A Deadly Lesson (novella). Paul Gitsham

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      Tory was an up-and-coming television news reporter who’d been proving herself on the national level for the past five years. At five feet two inches tall, she knew she wasn’t exactly an imposing figure, but her insightful questions and keen ability to read between the lines had given her an edge few reporters had. She had black hair and green eyes that she’d been told were as mysterious as a cat’s. She knew that line had been corny flattery, but it suited her image of herself. At the age of twenty-eight, she was poised to take the national news media by storm, following in the footsteps of her role model, Diane Sawyer. At least, once she completed this interview she would be.

      She was young to be considered for the job that her boss, Tyson Bedders, had just offered her—an exclusive interview with Commander Thomas King, a navy SEAL who’d been presumed dead for the past six months after a failed mission in the volatile island country of Puerto Isla in Central America.

      Bedders had received a call from Joe Peterson, a public-affairs officer with the U.S. Navy, inviting Tory to go to Puerto Isla and interview King. Tory was to contact the minister of foreign affairs once she arrived on the island. The minister would coordinate the interview.

      The details of King’s mission were sketchy, but she knew that the members of the SEAL platoon he’d been directing had all been killed and King had been declared dead with the rest of the troop. According to the information Tyson had, King’s platoon had been ambushed when they went in to rescue a group of American hostages being held on Puerto Isla.

      The phone rang before she could completely digest the fact that she was leaving for Central America in less than six hours. There was a lot to do, including contacting her favorite cameraman, Jay Matthews. She wanted someone with her whom she could count on to film the story the way she wanted it captured.

      “Patton.”

      “Hi.”

      It was Perry Jacobs, her boyfriend. She smiled to herself. Perry said he was too old to be anyone’s boyfriend. He always referred to himself as her significant other. She hated that term, because it suggested that there was nothing significant about her without that other.

      Perry was a producer at UBC and they’d been working together for more than five years now. They’d been dating for the past four. He was nearly twenty years her senior and had more experience and knowledge of the business than anyone she knew.

      Tory had been attracted to Perry from the first. At the start, she’d ignored the chemistry, not wanting to be fodder for the office rumor mill. Then they’d worked together on a feature story in Virginia, and the relationship had grown from there.

      “Will you be home for dinner?” Perry had recently asked Tory to move in with him, and she still wasn’t sure about the situation. Her relationship with Perry was one of the things in her life that she questioned.

      Which was why she’d kept her own apartment and never stayed over with him more than once a week. She didn’t want to encourage Perry to think too strongly in terms of permanency until she knew for sure that she really wanted to be with him for the man he was and not for the producer who had helped to make her into a top-rate journalist.

      “Can’t. I’m going to Central America on assignment.”

      “Where?” he asked. There was a note of resignation in his voice, and she suspected he knew that even without the assignment she wouldn’t have come over tonight.

      “Puerto Isla. Tyson got me an exclusive with a navy SEAL who’d been presumed dead.”

      “That sounds dangerous.”

      Perry was right. Puerto Isla was dangerous. The small island was still struggling to keep its new government in place after a bloody coup four months earlier.

      Alejandro Del Torro, the new leader, had been cooperating with the U.S. government to get much-needed aid to his suffering people. He’d come to power after leading a rebel movement. The people of Puerto Isla were leery of following another military man, but Del Torro was only an interim leader and was organizing the government and preparing to hold elections within the next six months.

      Before Del Torro, the island had been controlled by Diego Santiago, a dictator and suspected drug lord, a man who had allowed the island’s coca-plant ranchers to supply many South American countries with the leaf that had become a part of their daily life. A leaf that the U.S. government was trying to eliminate because it was used to make cocaine and crack. Puerto Isla also served as a convenient stopover and refueling place for planes en route to Miami and the profitable American drug trade.

      Tory was glad that she was fluent in Spanish. Languages came easily to her, and she figured she’d be able to communicate easily with the locals once she was on the island.

      The interview was a step up from her usual kind of exposé assignment. Typically her stories involved going undercover with a hidden camera. Last year she’d been inside a women’s maximum-security facility, which had been chilling and had given her nightmares. Tory suspected that any juvenile delinquent who spent one night in that facility would never commit a crime again.

      “Tyson thinks I’m ready for it,” she said. She’d like to hear that Perry did, too.

      “Well, then I guess you are.”

      As a vote of confidence that one sucked. She shrugged it off. “I’ve got to get my stuff together. So I really can’t talk.”

      “I understand. When will you be home?”

      “I’m not sure. Probably three days.” She opened her desk drawer and pulled out her passport and immunization record.

      “Want a ride to the airport?” Perry asked.

      “I think I’ll cab it. Don’t you have a story airing tonight?” Perry sometimes worked on Tory’s stories but he had a stable of reporters that he produced.

      “Yes, but I’d make time for you, Tory.”

      That warmed her heart. Moments like this one made it hard for her to decide what to do about Perry. “I know you would. Take care.”

      “Be careful,” he said and hung up.

      She dropped the phone back into the cradle and started making a list of things she had to do before she left. Her heart pumped faster and she knew that this was the kind of break she’d been working toward for a long time.

      She checked her excitement as she realized the new assignment would take her away from a very personal investigation she’d been working on—the death of one of her closet childhood friends, Rainy Miller Carrington. Rainy had been Tory’s orientation group leader when she’d first gone to Athena Academy as a nervous seventh-grader.

      Tory had been invited to attend the mysterious Athena Academy for the Advancement of Women at the age of eleven. The unique seventh-through-twelfth-grade boarding school was set up similarly to famed military schools, but had no affiliation with the military.

      Rainy, a senior, had been put in charge of Tory and five other girls other who, after a rough start, had come together to become lifelong friends despite being from very different backgrounds.

      They’d named their group the Cassandras for the prophetess who was doomed never to be believed. Tory liked the irony of being a reporter and a Cassandra. In fact many СКАЧАТЬ