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Saving Eric (The Redeemed Side of Broken Series) (Volume 1)

By Joan Deneve

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Chapter 1

The morning sun piercing through cloud cover did little to lighten Eric Templeton’s mood. Only justice would. In his nine years as an agent, he had never failed to complete a mission—until now. Almost eight months to the day after he’d left, Eric approached CIA Headquarters with nothing but a fresh scar to show for his efforts. Unacceptable, especially for a Templeton. Today, he would face the traitor who’d orchestrated Stuart Harris’s death. And almost caused Eric the same fate.
Eric entered the atrium and checked the time on his phone while switching it to vibrate. The third degree from his father would have to wait. He lengthened his stride to bypass General Robert Templeton’s office, but a chance glimpse of the tiny woman hunched over her desk stopped him. Her hair was whiter, and her glasses bigger, but everything else remained the same. The engraved nameplate precisely positioned in front of her computer hadn’t moved in twenty years, and still read Mildred Ware. A spinster, married to her job. By all accounts a good marriage—a perfectionist, working for a man who demanded perfection.
He entered the outer office without making a sound. “How’s my favorite girl?”
“Eric!” The spry little woman sprang from her chair and raced around her desk. Too late to shield his injured shoulder from her embrace, Eric hid the wince with a chuckle. She was shorter than he remembered. He leaned closer and kissed the top of her head, being careful not to muss the hairstyle she’d worn since the day he’d met her.
“Your father said you’d be coming in this morning. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Not yet.”
She paused, and he explained. “Tell Dad I’ll stop by after the meeting with the director.”
That seemed to satisfy her, but then she reached to give his cheek a gentle pat. “We thought we’d lost you. It’s good to have you home.”
His mouth went dry. Kindness. The one thing that could make him crumble. He captured one of her hands and squeezed. “See you later.”
She returned to her desk as if she needed to regain her composure, and he turned back to the cold, gray hallway. The conference room, one of the few with no windows, loomed ahead on the right. Being the first to arrive might give him an edge.
Assistant Director Tom Reznik apparently had the same idea. Already seated at the oval table, he glanced up and muttered, “Eric.”
Every hair on the back of Eric’s neck stood at attention. He took the hot seat at the debriefing table and leveled his gaze at the man he held responsible for the bullet wound to his shoulder. “Sir.”
Reznik tapped the page within the folder in his hand. “Says here some self-appointed vigilante killed two cartel operatives four miles from where you were stationed. I don’t suppose you know anything about that?”
Eric didn’t blink or flinch, the same as when he opened fire on the pair of human traffickers. He’d led the terrified girls back to their home after cutting the ropes at their wrists. Not his mandate, but not something he regretted. He shrugged instead. “I read the same report you did.”
Reznik narrowed his gaze. “Right.” He shut the folder. “We’ll get to the bottom of it, as well as why your op failed.”
They wanted answers.
So did he.
Eric raised his chin a notch. “I don’t suppose you’d know anything about the ambush that killed my informant and blew my cover. Anything not mentioned in the report?”
The second hand on the clock behind them ticked like the dry-fire of a weapon. The widened pupils, flared nostrils, and tight lips—everything Reznik was too weak to hide—told Eric all he needed to know. The opening door broke the stand-off.
Director Harold McDowall assumed his place at the head of the table and folded his hands over his rotund stomach. He angled his chair toward Eric and gave one of his rare smiles. “Glad you made it in one piece. Already lost one of our best men down there. When you went dark, we thought we’d lost you too.” The director glanced at Reznik as if seeking confirmation. “Good thing we were wrong, eh Tom?”
The smile Reznik returned didn’t reach his eyes.
Pleasantries over, McDowall swiveled back and reached for the file lying closed in front of the assistant director. “Tell us what you’ve got.”
“Not much,” Eric said. “Stuart Harris was getting close when his cover was blown. After they killed him, Ramirez tightened security.”
McDowall opened the folder. The top photo of Stuart’s body reached out and kicked Eric square in the gut. But Templetons don’t back down or away so he leaned forward for a closer look.
The director flipped the photo and gave Eric the famous deadpan stare. “You were down there a long time.”
A statement, not a question.
“Yes, sir. Stuart discovered there are personnel in key countries accepting bribes. High-level connections with enough power to trump customs and security.”
The director’s steepled fingers tapped his mouth. “So if we can’t stop the cartel, we aim for the people on the take.”
“Exactly. I found an informant who knew Stuart. We struck a deal. Names of contacts in exchange for asylum in the States.”
“Go on.”
Eric eyed Reznik before he answered. “The meeting was sabotaged. Guerrillas opened up.”
“The informant?”
“Killed before I could reach him.”
Tom Reznik spoke for the first time since the meeting began. “You went off radar for two months. What were you doing?”
Need-to-know. Getting Diego’s family out of the country wasn’t information either of them needed. “I was shot during the ambush. A bartender dug the bullet out. I was laid up for a while. Did some snooping. Tried to track down answers about Stuart’s death. Figured I owed him that.”
“Find anything?”
Nothing he wanted Reznik to know right now. Eric kept his expression neutral and shook his head. “Dead ends.”
Questions hovered in the air. Eric waited.
With a long exhale, McDowall closed the folder and pushed back from the table. He stood, signaling the end of the meeting. “I fly to Belgium this afternoon. I’ll look over the report, and we’ll talk more when I get back.”
Eric nodded and once again made eye contact with Reznik before following the director out of the room. Not the kind of guy he wanted to turn his back on.
***
Miss Mildred kept her fingers poised on the keyboard when he entered his father’s office suite again. “That was fast.” She smiled and nodded toward the closed door. “Go on in. The general’s expecting you.”
He’s expecting him all right. The debriefing was a cakewalk compared with what lay ahead. Templetons don’t fail.
His dad rose and met Eric halfway with a handshake and a surprisingly genuine smile. “Hello, Son.”
“Good to see you, Dad.” He meant it, but it’d be even better after they got the lecture behind them.
“Sit down.” His dad gestured to the brown leather chair. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Sure.” Eric fought the shock at seeing how much his dad had aged. Could eight months have made that big of a difference? His dad pressed the intercom button. Eric used the time to check out the room. Nothing had changed in this Spartan, well-organized space that smelled of wood, leather, and old books.
“So, you’re finally home.”
“Yes.” His dad would have to work for it.
“Took you longer this time. We expected you back months ago.”
“It was a tough go for a while.”
“I heard.” The smile, genuine or not, disappeared.
Eric shifted in his seat and glanced at the standard regulation clock. Its ticking hammered into the silence. His dad stood and looked out the window, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Two months off grid.” His father’s profile silhouetted against the window emphasized the uncharacteristic stoop of his shoulders. Eric dismissed the crazy urge to walk around the desk and hug the man who had always been like a rock to him.
“Son?”
Eric straightened as if he’d been caught sleeping in class. “Sir?”
“I asked what you were doing all that time.”
Miss Mildred bustled into the room. Perfect timing. She handed him a cup with creamy brown liquid. Templetons drink their coffee black, and he’d been prepared to in front of his father. She gave him a knowing smirk before she left the room, and he took a quick sip to hide his own.
His father, now back in his seat, had the “I’m waiting” look.
“Guerillas ambushed the meeting. Took out my source.” He should stop there. “I took a bullet to the shoulder.”
Eric recognized the scowl. Had seen it many times. Disappointment.
“Sounds to me like you’re losing your touch.”
Losing his touch? The vein protruding on his dad’s forehead warned Eric to let it go. But he couldn’t—not this time. He placed the cup on the table beside him with a thump and met his father’s glare head on. “I was set up.”
“Set up? No, son. You’ve gotten cocky.” He leaned forward, his face red. “And you’re going to get yourself killed.”
“Like Stuart?”
His dad stiffened. “What do you mean?”
Eric ignored the voice screaming for him to shut up. “Stuart was on to something that got him killed.”
His dad jeered with the supreme look Eric hated. “So that’s why you volunteered for this assignment. Now you listen to me. Stuart Harris was a paranoid renegade.” He pointed his finger, each jab emphasizing his words. “You do the job you’re sent to do and quit snooping into things that don’t concern you. Keep your nose clean and your mouth shut. You hear me?”
Loud and clear. Eric regretted his words the instant he’d spoken. Why put his father’s career and maybe even his life in jeopardy over something he couldn’t prove? Yet. “Yes, sir.”
His father stood. “Good.”
That was it? Hardly a warm-up to the “You’re a Templeton” speech, but no need to push his luck. Eric stood too. His dad ushered him to the door, and with a wave to Miss Mildred, Eric left the office to face the third and most difficult challenge of the day.
He took the stairs to the fourth floor and transitioned to the Old Headquarters Building. His personal mandate drove him through a maze of hallways and back down some stairs to the main lobby.
A pedestal with a glass-encased Book of Honor stood like a sentinel in front of a stark white wall spangled with stars. Black stars, lined up like the crosses at Arlington. The caption above them read, “In honor of those members of the Central Intelligence Agency who gave their lives in service of their country.”
He tried to swallow the lump in his throat as he moved around the pedestal and touched the last star. Stuart’s star, newer and blacker than the rest. Anger and guilt welled up, smothering his grief. He whispered, his voice a quiet eulogy. “Reznik’s going down, Stu. I swear, I’ll stop him. No more good men—”
Muffled sounds from the corridor interrupted his oath. He backed away from the wall, turned and left the building.

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