CHAPTER ONE
Washington, D.C.
Graeme McAlister pushed open the door to his apartment with his right boot and kicked his duffle bag into the entryway with his left. The backpack slid off his shoulder, landing in a heap at his feet. He closed the solid wood slab and turned the deadbolt.
Home. Well, his home away from home, he reminded himself. But, truth be told, he had no timetable of when he'd return to Texas. At least not as long as he kept this job. And, with the number of terrorists and other crazies growing exponentially every day, that looked like it'd be a long time.
He grabbed the six pack of beers he'd bought out of the duffle, popped the top on one and made his way toward the couch. He passed the message recorder and the stack of cassettes that'd collected while he'd been gone. Learning early on that the missions could last anywhere from a few days to months, he'd utilized this outdated recorder to receive messages from family and friends. Plus, in his line of work, it never hurt to have a hard copy.
His close friend, Amanda Hartford, watched the apartment, gathered his mail and replaced the cassettes when necessary. He smiled at her OCD as he sifted through the tapes and noticed the beginning and ending dates marked on each one. He hadn't really realized how long he'd been gone until he saw the date on the earliest one.
September 23. Three weeks after the last barbecue at Ben McTiernan Ranch and the day his foster brother, Wyatt Benning, died. With equal parts curiosity and trepidation, Graeme placed the micro cassette into the machine and hit play. He listened as the recorder engaged, heard his own message, "I'll call you back." then, "Grae, this is Lucky." Graeme grinned as he remembered the day he'd given Wyatt the nickname. "I know it's been a long time since we talked, and we didn't exactly part on the best of terms, but I need to pick your brain. Swear to God, this will take you right back to high school and Ol' Hammer Head. I sure wish you were home. Damn . . . I miss you, man."
Graeme pushed the nearly full beer can off to the side. His usual drink of choice no longer held any appeal. While he hadn't known about the phone call and had no choice over being deployed that very morning, he still felt guilty and somehow responsible. He fast-forwarded to see if Wyatt had called again, but no pertinent calls followed. He listened to the call multiple times until he finally crawled into bed at four am.
After what seemed like only minutes later, he awoke to his iPhone tapping a staccato beat on the nightstand, as the mantle clock chimed six times. He rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes in a futile attempt to lessen the fuzzy film and swung his feet onto the cool hardwood floor. Whoever was calling this early better have a damn good reason.
He swiped across the bottom of the phone to unlock it and croaked, "Speak."
"Oh, I'm sorry I woke you, dear. I should've looked at the time before calling."
"Bridey." Immediately, he regretted his bark and softened his tone at hearing his foster mother's voice. The death of her only natural son and her husband's recent life threatening illness amped his concern several notches. "Is everyone okay? Are you and Andrew all right?"
"We're all fine. Andrew's recovering nicely from the heart attack and all. "
"That's good to hear." The invisible bands constricting his lungs disappeared and the breath he'd held in whooshed out like a bellows. "What's up?"
"Well, truth is, I'm so hungry to see you. I know you promised to come to home for the Labor Day Barbecue." She paused as if weighing carefully what she'd say next. "I was wondering if you could come home sooner."
