Facing the Enemy

Paige Edwards

Facing The Enemy

Title Page

Cover image Woman Walking on Stone Staircase © Rebecca Stice / Trevillion Images

Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.

American Fork, Utah

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc. or any other entity.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.

First Printing: April 2022

ISBN-13: 978-1-52442-101-4

Praise for Paige Edwards

“Paige Edward’s romantic suspense novels never disappoint. I know when I picked up one of her books, I’ll be drawn into high adventure with characters who come to life off the page.”

—Kathi Oram Peterson, author Danger Unknown and Treacherous Legacy

“In Danger on the Loch, Paige Edwards has done a masterful job combining contemporary mystery and suspense with the United Kingdom’s high society. DNA results, an unexpected meeting between father and daughter, and a blossoming romance are only a small piece of a story set in vividly-described Scotland. With stolen bank transfers, a possible traitor within the household, and a potential terrorist attack looming, expect to lose some sleep while racing to find out if James and Paisley will be able to survive long enough to find their happily ever after.”

—Traci Hunter Abramson, award-winning author of the Guardian series

“Paige Edwards has woven a gripping and riveting multilayered story that grabs one’s attention in the first few pages of the book and just doesn’t let go!”

—InD’Tale Magazine Crowned Heart Review

“Danger on the Loch grips your attention with its mix of romance and mystery to which any reader regardless of age can relate in terms of identity, family, and relationships. Castle Rannoch is a brilliant setting that breathes with a life of its own. With its stone walls, secret passages, and staircases, it exudes an air of mystery and foreboding that you want to unravel. Paige Edwards has created a mystery case worthy of someone like Sherlock Holmes to crack. The estate is a character in itself made only more haunting by the diverse characters within it. As part of the Pressley-Coombes Series, Danger on the Loch meets reader expectations in terms of offering high-tension suspense and feel-good romance.”

—Readers’ Favorite Five-Star Review

For Eddie and Katharine Edwards,

devoted and loving in-laws

Acknowledgments

Authors have an entire group of warriors at their backs, and I’m no exception. Without my warriors, this book would never have made it to print. Special thanks to my critique group: Ellie Whitney, Traci Abramson, and Kyla Beecroft. To James, my Scottish connection whose videos during COVID-19 lent authenticity to a scene or two that I had not traversed. Emily Clark, thank you for those writing sprints. To my beta readers: Ellie Whitney, Emily Flynn, and Cassie Shiels. To Steve Cook and Amy Parker, my English friends who updated my British expressions. To my street team, you guys are unsung heroes. Thank you so much for getting the word out.

To my sweetheart, Ladd, who always encourages me, is available when I need to talk through an idea, and tolerates my preoccupation when I’m chasing a deadline. To my children, Angela, David, Carrie, Ashley, and Shawn: you keep me grounded and remind me that real life exists outside my office. To my grandchildren, Connor, Nathanael, Hiram, Evie, Braden, Crew, Mariah, Cohen, Brighton, Jasmin, Zoey, Peyton, Emma, Hayden, Olive, James, and Finn: you bring so much joy to my life. I love you to pieces.

To my editor, Ashley Gebert, who’s always there when I need her, puts up with my electronic issues, and makes my manuscripts shine. To Amy Parker, publicist and marketing extraordinaire—girl, you live too far away! To Christina Marcano, my graphic designer, thank you for the amazing cover. To all the rest of the Covenant family, thank you for the opportunity to do what I love best. To my readers, you make this writing life so worthwhile. Most importantly, thank you to my Heavenly Father and my Savior, Jesus Christ, for opening such amazing doors and bestowing the gift and inspiration to write in the first place.

Scottish Vocabulary Words in Facing the Enemy

AGA: high-end country oven-cooker combo

Anorak: hooded jacket long enough to cover the hips

Aye: yes

Bairn: baby, child

Bampot: mad idiot

Bits and bobs: things or objects of different kinds

Blethering: long-winded, not talking sense

Bonnet: hood of a car

Boot: car trunk

Burn(s): stream or creek

Close: a small narrow alleyway for pedestrians

Codswallop: nonsense

Cracking: excellent

Dirk: small knife

Dreich: dull or gloomy—referring to the famous Scottish weather

Feartie cat eedjit: scaredy-cat idiot

Ghillie: term for a man or boy who acts as an attendant on a fishing, hunting, or deer-stalking expedition

Glaikit: crazy, off your head

HM: His (or Her) Majesty’s

IRN-BRU: Scottish carbonated soft drink

Jumper: sweater

Keen: very enthusiastic

Kirk: church

Laybys: roadway turnouts, pullovers

Let: to rent

Let the car tick over: let the car idle

Lorry: truck, box truck

Och: general interjection of confirmation, affirmation, and often disapproval

Pure barry: great, brilliant, wonderful, nice, or fantastic

Pure dead brilliant: very good

Sgian dubh: small knife worn as part of traditional Scottish Highland dress

Slip road: exit or merging lane

Sorted: get it together, organized

Spanner: wrench

Torch: flashlight

Treacle: molasses

Verge: road shoulder

Verra: very

Wellies: rubber boots

Chapter 1

Harry Benson sprinted down the narrow street of clay-built homes, the sun burning overhead in the relentless blue sky. As he rounded a corner, bullets chipped the wall beside him and spattered his face with baked clay. His heart sputtered. How had he missed that guard on the rooftop?

Unfamiliar with this sector of Lebatu’s capital city, Harry ducked into an alley. He spun around, searching for a way out as boots crunched on the hard-packed earth. Trapped. The hair lifted off Harry’s neck, and the faces of his son and a beautiful redhead flashed before his eyes.

Farther down the alley, a narrow staircase outside the exterior of a humble dwelling caught his eye. Pivoting, Harry pounded across the narrow lane and made it three-quarters of the way up the stairs before two soldiers entered the alley below his feet.

Harry pressed against the terra cotta wall and prayed the shadows would hide his body. His chest heaved as he attempted to catch his breath. Beneath him, General Nheshal’s soldiers, armed to the teeth, advanced down the alley, yelling to one another in Arabic.

Snatching loose rocks off the step above, Harry lobbed them toward the next dwelling. The stones struck the building and thudded to the ground. Immediately, the soldiers swung in that direction. Bullets whizzed and embedded in the adobe heartbeats later.

Harry bolted up the last few steps to the roof. Before he could take cover, one of the soldiers shouted and pointed him out to his companion. Harry darted under a colorful canopy and ducked behind a table. Feet pounded up the stairs, and leaded death pattered like hail around him. A whiff of singed material made him check his djellaba, the long, tan robe covering his western clothes. The material sported several new holes.

Adrenaline surged, and Harry darted across the roof tiles, tugging down multihued canopies as he ran to cover his progress. He reached the edge and jumped the five-meter gap to the next building. When his feet hit the rooftop, he rolled. The men opened fire and peppered the air as they obtained the rooftop dwelling behind him.

Ducking around a chimney, Harry glanced about, searching for a way down. An awning or a donkey cart would be nice right about now—or even a clothesline. Unfortunately, he came up empty.

He poked his head over the edge of the roofline and spied an open window directly below. Gripping the roof’s border, he swung his body over the edge, then landed feetfirst into the room. Thud. He rolled on the tile floor.

A woman gasped, lifting a veil to cover her face as she rose from her chair. Harry’s heart squelched. If she squawked, he would be forced to quiet her.

“Shhh.” Harry covered his mouth with an index finger. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

The woman hesitated, her eyes darting between Harry and the doorway.

Don’t do it. His eyes pleaded with hers.

She quivered, obviously undecided.

The salāt sounded, calling everyone to prayer over the loudspeakers. The woman appeared to struggle within herself before she knelt and faced Mecca to begin her midday supplications.

A coup did not keep the devout from their worship. Being a man of faith himself, Harry admired that about his Muslim neighbors.

Not one to quibble when an advantage presented itself, Harry bolted out of the room and down a small flight of internal steps to the next level. The house was empty but for its one occupant. He scouted the interior while he considered the best course of escape. Outside, a group of men knelt in the street on the far side of the house.

Borrowing a spare prayer rug from his hostess, Harry drew up the hood of his djellaba to cover his fair skin. With a glance at the roof, he climbed out a window to join the men during their supplications a few minutes before the salāt concluded.

The small group of men rose from their rugs, rolling them up and placing them inside a donkey cart filled with clay water pitchers. Harry fell in behind them, his back to the house. Shadows from the roof projected onto the street, exposing the unmistakable silhouettes of his pursuers.

“Where are you headed?” Harry asked the men, using the local dialect.

His skin prickled as he slipped to the opposite side of the donkey and rubbed between the animal’s ears. The guards moved away, their shadows disappearing.

“Sorroca,” one of the men answered as he took hold of the animal’s lead. “They are out of water after yesterday’s fighting.”

“Who isn’t?” Harry asked.

The eldest, a spry man of possibly seventy, eyed him. “Are you going our way?”

“Partly. I’m for Deljabar,” Harry stated.

“You are most welcome to join me and my family.”

“I thank you.” Harry’s eyes slid back to the water jars. These businessmen were quick to earn a few extra dinars. Others would doubtless follow their example.

Striding beside the donkey cart, Harry only spoke when asked a direct question. His last four months in Lebatu had been spent monitoring the political situation with his trainer—an MI6 agent who had disappeared last week under suspicious circumstances. And now Mustafa, Harry’s contact, was dead.

After a slow three-kilometer walk in the heat, brushing flies from his face every few seconds, Harry parted ways with the water-bartering entrepreneurs, then entered the Deljabar district where Mustafa had been executed. The shock of such brutality still rattled Harry’s system. It had made him careless; otherwise that guard would never have spotted him in the first place.

How much Nheshal’s men had gleaned from Mustafa remained to be seen. Nheshal had a way of breaking men to give up information. It didn’t matter how brave the individual was; everyone had a threshold.

Undoubtedly, Harry’s own identity was blown, along with their undercover investigation. He didn’t dare return to his rented room for his belongings. Tonight, under the blanket of darkness, he would collect his emergency exit bag down by the pier and hire a boat for Tunisia.

But before he made for the harbor, Harry had one last item of business.

Picking his way through the debris, Harry continued down the rubble-strewn street. His steps faltered beside what had once been a primary school two days ago. Flies buzzed. Parents cried as they dug through the rubble, calling for children buried within. As a father, everything within him yearned to help these families recover the bodies of their children. Harry took two deep breaths, his heart cramping at their anguish. If his own young son had accompanied him to Lebatu, he, too, might be among the fatalities. Harry vowed to return after he completed his mission to help these people.

In the distance, the rat tat tat of distant gunfire sounded where pockets of resistance fighters still held out against the more sophisticated weapons of the guerilla army. It was only a matter of time until Tritus, the capital, completely fell into General Nheshal’s hands.

The hot northerly wind gusted into the city off the Sahara. Harry gripped the hood of his djellaba to keep it from slipping off his head and exposing his skin. On a day like today, that could mean life or death. Rounding the block, he assured himself of multiple escape routes before heading toward the location where Mustafa had been taken.

Last night, when Mustafa left to scout the area, Harry had intercepted a private transmission. By replaying the recorded call, he had deciphered the coded message. Another overseas munitions shipment was en route to Deljabar, adding to Nheshal’s cache.

Whoever had supplied Nheshal’s stockpile remained a mystery, and HM’s Secret Intelligence Service, SIS, needed that information to assimilate the politics behind this unexpected coup.

No fighting had touched the interior of the Deljabar sector, but most citizens remained indoors—which made it difficult for Harry to reconnoiter the streets, thus impeding his search for the weapons. The best idea he could come up with was to book a room with rooftop privileges to map out the area and determine his options.

Using the heavy vernacular, Harry rented a place not far from the market, then climbed to the rooftop, sheltering under a sunshade. Somewhere among these homes, Nheshal must have cached his weapons. The general had doubtless set a guard to protect his assets. All Harry had to do was locate that guard.

Halfway down the block from where Harry stood, an open-air market with colorful booths and canopies drew his attention. Clusters of men and women haggled for what food remained in this quadrant.

Harry’s eyes slid past the vibrant stalls. An armed soldier stood, half-hidden, beside an orange canopy. On the opposite corner stood another, his automatic rifle slung crosswise over his chest.

Stepping out of the sunshade’s shadows, Harry surveyed the street beyond. The heat shimmered in waves, and Harry narrowed his gaze. Sure enough, more armed guards were spaced strategically down the parallel road. Unless Nheshal had set up headquarters beside the market—miles from the port and airstrip—that row of humble abodes required further investigation.

Returning to the street below, Harry proceeded toward the market. After the massive power outages, petrol stations were inoperable, and locals had resorted to their millennia-old transport system. Donkeys, pack mules, and carts stood beside almost every booth.

A handgun and a few clips of ammo were no match against soldiers with automatic weapons pointed in his direction. Jingling the coins inside the pocket of his djellaba, he surveyed the beasts tied to the booths.

One of the donkeys beside a fruit stall flattened its ears and brayed at a stray dog that had wandered too close. Harry hadn’t been in Lebatu long before he found that donkeys had an instinctual dislike of dogs. And certain canine breeds enjoyed pestering donkeys, rather like naughty boys who saw a freshly plaited pigtail within reach. Today, he was counting on it. He needed a distraction.

Harry approached a stall and haggled with the proprietor for some jerky. Then, turning about, Harry dropped a piece of his newly purchased dried meat on the ground. The dog sniffed the jerky, then swallowed the piece whole and looked up at Harry for more.

The donkey twitched its tail and flattened its ears.

Harry dropped another piece, this time much closer to the donkey. The donkey backed up against the booth’s pole.

Harry dropped another chunk of jerky near the donkey’s hooves.

The dog snarled and snapped up the meat. The donkey brayed, displaying all its teeth, then lunged, jerking the pole to which it was tied. The support collapsed, and the canopy crashed down on the proprietor and his customers.

The donkey, now free of its tether, took off after the canine, chasing him directly into the marketplace.

Men yelled, and women screamed and jumped aside as the two animals tore through the throng. Soldiers came running to see what the commotion was all about.

Harry skirted the corner of the first dwelling and slipped behind the recently vacated guards’ station. In a matter of seconds, he picked the lock and let himself into the building.

All was dark inside. Nothing stirred. He removed his sat phone from a capacious pocket and turned on the flashlight app, running the light over a row of wooden crates stacked to the ceiling.

Every crate was stamped with English words in familiar green paint and a UK insignia. With a racing heart, Harry took a dozen pictures and pinged the GPS coordinates. Just as quickly as he had entered, he let himself out and covered several blocks before he trusted that no one followed him.

He stopped under a cork oak and texted the pictures to his boss before he speed-dialed the SIS building.

“Officer Thatcher,” Nigel answered.

“Nigel, I found Nheshal’s cache. Photos and GPS coordinates should reach you momentarily.”

“And?”

“They belong to us.”

Chapter 2

Thud. Thump. Thud. Thump. Elise’s trainers struck the treadmill’s rubber surface in quick succession. Needle-like pain stabbed her hips with every stride, and the tip of her long red ponytail dripped sweat. She pressed her lips together and kept going.

Electrical cords flapped and bounced with each step, recording her vitals on the monitor beside her. Nigel Thatcher, her boss, stood next to the exercise device, his feet shoulder width apart, arms folded, and eyes on the recorder.

Elise clamped her jaw and ignored him. Instead, she focused on the gray cinderblock wall, where paint had failed to breach the porous holes. With a whir and click of internal gears, the treadmill’s incline increased.

Tucking her chin, Elise lengthened her pace, her shoes barely touching the rotating belt, her stride matching the pre-programmed cycle. Her breath rasped, and dark spots danced in front of her eyes. If Nigel didn’t make it stop soon, her vision would cut out altogether.

She ignored her body’s warnings. She had to make up her time. Too much depended on the outcome of these tests.

Six months ago, she could have run circles around almost anyone at MI6. Today . . . well, today was another story.

The wall in front of her blurred just as the cycle slowed to a walk. Sucking in sweet air, she held on to the arm rests and slackened her pace until the machine ground to a halt. If Elise had been alone, she would have slid to the floor.

“What’s next?” she asked Nigel, using the last of her strength to appear unaffected.

Nigel didn’t respond; he simply handed her a towel.

“Thanks.” She attempted to read his expression, but it was impossible to interpret his thoughts.

Everything about Nigel was misleading. His hair was gray. His eyes were gray. His height was unremarkable. His build, while not scrawny, did not carry the bulk of heavy muscles. Though he did not stand out in a crowd, Officer Nigel Thatcher was one of the best spymasters in the business—a living legend in all branches of HM Secret Intelligence Service.

“Core next,” Nigel said.

Elise repressed a groan and fantasized about shooting him with her MI6 issue, a Walther PPK/s, and doubted she would experience guilt for doing so.

After her core test came the firing range, endurance swim, psych eval, and special talents—in her case, knives. Nigel had the right to switch the lineup at any given moment, but never during her years at MI6 had he bothered to do so. He purposely placed the psych eval after the swim to allow his agents’ bodies to rest and regroup for the next physical challenge.

One thing was certain: she had to pass these tests. In no way did she intend to become a washed-up field agent at twenty-seven and ride a desk for the rest of her career—no matter how fascinating she found electronic digging.

Her core test went far better than her run; the chin-ups, though difficult, passed within the acceptable range. When she entered the basement shooting gallery, a cavernous affair with concrete walls, two chairs were set up on either side of the weaponry table. A bald man with an unkempt beard sat in one of them.

The psychologist looked up from his binder, his eyes assessing.

Elise’s flesh rippled, and her hands fisted at her sides.

Nigel’s voice crackled through the PA system. “Change of plans, Agent Taylor. We’ll do the psych eval first.”

She glanced up at the bulletproof observation window with its bird’s-eye view of the gallery. No doubt Nigel and his cohorts had convened up there to observe her proceedings behind that smokey glass.

With perfect posture, she strode to the table and took a seat across from the doctor. What a peculiar hair combination he had. She tilted her head and eyed his beard. To her, his hair grouping looked like someone had screwed his head on upside down. Did he wear it that way to make up for the hair loss on the top of his head?

She found a few days of facial scruff wildly attractive, but this precise combo? Definitely not. She gave herself a mental shrug. To each his own.

“Make yourself comfortable, Agent Taylor,” the doctor said. “We’ll start with word associations. Is that all right with you?”

“By all means,” Elise agreed and motioned for him to proceed.

“Dog.”

“Bark.”

“Cat.”

“Claws.”

The doctor’s eyebrow twitched. “Heart.”

“Target.”

His eyebrows went up. Her mouth quirked at his faintly shocked expression. Surely, the man didn’t expect kittens and flowers from a field agent.

“Computer,” he asked.

“Hack.”

“Car.”

She hesitated as unbidden memories of a high-speed car chase through the streets of Oxford flashed through her mind. A lorry had borne down on her and her former MI6 partner. The crunch of metal on impact, shattering glass, and the car spinning out of control came back to her in fragmented pieces. The splintered images spiraled like colored pieces of a kaleidoscope. Adam slumped behind the wheel as a bin wagon plowed into the passenger door. A burst of light and blinding pain. Her partner’s limp body being pulled from the wreckage . . .

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