Page 2 of Yankee in the Wind

“Of course.”

Lilly turned to continue with the next room, Thomas’s old bedroom, while Deja returned to the kitchen, where she’d been cleaning out cabinets.

Thomas’s bedroom hadn’t changed much even though he hadn’t lived there in over fifteen years. There was no carpet, just the old worn wooden floor that creaked in many places. The single bed he’d slept in as a teenager was still standing against one wall, the old wooden desk where he used to do his homework on the opposite one. There was a large bookcase with books reaching from algebra schoolbooks to Zen philosophy. The walls were adorned with posters of Bob Marley and Santana. Even when Lilly and Thomas had been teenagers, their taste in music had been considered retro.

For a moment, Lilly just stood there, letting the old memories of their childhood together draw her back to a time where everything had been simpler. Thomas had been somewhat of an odd kid. Too serious, too wise for his years, an old soul. But in a way, Lilly was so much like him, almost as if they were twins, not cousins. As twelve-year-olds they’d even developed their own secret code to send each other messages with secret passwords. It had been a game between them. A game for nerds.

Lilly pulled herself out of her memories. She had work to do. The real estate agent she’d talked to about listing Uncle Will’s house had told her that she wanted to get the house painted and staged the following week, but that it was Lilly’s responsibility to clear out all personal effects. A charity would come by the next day to pick up the furniture.

Lilly went through the books, tossing most of them into one of the boxes. There were none that she wanted to keep, none that meant anything to her. The closet still held some of Thomas’s clothes that he had worn whenever he’d visited his father. The pants and shirts were out of fashion and worn. Thomas had never much cared about what he wore. Spending the majority of his adult life in uniform had probably something to do with that.

She tossed his clothes in another large box, then removed the old shoes and boots that lay on the floor in the closet. She was about to switch off the closet light, when something on the floor caught her attention. She crouched down to look at it more closely. There, in the corner where his old boots had stood, something was carved into the wood. At first, she couldn’t tell what it was, but then she shone the cell phone light on it and recognized it. The few scratches that had most likely been made with a Swiss Army knife were meant to show the drawing of a flower, a lily.

Lilly sat back on her heels. She knew without a doubt that Thomas had carved the flower there. But when? If he had done it while they were still kids, he would have shown her. Softly, she knocked on the floorboard with the carving, then on the floorboard next to it. The sounds were different. The space beneath the flower sounded hollow.

She pulled her keys from her jeans pocket and stuck one of them between two floorboards. The floorboard with the flower lifted up easily, revealing a small hiding place not larger than a paperback. Inside lay only a few small items. She reached in and pulled them out.

The first item was a laminated ID card with Thomas’s name and photo on it, which in itself wasn’t surprising if it weren’t for the organization that had issued it: the Central Intelligence Agency. Her heart stopped for a moment. Thomas had been a CIA agent? Was that why he’d never told her where he was deployed to? In fact, had he even been in the military, or had he lied to his family about being in the military when in reality he was a CIA agent?

Lilly set the ID aside, then looked at the two other items. One was a thumb drive, the other a black spiral notepad smaller than a cell phone. She opened it and realized that most pages had been torn out. Only a few pages remained. But they were blank. Why would Thomas hide a blank notepad? She shone her cell phone light on it to get a better look, when she noticed that the top sheet had indentations. Her heart beating like a jackhammer, Lilly jumped up and walked to the desk where she found a pencil. Placing the notepad on the desk, she brushed the pencil over the paper to reveal the writing that had left the indentations.

Henry Sheppard, CIA, 202-555-8978

But the lead from the pencil had revealed something else: a horizontal line crossing out the name and telephone number. Her heart beat into her throat. Was this a message for her? Was she supposed to contact Henry Sheppard? Or had Thomas crossed out the name and number because he’d changed his mind?

The longer Lilly thought about it, the less she understood. Had Thomas wanted to give her this message or not? She stood there for several minutes, contemplating what to do. But knowing that Thomas’s remains had been cremated without his family’s consent, she knew she had to make this call. Perhaps Henry Sheppard could shed light on what had happened to Thomas.

She dialed the number, and the call went straight to voicemail.

“You’ve reached Henry Sheppard. Please leave a message.”

“This is Lilly Davis. I’m Thomas Reed’s cousin. I need to talk to you about his death. Please call me. 202-555-6523.”

She disconnected the call and heard a sound at the door to the room. She turned her head and saw Deja Lashae standing in the doorframe.

“Yes?” Lilly asked.

“I heard your voice and thought you’d called me. Didn’t realize you were on the phone.” Deja’s gaze drifted past her to the closet. “You’re making good progress I see. The kitchen cabinets are all empty now.”

Lilly nodded, distracted. “Yeah, almost done here. Thanks.”

2

Jack Porter looked at his cell phone again to verify that he hadn’t made a mistake, but the address was correct. He stood in front of a large mansion in the outskirts of Washington D.C. The house was surrounded by a high wall on three sides, and a wrought iron fence on the side that faced the street. Lush vegetation dotted the large yard. He glanced at the sign affixed to the gate.

Sober Living Rehabilitation Center it said. No soliciting. Below it was an intercom system.

Jack instinctively touched the gun he wore in a holster under his jacket. If this was a trap, he’d be prepared. He pressed the button, and the intercom made a scratchy noise.

“Who are you here to see?” The voice was that of a woman.

“F—” He stopped himself just in time. The message to come to this address had presumably come from Fox, but he wasn’t going to disclose his fellow ex-Stargate agent’s code name. Instead he said, “Nick Young.”

“And your name is?”

“Jack Porter.”

Though Fox knew him under his code name, Yankee. They’d met only a week earlier, when Fox had reached out to other Stargate agents via the Dark Web. Jack had made contact with him, suspicious at first that the person who’d been hunting the former Stargate agents might have set a trap. But it had become evident very quickly that Fox was the real deal—a precognitive like Jack.