Code Name: Nanny (SEAL and Code Name #5)(59)

Summer knew the question was far from casual, considering her real destination. “Everything’s ready.”

Sophy skipped across the grass. “All you’ll need at the ranch is jeans and boots—and more boots, Ms. M. There’s a lot of horse poop up there.”

Summer held open the door. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll be very, very careful.” Her cell phone began to vibrate. “Why don’t you go ahead and eat while I check on Gabe? He’s supposed to drive us to the airport, I believe.” As the others went inside, Summer walked across the grass and pulled out her phone. “Mulvaney, here.”



The news wasn’t especially good.

The forensics report on Cara’s box showed unidentified oil traces on the brown paper wrapper, along with a mineral oil–based ink, and further results would take a week.

“That’s all?” Summer asked impatiently. “Unidentified oil traces?”

Her boss gave an impatient huff. “Cut me some slack, Mulcahey.” A fiftyish Afro-American with a mind like an ICBM, Morrison Haley had grown up on the toughest streets in Detroit, always an inch over the line with the law, which made him a damned hard man to fool. A determined local priest had helped him secure a football scholarship to UCLA, where he’d been a record-breaking linebacker.

The special agent in charge of the Philadelphia field office was known as Mo to his friends, and Summer was one of the select few accorded that privilege.

“Right now we’re up to our ears in terrorist sight-ings, most of them tips from whackos. Add in a string of armed robberies and a counterfeiting chain and you’ll see why we’re understaffed. I’ve already transferred your box to Quantico for further tests, but it’s not deemed high priority.”

“Look, Mo—”

“Sorry, but there’s nothing more I can do. Ask Ms. O’Connor to put in a word with the senator. He may have the juice to get some action, but I don’t. End of story.” He sounded disgusted, and Summer felt just the same.

“Without more tests, we’ve got zip, Mo.”

“Stow it, Mulcahey. I sympathize, but that’s my last word.” His voice tightened. “How’s your arm? Any problems?”

Summer made her voice completely neutral. “No problems at all. Beyond the fact that I scare the shit out of dogs and little children.”

“You should have gone for reconstructive surgery three months ago. Line of duty makes it Uncle Sam’s tab.”

“I had a case, remember.” As she spoke, Summer unconsciously fingered her arm. Though the sleeve of her jacket covered all trace of her scars, she could sense them with absolute clarity.

“Anything changes, you let me know. You took a pounding, with no help from that chickenshit partner of yours.”

“Mo—”

“Don’t Mo me. Riley screwed up big-time and I don’t like putting the lid on it.”

Glass shattering. Distant screams that sounded strangely like her own.

Then a sucking, snarling wall of fire rolling down her arm.

“Riley’s dead, Mo. He had two kids and a pregnant wife. Let it be.”

“I have and I will, because of his wife and kids. But damn it, I don’t like it, especially when it leaves some people muttering it was your fault.”

“I’ll survive,” Summer said tightly. “Riley’s family needs full benefits. If there was a formal investigation . . .” She let the words trail off. They both knew what kind of red tape would result. A thorough investigation would reveal ongoing problems in field procedure, and Riley’s benefits might be jeopardized.

Mo grumbled some more, then cleared his throat. “What about the letters you’ve been getting?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Like hell you don’t. Your sister told me about them.”

“Jess? How did she—”

“Jess stayed in your condo for a few days. You were in D.C. being briefed, remember? While she was there you got two anonymous postcards in the mail. Nasty stuff, too. She called me, half-terrified, half-sputtering with outrage.” He gave a dry laugh. “Not a woman to be messed with, your sister. My wife would love her.” His voice hardened. “Any ideas who the bastard is?”

More than one, Summer thought. She had heard the muttered comments as she’d passed, but she had no firm names. “I can’t say, sir.”

“They’re FBI, so they’d know the moves, but I may get something from the postcards yet. If so, I’ll have their asses in a sling for this. I’m glad your sister thought to send me the postcards.”

Leave it to Jess, Summer thought. “I see.”

“Do you? I’m responsible for my jurisdiction, damn it. You should have told me about this,” he snapped. “When did it start?”

“Two days after Riley died, sir.”

Mo blew out a hard breath. “I expect you to inform me of any further harassment, in any shape or form. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

He cleared his throat. “Call me Mo, damn it. Sir was what they called Sidney Poitier in that old movie. By the way, your sister said hello. She wants to hear from you.”

By the time the line went dead, Summer’s shoulders were tight with tension. She’d have to phone Jess and explain. She’d also have to . . .