Homefront Defenders. Lisa Phillips

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       THREE

      Alana stepped back from him. “That was on her wall?”

      Locke nodded, fully aware that things had now escalated. “She kept it as a memento. I didn’t really understand it, but she showed it to me every time I came. Wanted to talk about the old days when she could say what she really felt. But it was pretty harmless.” He sighed. “The yakuza soldier who tried to kill you came here to kill Beatrice and steal this.”

      Alana looked at her phone. “No reply, not yet.” She told him about the text she’d sent—to the yakuza boss’s son, of all people.

      Locke looked around one more time. “Okay, let’s head back upstairs and tell your brother what we suspect the man took. We need to wrap this up and make our last visit.”

      “There’s one more?” She climbed the stairs behind him.

      Locke didn’t turn around. “The marine, former sniper—” Something clicked in Locke’s brain as two thoughts coalesced. Was the Caucasian man he’d seen in the beat-up car their next visit? Could their day be that connected? If it was him, the man’s appearance had changed a bit since Locke had last seen him, so Locke couldn’t be sure until he saw the file.

      He said, “After that we’re done for the day. Just in time for lunch.”

      “I don’t think I’m going to eat for a week.” She paused. “But what was that about the former sniper?”

      “I just need to look at his file when we get back in the car. That’s all.” Then he would know for sure whether it was the sixty-something guy he’d seen that morning.

      She nodded, and it didn’t seem fake. She was actually holding up pretty well, and he was proud of her. He’d figured they would run across her brother at some point, but hadn’t known the sergeant was Ray until she’d confirmed it. Alana had been through a lot in her life, and now this on top of it. Did she have faith to fall back on? There was something in Alana that helped her hold it together, even now. He thought it might be pure strength of will. Unless all that bravado was just for show. Locke couldn’t tell yet which it was.

      He, on the other hand, had been born and raised in Chicago, and his family had gone to the same church his whole life. Christmas wasn’t Christmas if he didn’t make the trip home to attend the carol service. Locke’s father was still the CEO of the same company he’d started forty years before. Two older sisters, the youngest of whom was six years older than him. Private school. College paid for by his dad. He’d seen a presidential detail at the age of eight and decided then that protecting the president was exactly what he wanted to do with his life.

      This was the path God had put in front of him, and until Alana showed up, he’d been completely satisfied. Being a Secret Service agent took one hundred percent of his focus and attention. It was everything he’d always wanted. He’d been convinced this was the best, the only way to be a good agent. Had relied on it, in fact. Now when he saw how Alana tackled everything, it made him wonder if she was destined to fail trying to cope without relying on God for strength.

      Or if he was the one who was wrong about everything.

      Ray was crouched over the body of Beatrice Colburn. From the doorway Locke explained what they’d found in the basement.

      The sergeant nodded but didn’t look at Alana. “You were right. It was a stab wound to the inside of her arm. The medical examiner will have to confirm, but if the cut severed her brachial artery she could have bled out in thirty seconds.” He looked at his sister. “It was precise. And intentional. If I’m right, then he knew what he was doing. There wasn’t anything you could’ve done.”

      Her brother cared, though Locke had never seen a sibling act like that with another sibling. It was like they didn’t even know how to communicate with words—just the sentiments that went unspoken between them. He shuddered to think what it would be like if they were forced to talk about their feelings with one another.

      Alana wandered over to the cop who knew her father, Joe Morton. The man was scrolling through the victim’s cell phone. Probably looking at Beatrice’s call and browser history. What apps she had that might give them a clue why the yakuza killed her.

      Locke needed to call the other director, William Matthews. His colleague was lead on the team traveling in with the president, while Locke was lead on the advance team. Coordinating made both of their lives easier, as would their being friends. Had they actually been friends. Locke respected him fine and they’d worked together a long time, but he didn’t particularly like the man.

      Alana had requested to be on William’s team for this trip, but Locke had made sure she was on his. As much as she would rather downplay her background he needed her expertise and her knowledge of local people to aid their team on this trip.

      As she wrote down the numbers Morton was also noting, Locke dialed William. He was glad Alana had turned her attention to something practical, even though they weren’t part of the murder investigation. It would keep her mind off seeing her first dead body.

      “Matthews.”

      Like he didn’t know it was Locke calling. “William, it’s Locke.” He bypassed the pleasantries neither of them had any interest in exchanging and told William about the dead woman, the yakuza guy who’d tried to kill Alana and the missing bomb schematics.

      There was quiet on the line, and then William spoke in a low voice to someone he was with.

      “Can you hear me?”

      “Sure,” William said. “Seems like a crazy coincidence, the two of you stumbling on a breaking and entering gone bad. Is Agent Preston okay?”

      “Alana is fine.” He saw her turn and smile at him, but he didn’t believe it. Nor did he believe William’s concern was simply that. More likely the man was playing defense—determined nothing would interfere with the President’s trip, least of all a break-in. “I’m a little more worried right now about the fact this guy stole bomb schematics.”