CSA Case Files: Campaign of Desire Part 1

CAMPAIGN OF DESIRE.

CSA Case Files, Book Four.

Kennedy Layne.

Dedication.

To my newly formed street team, Kennedy's Special Operations Group, for spreading the word about the CSA series. Thank you for all that you do! A special shout-out to Lisa Simo-Kinzer, for keeping things running like a well-oiled machine...

As always, to my partner in crime-and my wonderful husband-Jeffrey. I'm thankful everyday that you are by my side on this journey.

Prologue.

Crest placed his palms on the cool tile and bent his head, allowing the continuous stream of hot water to knead the back of his neck. The pressure was dialed in exactly the manner he liked it, but it was nowhere near the deluge required to erase the tension that consumed him. The information that was about to come to light could alter the espirit de corps of his team. He didn't like discord.

Sorting through the various courses of actions that were available, Crest resolved his dilemma and pushed himself off of the wall. He'd chosen the members of Crest Security Agency and he had full faith in their abilities, even in what could be the most difficult months ahead. He turned the handle slightly to the right, enduring a few seconds of invigorating chill before rotating the k.n.o.b to the off position. The water tapered until all that remained was a drip. If only he could as easily contain what was about to occur.

Crest suppressed a frustrated sigh when he heard the ring tone of his phone. It wasn't even zero five hundred and the last thing he needed was another problem thrown into the mix of what was sure to be a lousy f.u.c.king day. He pushed open the ornately etched gla.s.s shower door. The scene of a water nymph striding across a lily-strewn pond had caught his eye due to the mischievous look on her ethereal yet beautiful face. Curious thing though-just for a second he thought he recognized Jessie in her smile. He quickly dismissed such fancy and retrained his mind. He grabbed a white terry cloth towel and then wrapped it around his waist before picking up his cell that he'd placed on the gray granite of his sink. The number that appeared on the display just proved that karma was a b.i.t.c.h.

"Crest."

"This is Stan Louis Dunaway. I'll make this brief. I'm throwing my hat into the Presidential ring Thursday morning. I want security details for my daughters and myself until the Secret Service takes over. I'd like to meet this afternoon."

Crest leaned his head back and stared at the bathroom ceiling, calling for patience. He took a deep breath as he relaxed his hold on the phone. This wasn't the most opportune time to take on this type of a.s.signment, but he also knew something this prestigious didn't make good business sense to pa.s.s over. Favors were vital when it came to specific cases and doing one now for someone whom was almost certainly going to be the future President would be beneficial in the long run.

"Congratulations, sir." Crest stepped out of the shower and onto a plush looped rug that he'd discovered on a trip to D.C. last year. The color matched the darker gray flecks of the granite. The hotel manager had fallen all over himself to make sure the concierge had gotten Crest's people the manufacturer's information. As he felt the soft fabric underneath his feet, it had been well worth the wait. "It's going to take me some time to put the logistics together, but I should have things in order by three o'clock. I'd like for your campaign manager to be at my office as well, with a list of names that contain paid personnel, volunteers, and anyone who will be a.s.sociated with your run."

"I'll have Paul get right on that." Crest could tell from the long pause that Dunaway had more to say. The request he was about to make didn't come as a surprise. "Lach McKinnon has been a solid agent. I want him to be the one a.s.signed to Phoebe. She's being resistant to the idea of having someone around all of the time, and I'm hoping that since she knows McKinnon she'll be more receptive to the idea."

"I'll see what I can do," Crest replied, not making any promises. He first needed to speak with his team and then contact Gentry Protection, a firm that specialized in outsourcing professional armed guards. Before any of that could be done he had to deal with his initial problem. "I'll see you at three."

Disconnecting, Crest then carefully placed his phone back onto the stone countertop as he thought of his group of cherry-picked men and women. Connor, Jax, Kevin, and Ethan were all former Marines. Lach had also served four years before he later became a Bureau Hostage Rescue Team member and then eventually a Team Leader. He joined CSA after a highly publicized and politically sensitive hostage rescue went south on him. Crest refused to allow the man to fade away into nothing. His talents were too vast and character too n.o.ble not to be utilized in service to some just cause. Taryn was the only squid Crest had chosen. She was a secret squirrel from the Navy Intel Specialists and the only one that he'd run across in his career that he felt he could truly trust. She was d.a.m.n good, but he'd long feared that her past would eventually catch up to her. That left Jessie, Crest's personal a.s.sistant who had somehow turned into his proverbial Achilles' heel.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h."

Crest refused to believe that his decision to turn down female companions.h.i.+p last night had anything to do with Jessie and now he'd have to replace that d.a.m.n custom shower door he'd chosen personally. He'd been tired, had business on the brain, and was concerned about Taryn and what he'd discovered about her past. It would certainly affect her future, as well as her present state of mind. Him wanting peace and to be alone had no direct correlation with the fact that Jessie had started to attend Masters on a regular basis, a kink club owned by Connor and Jax. At least she wasn't dating that s.h.i.+t-heel Taggart anymore. It didn't take her long to figure out his bulls.h.i.+t. Crest had given her a choice between staying at the agency, knowing there would never be anything between them, or her handing in her resignation. Jessie had chosen to stay and keep him in h.e.l.l, although seeing her face every day had become a lone ray of suns.h.i.+ne in the darkness that consumed his existence.

Once things settled down, Crest would take part in his particular predilection, which merely took the edge off-at least long enough so that it kept him from engaging in anything beyond a professional relations.h.i.+p with Jessie, among other things. He was capable of hiding the blackness within, yet thankful that the lifestyle he led allowed him an outlet. He would never expose to someone as innocent as Jessie what kept him on the reservation, in the box he'd built for himself.

As for today, Crest had things to do and places to be. Intelligence was about to be handed out to his team that would change the way they viewed one of their own. He had faith that each and every one of his elite handpicked crew would choose the higher road and make the right suppositions. Every choice, action, and decision they made was a reflection of him. The days ahead proved to be long and trying, but he'd faced worse and came out on top. Today would be no exception.

Chapter One.

Ten months ago.

Northern Africa.

Lach McKinnon wiped away the sweat that was dripping down from his brow into his eyes, not that it would be a problem for much longer. Dusk had arrived and the sun had set on the North African skyline. Nightfall heralded an end to the suppressing heat. What many people whom had never been to these deserts didn't understand is that the sands refused to hold the warmth and the air cooled quickly without the blazing sun. Tiny particles of grit clung to his skin, giving his flesh that granular sensation he'd always hated and could never forget. It didn't matter that he was dressed in desert digital camouflage from head to toe in order to blend his body in with the bleak terrain. The sand still managed to make it inside the layers into every crack and crevice.

"Echo Lead, Eagle Overwatch. FLIR is up. Detecting three Tangos to the east and two to the west on picket," the crisp digital voice whispered through the earpiece, but it was impossible for Lach to fail in distinguis.h.i.+ng who was speaking. He'd personally hired several local men who knew the area tribes well, in addition to bringing with him seven contractors from the States. One of those men was his sniper team lead Jansen, who was now providing them necessary real time information to make this operation quick and efficient. "The four lead Tangos are racked out in the main tent, located directly in the center of camp. Your target is on the east side, third marquee from the south. She's accompanied by the three other volunteers."

Lach lifted the large image intensifying binoculars to his face and scanned the area where he'd infiltrate with Casper and Dale to extract their target. Phoebe Dunaway. She was a do-gooder spoiled rich girl that managed to get her a.s.s taken hostage by a mercenary group of tribesmen who valued gold coin over human life and just about everything else. She might think that she was providing a service to the people of this land with medical supplies, food, and whatnot, but he would bet his f.u.c.king future retirement that she was rethinking her newly found altruism.

"They're reckless," Casper replied in a low tone. He was situated right beside Lach as they used a nearby rock outcropping for its readily available concealment. The other men were deployed in two-man teams surrounding the encampment. Each pair was awaiting the go code to dispatch the roving sentries and close in on the compound now that darkness had fallen. "Unorganized amateur hour. This should be as easy as dismantling a Sig."

"Something's up." Lach scanned the horizon trying to locate the source of his unease. From the intelligence that he'd gathered within the last twelve hours, Casper should have been correct in his a.s.sumption that this crew was careless and sloppy. Considering the layout of the camp that these ragtag tribesmen were using, it had Lach rethinking those suppositions. "We'll wait another thirty minutes."

Casper didn't reply, but none was needed. Lach was running this operation just as he had when he'd been team leader of the Bureau's Hostage Rescue Team. Remembering the outcome of the last task force's a.s.signment, he swiftly shoved the memories aside knowing they had nothing to do with the here and now. It was rare that he was given such a duty as this in regards to his employment for CSA. The cases were more mundane, although recently he'd been reconsidering that opinion. Getting shot had a way of doing that. Maybe not having usual his team members by his side was the problem. He'd gotten used to working with them-how they operated, performed, and achieved success on their missions.

"Jansen, how many threats total?"

The silence was palpable as Jansen was clearly confirming his answer before responding. Lach waited patiently, all the while scanning the area with the field gla.s.ses. To the south of them men were unloading medical supplies from the trucks that were used to confiscate the inventory that the activists had on hand. He knew the catalogue of provisions would be sold off to the highest bidder, but why exactly were the rebels keeping the Americans alive? He understood their reasoning in keeping Phoebe Dunaway alive and well, but why the others?

"Seventeen." The ear peace went silent. "Incoming."

Lach s.h.i.+fted his sights to the vehicle that was approaching the camp. His team was far enough away that he wasn't concerned with being spotted, but the fact that they now had unexpected visitors didn't soothe his worries that this mission wouldn't go as planned. Unfortunately, the window of opportunity to rescue the hostages and retrieve his target had arrived.

"Hold position."

Seconds ticked by into minutes. Lach used twenty-nine of them to watch closely as the two newcomers joined the fray. The last truck was being unloaded and that was when Lach realized what sparked his earlier agitation. There was no reason for them to unload those supplies into a tent when they should be about to be delivered to a buyer.

"They're going to try and rob another tribe." Lach handed over his binoculars to Casper, who then took a look at the scene before them. "See the vehicles in the back? Empty boxes are now being loaded. They're going to use the trucks and fake a delivery. They'll rip off the buyer they've lined up by taking the cash and running. We need to go in when these dirtbags initiate that transport. They won't be worrying about the hostages."

It only took another ten minutes before the trucks started to pull out, leaving the camp a little less populated. He readied himself and then gave the go. Casper stayed exactly ten meters off Lach's right side and together they maneuvered toward their objective. He was ready for them when a pair of Tango sentries appeared over the top of the dune and belatedly stumbled around with the intention of firing their ancient bolt-action rifles. The suppressed HK MP5 recoiled in Lach's grip as he squeezed the trigger. The 9mm parabellum bullets st.i.tched his antic.i.p.ated target from stem to hairline.

Casper quickly dispatched the partner on the right with equal lethality. Suddenly a rifle shot in the distance demonstrated why no plan lasted more than thirty seconds into any engagement. It was as if the resonance sounded an alarm and instantly ignited anarchy. He could hear the slugs impacting the sand as he maintained his momentum forward, along with digesting Casper's digitized declaration that one of their men was down. He didn't take his eyes off of the intended destination.

Multiple questions ran through Lach's mind as he cautiously entered the slit in the fabric, Casper guarding his back. What would he find within? How easy would it be to extract Phoebe Dunaway? Would she need medical attention? Jansen stated there were four people within this specific location, yet Lach immediately accounted for only three, all of whom looked scared s.h.i.+tless. They had every reason to be.

"Where's Phoebe Dunaway?" Lach knelt and drew a knife from his boot, quickly sliding the blade through the rough horsehair ropes that restrained their wrists and ankles. He never stopped scanning the area. Casper s.h.i.+fted to the front entrance. Two men and one woman scrambled to their feet, each of them rubbing their sore wrists and looking for direction. Lach stood as well, frustrated that this operation wasn't going as planned. f.u.c.k. He should have told Crest to give this a.s.signment to Ethan. "I'll ask again. Where's Phoebe Dunaway?"

"W-we were separated this morning," the woman replied, edging closer to him and looking toward the exit, obviously eager to escape. Lach needed her attention on him, so he stepped directly in front of her line of sight. The intelligence he'd been given stated her name was Alice. "There w-was a man here until we heard the gunshots."

Lach cursed under his breath, knowing that the mercenary running this operation thought he was smart. Granted, this put a delay on the extraction, but it would still be executed. Having memorized the layout of the camp, yet knowing these hostages' welfare was in jeopardy, he quickly came to several decisions.

"Take them to the rally point." Lach walked around Casper, not looking back to see if his order would be carried out. His men knew their jobs. "Jansen, cover me. Alpha target to head shed! Designate head shed as alpha two."

These mercenaries weren't as sloppy as they wanted others to believe. The four heat sources that Jansen had been picking up in the central area weren't the main leaders. There were only three Tangos and the other signature was that of Phoebe Dunaway. They were keeping her close and Lach had lost the edge when the guard that had been posted to these hostages fled. There was no time to waste.

Refusing to allow any other thought to cross his mind other than to reach his newly targeted destination, Lach used his weapon to open the tent to peer out into the night and ensure that his path was clear. Gunfire was now being exchanged openly and it was only a matter of minutes before the leader of this group retreated with Phoebe Dunaway in tow. Lach used the darkness to conceal his maneuver as much as possible to get through the camp unmolested, having only to use his weapon once to eliminate a panicked and fleeing guard. He stopped short when he came upon the target shelter to find a man holding his hostage against his chest.

Lach had a fleeting thought that Phoebe Dunaway's picture didn't do her justice, but he immediately pushed it away as he focused on the man's weapon. It was an ancient British service pistol called an Enfield No. 2 Mk1, chambered in a soft nosed 38/200 round. It was more than capable of doing the job at close range. Lach had memorized everything there was to know about this man, from what he ate for breakfast to when he took a s.h.i.+t. There wouldn't be a long drawn out negotiation. This wasn't the States and this was nothing like his prior job with the Bureau. Out here it was man against beast. Lach knew his place on the hierarchy and without hesitation pulled the trigger on his much more modern weapon, knowing the double action pull on the old spurless hammer of that No. 2 would take too long to beat him to the draw.

To her credit and his surprise, Phoebe Dunaway didn't scream in the shrill shriek that he would have expected. That wasn't to say that she didn't wince or that her fight or flight instinct didn't kick in. She immediately tried to run for safety, but he was in front of her before she could gain speed and put herself in added danger.

"Stop."

It was obvious the word didn't penetrate Phoebe's fright as she tried to dodge to his right and then to his left when he s.h.i.+fted his stance. She was no more than five feet, five inches and his six foot four frame was formidable. She came up short and stared up at him with blue eyes filled with defiance. Her blonde hair was of medium length and secured at the nape of her neck, where her skin was covered in perspiration, heedless of the cool air. Fear had a tendency to do that. Lach knew they were running out of time before the rest of the rebels realized their leader was gone. They needed to evacuate the area. Now.

"Phoebe Dunaway." Lach could tell from the tilt of her head that he now had her full attention, regardless that pandemonium was still happening around them. "We were sent to rescue you. Follow behind with your hand on my back. Do not let go! Do what I say and we'll get you to safety."

Phoebe's lips parted as if she were going to say something but just as quickly closed them. The slight nod of her head and her acquiesce garnered a little bit of his respect. However, he refused to dwell on the trivial and there was no time to waste, so Lach surveyed the area and mentally calculated the best escape route.

"Echo Lead, Eagle Overwatch. In position to cover movement to rally point Zulu."

Lach turned and immediately felt Phoebe's small hand in the middle of his back. He ignored her heat and did what he did best. There would be time later to lecture her on how foolish it had been to come to such an area where rebels were known to ply their trade. He knew he wouldn't be able to help himself. He hadn't had time to let it sink in that he'd lost men on this mission, but it would be something they would both have to live with.

Chapter Two.

Eight Months Ago Iraq Phoebe rummaged through her backpack once more, ensuring that she had the proper supplies for the upcoming month. Experience taught you what you truly needed and what you could do without when you carried everything you had on your own back. She'd come to realize that she didn't need much on these missions, although it mostly came down to understanding that she'd be too busy to worry about trivial things. It was a nice change from her usual life back in the States.

Cinching up the pack, Phoebe then reached for the S&W tactical knife that would fit into her boot. Instantly her palms became damp as memories of Africa swam in front of her and she dropped her hand to her side. It was weird how tangible things and smells set off the strongest memories. She wasn't naive and she certainly wasn't imprudent. She and the organization that she worked for thought they'd covered all the bases for security while volunteering their time to administer food and medical supplies to the locals. When their camp was attacked, it became abundantly clear that their efforts had been well wasted. Her group had been rescued, but some of the contractors and the local guides sent to rescue them had either been wounded or lost their lives.

A knock sounded on the door in Phoebe's hotel room, startling her out of her reverie. She was grateful for the interruption. A quick glance at her watch showed her that Timothy was a little early. She hoped his premature arrival didn't indicate problems with the medical supplies that were supposedly already waiting for her at the compound. She'd completed one charitable mission after Africa and she'd been on pins and needles the entire time. Nevertheless, volunteering in this manner wasn't something she could just give up due to a few lingering nerves.

"Coming."

Phoebe looked down at her khaki shorts and white T-s.h.i.+rt and then frowned at her vanity. It was a hard habit to break, confirming her appearance was proper. Her mother and father had ingrained that trait in her from the time she could walk. It didn't matter what she looked like out here, as long as she was covered enough to keep the local religious leaders off the warpath. All that really counted was giving these people the aid and support they needed. She tucked her hair behind her ears as she crossed the room, looking for one of her hair ties but unable to locate any. Those were a necessity during these missions as far as she was concerned.

Grabbing and twisting the k.n.o.b, Phoebe opened the door and came face to face with the last man she would have ever expected to be Iraq. Fear among other primal feelings and thoughts ran through her as her brain tried to process what Lach McKinnon's presence might mean. What stuck at the forefront were his parting words the last and only time she'd seen him. She'd never admit that his words were like daggers to her heart. You're nothing but a spoiled little rich girl.

"Let's go."

Rage balled up in Phoebe's chest as she stared up into his dark eyes. Lach was tall...taller than any man she'd ever had personal dealings with. His demeanor could almost be described as lethal and she'd certainly seen him in that manner. He kept his dark hair short, although not cropped. It seemed to stay in place, the same as the frown on his chiseled face. The square of his jaw was prominent, but it was his lips that took exception. They were full and appeared soft, unlike his unpleasant personality.

"Nothing has happened," Phoebe p.r.o.nounced, a little too loud even to her. She hated being on the defensive and he seemed to have an automatic way of causing her to be that way. "We haven't even been taken to the compound that we'll be working out of and we have enough security. Why are you here?"

"There's never enough security in a place like this."

Lach stepped forward, causing Phoebe to move back and let him gain entrance. She'd noticed it before, but he was a man of few words and he wasn't the type to be rushed with what he did have to say. Knowing the fastest way to get him to leave would be for her to remain silent and force his hand, she buried her frustration, closed the door behind him and used the wood for support. He didn't need to see that her fingers were still clutching the handle.

Phoebe watched him as he surveyed the room, which was spa.r.s.e. The organization that she worked for, the Crescent Heart Foundation, didn't have a lot of cash to work with and what they did have on the accounts was used for aid. She did a lot of soliciting for charitable contributions when she wasn't actively in the field. She'd taken over Annabelle Dunaway's one true love and had no intention of stopping. Her father and those he employed would have to come to accept that. The woman's legacy foundation was all that Phoebe had left of her mother.

"Your father's debating a run for the presidency. You're needed at home."

Had the doork.n.o.b been made of anything else instead of metal, Phoebe had no doubt she would have torn it off. She closed her eyes, willing the tears that had welled up to subside. They weren't from sadness, but from pure anger. Stan Louis Dunaway thought of no one but himself...certainly not his daughters. She wondered if Kimmie had been notified, but she didn't want to let Lach know how much this affected her. Guilt ate at her for feeling that way about her father. He did love them, but work always seemed to come before her and her sister.

"I'll be home when I finish this mission." Phoebe cleared her throat and forced her fingers to release the handle. "We're set up and ready to go. Timothy and Lolita are due here any moment. The other volunteers should already be at camp. We're not going to disappoint the people of the area that we've targeted to help."

"As I said, you're needed at home. I'm not here to debate with you. Take it up with your father."

"I will. From here." Phoebe waited for his gaze to swing to hers, and when it did she met him eye for eye. The right side of his jaw twitched, but other than that he showed no sign of emotion. She wasn't going to back down. He didn't get to tell her what to do. "Feel free to leave."

"When I leave here, you'll be by my side."

For some insane reason Phoebe felt that he wanted to add or over his shoulder, but he refrained. There were a lot of things she was abstaining from saying too, so he didn't get carte blanche. When he widened his stance and crossed his arms, it took everything in her not to pick something up and throw it at him. He irritated her in a way no one else ever had.

"How much is my father paying you?" Phoebe asked, mimicking his posture. Two could play this game. "You don't strike me as the type of man to be someone's lackey."

"Phoebe, let's be clear." Lach let his hands fall to his sides and then he took a step forward. It took everything in her not to back away. "I would have done this a.s.signment for free. You're the daughter of a U.S. Senator. You're intentionally putting yourself at risk and someone needs to ride your a.s.s until you get it through your G.o.dd.a.m.ned head that this isn't some 'dress-up and help the poor volunteer day'. You needlessly put yourself and others in jeopardy. Your little pastime got good men killed...my men. So I'm telling you one more time. Get your bag and let's go."

Again, so many thoughts and emotions ran through Phoebe that her brain couldn't process them all. Lach had never strung together more than a sentence that contained ten words, yet he'd just lectured her like he had some G.o.d-given right. He knew nothing about her and her need to continue her mother's work. He definitely didn't know about the guilt that ate at her daily for those lives lost in Africa. As for her being a U.S. Senator's daughter-that was her cross to bear.

Before Phoebe could respond to his criticism, another knock sounded at the door. To her utter disbelief, Lach drew his weapon from underneath his leather jacket and used two long strides to bring him beside the door. This was getting out of hand. They weren't in Northern Africa and she knew d.a.m.n well who was at the door.

"Stop it," Phoebe hissed, marching up and trying to move Lach out of the way. She might as well have been trying to move the rock of Gibraltar. His large hand encircled her upper arm and he had her up against the wall in under a second, the front of her body now melded with his. She'd lost her breath but quickly regained it back upon hearing another rap on the door. "It's only Timothy. He's here to tell me that the vehicles are out front and ready to take us to our location."

"I'll deal with him."

Just like that, Lach pushed away from her and stood to his full height. Phoebe tucked her hair behind her ears, trying to regain some composure. He had her off kilter and that wasn't a feeling she usually had to deal with. He had the door open and Timothy inside the room before she could try and do it herself.

"Um, is everything okay?" Timothy asked, looking anxiously at Lach's weapon. He pushed up his gla.s.ses and then rubbed his palms along his navy shorts. "Phoebe?"

"Phoebe's needed at home." Lach casually replaced his pistol into the holster and let his jacket fall over it, giving her the answer as to why he was wearing a coat to begin with. "I'm sure you can carry out the volunteer mission in her place."

"Phoebe?"

She had two options but knew that the only one Lach would accept at the moment was her choosing to head back to the States. If she selected to stay, she wasn't so sure Lach didn't have a backup plan to make sure she was on that plane. Timothy didn't need to be subjected to her father's henchman. Stan Dunaway was a very determined man and it was obvious he'd hired someone of the same caliber. In her mind, that wasn't a compliment.

"There's been a change in plans, Timothy." Phoebe then proceeded to walk him through everything he needed to know and even supplied him with the inventory list. "Make sure Nancy has full access to the medical supplies and that Donna has enough locals to help deliver the food."

Phoebe continued to answer Timothy's questions, all the while noticing that Lach had situated himself across the room in one of the chairs up against the far wall. His dark gaze never wavered from her and she had no doubt that he still thought of her as some spoiled little rich girl getting her rocks off helping those less fortunate. She pushed away the need to change his opinion, telling herself that it didn't matter. He didn't matter.

"Okay," Timothy replied, sneaking one more look at where Lach was sitting. The silence was deafening and Phoebe shot a look of annoyance his way. He didn't need to be rude. "Well, I guess I'll be going. I'll try to contact you over the Sat phone in the next few days, but I probably won't make it back to the city anytime soon."