brows furrowed. “Why’s that, Gun?”

  Tommy spoke over his shoulder. “Because nothing has changed. Sam’s life is no different. All that changed is the public’s knowledge of the intimate details of Beth Sheraton-now-Mye
rson’s life. And that, gentlemen, was the point.”

  Sam pressed his lips together. “You guys knew we got hitched because the time was right.”

  “For who?”

  “That’s a good question, Wash.” Sam kept his eyes fixed straight ahead.

  He’d told Beth he was fine with coming out in the open. There wasn’t much he could give her, but he’d given her that. She’d wanted her parents to publically acknowledge their marriage. To make what amounted to a relationship between them “official.” At least outwardly.

  The rest was up to them. And if they were going to spend the time to work on their marriage he was going to have to be stateside a whole lot more. Beth hadn’t said it. She wouldn’t put that on him, so it was up to Sam to make the decision about whether or not to quit the SEALs. Too bad he wasn’t ready to do that. He liked this job. He’d been thinking he would do it for as long as he could. But she’d given up dancing, and now he couldn’t help wondering if she thought he was going to follow suit.

  “We’re here.”

  The reaction was instantaneous. Gone were the smiles and relaxed limbs. These men were trained for war. Sam saw it in the shift of their eyes, in every step as they reached the top of the ridge. Tommy lowered himself, binoculars out. The rest of them got into place, Wash and Peace staying with the senior chief while Swish went with Sam to the secondary position.

  They crouched under cover of shrubs, checking their weapons. Peace would be radioing in the fact they’d reached their destination. The green light meant breach now—a night raid to get the attaché back.

  Sam got out his own binoculars.

  “What do you see?”

  “Not a whole lot of nightlife in these parts.”

  “Just the way I like it.” Swish’s voice was lower than normal, an indication of what was about to happen. The man had joked every day during their grueling training, and every day since. Still, in the midst of it he’d developed a kind of “warrior” face. The same one Sam saw in the mirror.

  The crack of a gunshot echoed down the ridge, dislodging stones. Another shot followed it.

  A light flicked on in the building and a handful of men poured out. Eight…nine. Ten guys. Eleven. Afghans ready for a scrimmage.

  “Go.” He turned to Swish. “Find out what—”

  The radio in Sam’s ear crackled. “Box, you—”

  Crack. Another gunshot.

  “Peace.” Swish ran.

  The Afghan men raced up the incline. Sam and Swish had about a minute before they were discovered. Or had their cover already been blown? Sam spoke into his radio as he ran. “Peace? Come in. Gun? Wash? Anyone?”

  Lead settled in his stomach and thickened as he ran. It crawled up his throat with the knowledge something had happened.

  Swish stopped. “Senior—”

  His head exploded.

  Sam saw them then.

  Wash…sprawled in the dirt, blood on his face and neck. More blood—a dark stain on the thigh of his pants. Peace…face down with a bullet in his back. Swish…gone.

  “Gun, what—”

  As if in answer, a bullet thumped into the Kevlar on his back. The impact shoved Sam forward. He found his feet and snapped his head around.

  Gun locked eyes with him as he raised his rifle again. Sam planted his foot and launched himself at the senior NCO on his team, weapon first.

  Sam wasn’t going out without a fight.

  The swipe was agonizing, but he caught Tommy’s temple with his rifle.

  Tommy pulled his arm in, but Sam grabbed his wrist and twisted. He heard the bones snap, and Tommy cried out, losing his grip on his own weapon. Sam punched him.

  The pain in his shoulder was blinding, but the armor had to have protected him. Please, God. Boots struck the ground and closed the distance, but Sam didn’t let go of his teammate. He punched Gun’s jaw. His head. Again and again as shock burned through him. There were no thoughts in his head. Nothing but disbelief and the fall-back faith his grandfather had instilled in him.

  Something hard slammed against his back.

  Sam cried out, even as it came again to cut off the cry. He choked and fell to the ground. Boots kicked him. Fists punched him, over and over.

  Sam tried to get a knee under him, to find some leverage and get up. The crack of an AK47 drove a round into his thigh.

  Sam collapsed.

  The Afghan men roared in triumph as Sam stared into the eyes of his best friend.

  His brothers were dead.

  The last thing he heard before he lost consciousness was Tommy’s voice—the man who had betrayed them all.

  “It’s done.”

  Chapter 2

  Washington D.C.

  Eight weeks later

  Grant shook out his winter coat and sat. “Grant Mason. Director, US Marshals.”

  The conference table was full. None of the men and women sitting there were happy. Not the State Department, the Secret Service, Department of Justice, the attorney general, the FBI, and most especially not the White House press secretary.

  “Good. Everyone is here.” The senator pressed her tiny purple glasses up her nose, eyes on the papers in front of her.

  She glanced up at the FBI special agent in charge. Grant knew him, a good man if not tired and ready to retire. But then, they were all tired. They’d been coming here for weeks and making little progress.

  “Mr. Bernaz, would you please begin? Then we will go clockwise around the table with updates. And be brief, people. I want to get to the bottom of this, yesterday.”

  Some of the younger ones present actually squirmed under her beady-eyed stare. Grant shared a glance with the Secret Service agents present and then the DOJ guys. He saw more than one near-eye roll.

  Special-Agent-In-Charge Bernaz cleared his throat. “Our investigation has determined the location from which the sniper took his shots. However, no physical evidence was found at the site. We know he was there, but we don’t know who he is, and he left no trace.”

  “This man killed President Sheraton.”

  “That has yet to be determined, ma’am.”

  “His bullet struck the president. The autopsy says as much.”

  SAIC Bernaz waited a second then said, “Thomas Sheraton had two types of bullets in his body. The sniper’s and the gunman’s.”

  “Clearly they were working together.” The senator’s judgment evidently surpassed that of a career law enforcement investigator.

  Grant had a couple of ideas as to who the sniper might be, and one stuck out above the others. Still, it was a hunch. If he actually said the name out loud they’d think he was crazy. A dead man couldn’t have done this.

  The senator sighed. “How do you even know this sniper was there, if he left no trace apart from a bullet?”

  Grant could answer that. Several of them could have. But no one said anything, leaving the SAIC to explain, “The velocity and angle of the shots.”

  She looked stumped, but he didn’t elaborate further. “Did this man kill the pres—” She hesitated. “I can’t believe I’m even saying this. It defies explanation that the president…and his wife…were murdered.” She slammed both fists on the table, red-faced with tears in her eyes. “How could this have happened?”

  Grant broke the silence. “I have explained the circumstances of Susan Sheraton and Beth Myerson being in the care of the witness protection program.” The first lady and her daughter were reported to have been the targets of multiple attacks by eco-terrorists.

  The Secret Service didn’t appreciate the fact one of their own had betrayed their oath, but that was part of the story Grant had actually stuck to the truth on. The betrayer had been killed before he could be arrested. Grant had been working closely with the Secret Service for weeks over this. He knew exactly who he trusted and who he didn’t in their organization. Still, there was a weak link somewhere. Maybe even at this table.

  He continued, “And while this tragedy has struck all of us, the evid
ence is…well…evident. Our precautions were sound. Someone within the small circle of people who knew the last-minute location change for the president and his detail that morning is responsible for the men knowing which hotel to breach.”

  The senator sat rod-straight. “Who were they?”

  One of the Secret Service agents motioned for everyone’s attention. He cleared his throat. “Out of the four men killed in the president’s hotel room, three were ex-military. All discharged for reasons relating to bad tempers and itchy trigger fingers. The fourth was well-known in the underground fighting circuit. All of them had the same address listed—a dive bar in Cancun.”

  “Mercenaries.” The attorney general shook his head.

  The Secret Service agent continued, “They knew each other well. Hired for this job, outfitted with specialized equipment.”

  “To kill their president?”

  “If the price is right.”

  The senator butted in. “How did they get in the country without anyone noticing?”

  SAIC Bernaz said, “They were on a watch list. Their identities were flagged when they flew into Dallas. That was three days before the president and Mrs. Sheraton were assassinated.”

  The senator sucked in a shaky breath. Weeks of these “status update” meetings and she was still riding high on her emotional distress. Not that the rest of them hadn’t been shocked to the core—the nation at large even more so, given the circumstances of the president and first lady’s deaths. But Grant was ready to get back to work and figure this out.

  As soon as his brother Ben called him back, he’d know more. Ben was OUTCONUS tracking down the president’s daughter’s Navy SEAL husband. Nothing but false leads and dead ends for nearly two months. Grant needed to update his brother as much as Ben needed to confirm he’d located the lieutenant. There wasn’t much more of that part of the world in which to look. Maybe Ben would never find him.

  “Mr. Mason.”