All Due Respect (14 page)

“They have a choice,” Matthew said. “Death at the hands

of the members, or suicide.” Matthew leaned forward, rested his hands atop the closed file. “That’s what happened to Philip. We wrapped up a three-year investigation with enough hard evidence to convict him on illegal weapons charges. Within twenty-four hours, he stuck the nose of a .38 in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”

“To avoid a weapons charge?” Julia couldn’t grasp the logic in that.

“No, not really.” Matthew explained the rationale. “Our Special Forces were part of a task force to disarm him. We did. Because his coalition was disarmed, his loyalists lacked protection. In leaving his people vulnerable, he had dishonored them and himself. That’s why he committed suicide.”

“They would have killed him, anyway,” Seth speculated.

“Yes. But because Philip did it himself, Anthony stepped into his shoes as the natural successor. Intel has rumblings from insiders that he assisted in his father’s suicide, and he’s definitely devoted massive resources to rearming.”

Julia didn’t like this at all. Anthony Benedetto and his loyalists were formidable opponents. She had sensed it the first time Matthew had mentioned the man’s name, and nothing she had heard since changed her mind. With access to a Rogue, Benedetto’s resources, and Two West’s loyalists’ code of ethics, the coalition could execute a multitude of terrorist attacks. Worse, they had the stomach to execute them with judicious ruthlessness.

That judicious ruthlessness scared Julia right out of her skin. But another attribute that ran coalition-wide she feared even more. Their to-the-death dedication.

Comparatively speaking, her side tended to get bogged down in red tape, political manipulations; and private agendas. Would it measure up?

She didn’t know for fact, and that uncertainty terrified her. “We’re most vulnerable in this.”

“Freedom bears costs.” Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “But we can hold our own against Benedetto.”

“Can we?” God, but Julia hoped so. “Look, no one with the DoD can be around long and not know there’s an abun

dance of courage and bravery and honor in our military. But we’ve also got service members who are eligible for food stamps—”

“There’s a new program going into effect on that.”

“Yes, there is, Matthew,” she agreed. “And after it does—provided Congress funds it, and it does go into effect—we’ll still have eight to sixteen thousand service members who are eligible for food stamps.” What the hell? She’d gone this far, she might as well spill out all her fears. “My point is, we’ve got men and women in uniform because wearing that uniform means something to them. They’re definitely not in it for the.money. They believe in ideals, in a code of ethics that most Americans seem to have forgotten exists.”

“I disagree,” Matthew said. “They know it exists.”

“Check out the headlines.” Seth intervened. “If they know it, they’re ignoring it.”

They were losing her point in a philosophical meltdown. Julia gritted her teeth and brought them back to it. “The thing is, the warrior in them can take the frequent moves and the long separations from their families. They can handle the dangers and risks and asking their families to take up the slack while they’re gone, because what they’re doing matters. But the human being in them—the husband, wife, father, or mother—cannot take seeing their kids being hungry. They can’t listen to their babies’ stomachs growl and feed them ideals.”

“What are you saying, Julia?” Seth asked. “That Benedetto will win this undeclared war because he feeds his people?”

“I’m saying we’re vulnerable because we don’t.” She leaned forward against the table. “Everyone has an Achilles’ heel. Everyone. Benedetto knows ours.” She let her gaze slide to Matthew. “But do we know his?”

ANTHONY Benedetto sat at his ornate desk, surrounded by luxury inside the forty-room mansion. His office was a warm room, smelling of rich wood, old leather, and older

money, and cluttered with photographs of his parents, his wife, Elise, a stunning and intelligent woman as compassionate as she was beautiful, and their beloved daughter, Daisy, whom they had named in honor of his mother.

Anthony had been born in this house. Raised in the tradition of Two West Freedom Coalition loyalists, as had his father, and his father before him. His grandfather had acquired the position of chairman in a hostile takeover from Bernard `I. Franklin, a flat-nosed German who had founded the coalition but lacked the vision to sustain it or make it grow.

Several of the seventeen council members never had forgiven Anthony’s grandfather for unseating Franklin as chairman. But Anthony’s father, Philip, had won their unequivocal support by assuring members’ personal prosperity and delivering it. His philosophy followed three core concepts he had taught Anthony from the cradle, preparing him to take the reins, and he implemented them without hesitation, if not without occasional regret:

One. Revere women. They cement families together and follow their hearts. Their loyalty dictates the loyalty of their husbands and their children.

Two. Protect all of your people with equal vigilance, vigor, and justice. No man’s value is greater than any other.

Three. Kill your enemies.

Early on, to preserve coalition solidarity, his father had killed quite a lot of enemies. But in later years, becoming his enemy held little appeal. Loyalists had long memories.

Americans did not. Anthony rubbed a fingertip over the ridged scar on his cheek. Though he was one of them, Americans were his enemy and, while retribution for his father’s death and the coalition disarmament must be had, it could not come by simple slaughter. That overt act would require huge sacrifices from his people. But a more subtle plan now in motion would achieve the same justice.

Shortly, the summoned council members would arrive, and he would inform them that Two West now stood eighty-five percent rearmed. And then he would formally

announce the coup that would solidify his position as chairman and keep his enemy at a distance. He had secured access to the world’s most advanced ballistic missile: the Rogue.

Anthony smiled. “Detente.”

Rocking back in his chair, he looked at the photo of his father in its place of honor on the corner of his desk. White suit, broad smile. He would save his coup de grace—Project Home Base—for another time, one when he needed a victory. A wise strategy Anthony would adopt, considering several unavoidable variables in the plan could cause challenges. Besides, delayed gratification was good for the soul. When the time came, he would have not just detente with his enemy, but the thing he desired most: superiority.

LOCK the door, Seth.”

Julia dumped her purse on the bar stool, toed off her pumps, and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll get the spaghetti sauce going.” She bent down to grab a pasta pot from the lower cabinet, filled it with water at the sink, then set it on the stove. “You make the salad.”

“I do great salad,” Seth said, his gaze nailed to his hand on the doorknob.

The key in the dead bolt mocked him, and a memory of him at six flashed through his mind. His frantic search for the key. Shouted curses. Hopeless screams. A thin sheen of sweat broke out on his skin.

“Hey, I’m up to my elbows in ground meat,” Julia yelled out from the kitchen. “Would you come hand me the salt?”

Seth left the dead bolt untouched, and went to the kitchen, loosening his tie. “Which cabinet?”

“Left of the stove. Bottom shelf.” She folded the meat onto itself.

Judging by the containers of spices on the counter, she’d already tossed in everything but salt. He shook the shaker over the meat.

“More.”

He dumped more salt.

“That’ll do it.” She shook a lock of hair from her cheek. It fell right back.

Seth tucked the strand behind her ear. Being in the kitchen with Julia was kind of nice. It helped push the bad memories away.

The pepper tickled his nose. He liked being with her, loved touching her, and he shouldn’t do either one. Frowning, he put the shaker back in the cabinet and closed the door. “When we get things going here, I need to call Jeff.”

“Great.” Julia scrubbed her hands with soap then turned to the sauce pot and tossed in some fresh mushrooms and sweet basil. “I really want to talk with him.”

“I know.” Already the sauce smelled good. “That’s why I told him I’d call from here tonight.”

“So you haven’t seen him today?” Julia stirred the sauce then turned to the counter and began shaping meatballs and placing them on a cookie sheet.

“You’re gonna bake the meatballs?”

“Gets the grease out,” she said. “So you haven’t seen Jeff today?”

“I’ve never seen anyone bake meatballs.”

“For pity’s sake, Seth. My uncle Lou was a bona fide Italian—though I think spaghetti is Chinese—and he taught me to make sauce.”

She’d never before mentioned her family. Interested, Seth smiled. “Tell me about your uncle Lou.”

“He was terrific. Loud. Loving. I could do no wrong in his eyes.”

“Unconditional acceptance is a pretty awesome thing.” And damned rare. At least, in Seth’s experience.

“Yes, it is. Especially Uncle Lou’s. He had a million traditions.” She added a meatball to the sheet, and her expression turned wistful. “Making spaghetti was his specialty. Before I was tall enough to stir from the floor, he’d pull a chair near the stove—so I could reach the pot. Then, off and on all day, he’d yell, ‘Stir the sauce, Julia.’ “

She sent Seth a this-isn’t-negotiable look. “Uncle Lou always baked his meatballs before putting them in the sauce. Always.”

“Can’t mess with tradition.” Seth could see her as a kid,

stirring so much her uncle Lou would warn her not to stir the metal off the pot. “Does he live in New Orleans?”

“No, not anymore.” Sadness filled her eyes. “He died in a car accident right before I left there. His, um, brakes went out on the bridge.”

“I’m sorry.” A tremor in her voice and the withdrawn way she moved alerted Seth. “You don’t think it was an accident.”

“The police say it was.”

“What do you say?” Karl had been a cop there. Maybe a disagreement about her uncle’s accident had come between them.

“I say I miss my uncle very much.”

Unconditional acceptance. Unconditional love. Damn right, she missed it. Anyone with sense would. “I’m sorry, Julia.”

“Me, too.” Her smile turned bittersweet. “You would have loved Uncle Lou, Seth. You’re a lot alike.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “Caring. Special. You laugh a lot.”

Not during her three-year absence, he hadn’t. “You loved him.”

“With all my heart, but not a bit more than he loved me.”

How did that feel? To know you were loved with someone’s whole heart? Seth didn’t have a clue, and probably never would. But her making her uncle Lou’s spaghetti now was telling. For her, it was a reminder of her uncle’s love. Comfort food.

Julia was not calm or unaffected. She needed comforting, and knowing it eased Seth’s mind. Being the victim of an attack and losing her uncle made her an unlikely candidate for treason. She understood loss and pain.

“Are you going to make me ask about Jeff a third time?”

“Sorry.” Seth shrugged out of his jacket, draped it across the bar stool holding her purse, and then rolled up his shirtsleeves. “I got sidetracked.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“Jeff made me promise I wouldn’t leave you by yourself tonight.” Seth ducked into the fridge and pulled out the makings for salad. “Where’s the cutting board?”

“Lower left cabinet, next to the stove. Top shelf.” Julia set down another meatball, forming straight rows. “Did Jeff say why?”

“No, he didn’t. Camden stuck to him like glue so the boy couldn’t say a whole lot of anything.” Damn frustrating.

“Did he say if the mean man has been back to his house?”

“Yes, he has. Several times.” Seth grabbed the cutting board and began chopping celery and mushrooms. “But Jeff hasn’t seen him. He’s only heard him downstairs.”

Julia set the oven’s temperature dial and then popped the cookie sheet inside. The door clicked closed. “Has he, urn, heard the man’s name?”

“Afraid not.” Something in her tone caught his ear. It hadn’t been an idle question. “Why?”

She shrugged without looking at him. “If he’s going to hurt me, I’d like to know who to curse.”

“He’s not going to hurt you.” Seth finished the salad, tossed and slid it into the fridge, then cleaned up the mess. They worked well together, professionally and domestically. Did she and Karl?

Seth clamped down on that thought. Suspicions aside, her marriage was none of his business. “Want some wine?”

“No, thanks. Alcohol conflicts with my meds. I have to avoid it. But I’ll have some juice.”

Seth filled her glass, figured what the hell, a glass of grape juice wouldn’t rot out his stomach, and filled his own. Then he grabbed the phone and called Jeff.

Camden put him right on the line.

“Hey, buddy.” Seth smiled so Jeff could hear it in his voice. He had studied a couple books on dealing with kids and remembered reading in one of them that if you smile when you talk on the phone, the kid senses it. It was worth a shot. Jeff needed all the smiles he could get.

“Dr. Seth.”

The smile turned genuine. Jeff always sounded surprised and so damn happy to hear Seth’s voice. He could get used to this kid. Seth let out a little grunt. Hell, who was he kidding? He already had. “Did you have a good day?”

“It was okay,” Jeff said, then rambled on about playing football with Travis.

Jeff wasn’t a rambler. Something was up.

He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I was getting Dad bored so he’d leave. He hates football.”

Lulling him into complacency. Smart tactic. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “Are you still at Dr. Julia’s?”

“Didn’t I tell you I would be?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well?”

“Okay. I guess you are, then.”

Jeff couldn’t trust. Remembering back and understanding completely, Seth softened his voice. “I am, Jeff.”

The boy’s sigh of relief swarmed Seth with guilt. He’d just wanted Jeff to understand that when he gave his word, Jeff could trust it. “She wants to talk to you.”