the people who cared for me told me they overheard others calling me Marcus.” Exhaling roughly, he rubbed a hand across his face. “They told me the CIA was after me, so I went into hiding, but I couldn’t stand the hiding anymore. I came here trying to find answers to who I am and what happened to me. Then you showed up and the shooting started.”
Bethany was about to call him out on his fanciful tale, but the sincerity in his face stopped her again. Before she had a moment to steel herself from his eyes, the rooftop door burst open and six men dressed in local police attire, with weapons raised, stormed onto the roof.
“Stop right there,” one of them called. “Drop your weapon and step away from it.”
She did as the officer commanded and sank to the ground, carefully placing her gun on the rooftop. It was better to cooperate with the authorities because she knew they would eventually get everything sorted out. Marcus, too, raised his hands over his head and followed the officer’s instructions.
“My name is Bethany Bryant,” she called out. “I’m an agent with the CIA. If you’ll look in my jacket pocket, you’ll find my credentials and identification.” She’d given up field work for a desk job after the ambush in which she’d thought Marcus had died, but still maintained her field agent status.
The officer who searched her glanced at her CIA credentials then passed them along to his boss, who nodded and ordered her released. “We were responding to shots fired into the diner. Can you tell us what happened here?”
“I’ve been tracking this man on charges of treason and terrorist activities. I’d just made contact when the shooting started. It looks like someone was trying to take him out before he could talk to me. I’d like to have him placed in a jail cell and under close guard to await the arrival of Federal Marshals to transport him to Langley to stand trial. And, be careful, he’s highly trained and skilled in matters of combat.”
Bethany watched his face as the officers led him away. He looked resigned to being arrested. He didn’t struggle when they cuffed him or moved him along.
She was right beside him when the local police walked him through town and the man and woman from the diner approached, expressions of worry lining their faces. “Marcus? What’s going on? What’s happening? Why are they arresting you?”
“It’s okay, Milo. It’s all a big mistake.”
Marie approached Bethany and grabbed her arm. “Why are you arresting Marcus? You saw, he was the one who was helping get people to safety when the shots started. He’s a good guy.”
Bethany pulled her arm away. “I’m sorry, but you have no idea what kind of man Marcus Allen really is.”
She saw the looks of doubt on their faces. They didn’t believe her, but she didn’t hold it against them. She knew personally how easy it was to be fooled into thinking Marcus Allen was one of the good guys.
Sheriff Ken Mills was a burly man who epitomized the stereotypical small-town Texas sheriff. But he sat and listened—staring at Bethany’s credentials instead of looking directly at her—while she explained the situation and asked for his help. Technically, he didn’t have to offer any assistance to her since the CIA wasn’t supposed to be operating on US soil, but most law-enforcement agencies shared so many common experiences that camaraderie was generally expected and usually given.
When she was finished, Mills leaned back in his chair and surveyed her. “I’ll agree to this on several conditions, Agent Bryant. One, you don’t interfere with our investigation into the shooting and, two, you offer up any and all information you know about it.”
She nodded. “Of course. I will.” That was a given.
“How long do you think you’ll need to house this prisoner of yours in our facility?”
“Not long at all. One night. Maybe two at the most.”
“Fine. My last condition is that my detectives want to question him about what he knows about the shooting without interference from you or the Agency. I don’t want to hear that we can’t solve a shooting in our own community because the CIA deems it sensitive information.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem, Sheriff. In fact, I would love to be kept informed about any information your detectives garner from Marcus.”
“I’ll let them know.” He stood and shook her hand. “It’s hard to believe that we had a fugitive from the CIA living right here in our community and no one knew it. Keep us updated and we’ll do the same.”
She left his office and was met by Detective Mercer, who told her they were still going through evidence and wouldn’t be talking with Marcus for several more hours.
Bethany took the opportunity to dial the number for Rick Eaves, her CIA department supervisor, to update him. When he answered, she spilled the news about finding Marcus.
She heard his sharp intake of breath. “Marcus Allen? You really found him?”
“I did. He’s alive. He was working as a fry cook in a town called Little Falls, Texas.”
“I’m in shock, Bethany. I confess I thought you were just chasing shadows. Are you certain it’s him? Maybe it’s just someone who looks like him.”
She remembered staring up into Marcus’s achingly familiar green eyes and mentally shook her head. She would never forget his face. “It’s him. I’m certain of it.”
“Okay, then we need to plan our next move. Do you want me to call in a team to bring him in?”
She’d gone against Agency protocols by not calling in a fugitive recovery team. But then, she hadn’t been acting in an official capacity, either. “That’s not necessary.”
“This is a dangerous man, Bethany. He’s been on the run for years. There’s no telling what he might do if you confront him.”
She grimaced, bracing for his reaction. “I already have.”
“You did what? Are you insane? You know our standard operating procedures for capturing fugitives.”
She couldn’t help the indignation that arose inside her. No one had believed her and now she was catching flack for being right. “I wasn’t operating under an official capacity, remember? I didn’t think I had the resources of the Agency to help with this.”
Rick took a deep breath as if realizing she was right and then continued in a calmer tone. “What happened?”
“Nothing. He claims to have amnesia. He says he doesn’t even know me.”
“Amnesia? Are you seriously buying that?”
She wanted to assure her supervisor she didn’t, but the image of Marcus’s green eyes looking at her so earnestly for answers as he’d sat across from her flashed through her mind and she couldn’t form the words. So instead of responding to his question, she moved on to the next issue. “We have another pressing problem. A sniper fired into the diner just after I approached him.”
“They’re
