ANOMALY.MIL (The Conspiracy Series Book One): A Romantic Suspence Novel Read online

  Titles by Samantha Saxon

  The Lady Spies Series

  NAPOLEON'S WOMAN

  ENGLAND'S ASSASSIN

  THE KING'S CODE

  Coming Soon

  THE REBEL’S ROGUE

  Coming Summer 2016

  The Conspiracy Series

  ANOMALY.MIL

  OUTLIER.GOV

  DESCENDANTS.COM

  Praise for Samantha Saxon

  “Saxon hooks you from the very first page and keeps you up all night with her thriller romance. A cleverly executed plot, three dimensional characters, a sizzling romance and a mystery that has you guessing to the bitter end.” —Romantic Times Review

  “This action-packed story line grips the audience . . . Samantha Saxon serves up a stupendous Regency romance.” —The Best Reviews

  “Dynamic historical suspense that will keep you on the edge of your seat from the first page . . . a must-read.” —Romance Junkies

  ANOMALY.MIL

  (The Conspiracy Series Book One)

  Samantha Saxon

  Tartan Publishing LLC

  TARTAN PUBLISHING LLC

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2016 by Samantha Saxon

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected]

  ISBN: 97-80997194-86-9

  Editor: Ursula Wood

  Cover Design: Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  To my friends who assure me that I’m not crazy, because they are too. Love you all.

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  Table of Content

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Descendants.com Headquarters

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  January 13, 9:44 a.m.

  "We got one!"

  The man in the black suit jumped to his feet, then walked across the room to stare at the computer over the analyst's right shoulder. "Where?"

  "I'm working on it,” the programmer muttered, tension straightening his back as he fought the keyboard to extract the information they would need from their database. His dark eyes grew wide with concentration as he read from the high-definition monitor. "Washington State. A town called Woodinville. Her name is Mrs. Catherine Miller."

  The older man lifted his cell phone to his ear, and out of habit, hooked his thumb on the belt loop in front his holster.

  "I want the team ready to go in ten minutes," he ordered. "We're going to Seattle." The man hung up, his heart pounding with an unfamiliar urgency. He turned his gray eyes on the man sitting in front of the computer. "Is there anything else we can use?" he asked, praying that there was.

  The internet resisted, but the kid was persistent.

  "She's a thirty-two-year-old owner of a magazine called The Finer Things. According to her tax records, she works from home and didn't make much money last year. However, her husband did. His name is Dave Miller and he works for…" The tech tapped again, and colorful websites flashed by until he found the one he was looking for. "Microsoft. Nice," the kid added, impressed.

  "Focus, please," the older man growled as he leaned over the small table at the back. He was already stuffing his black leather briefcase full of the evidence he would need before clicking it shut. "Call our guy over at Google to get the woman's search history and all of her files stored on the cloud. Then call her cell phone company, which is…" He snapped his fingers at the young tech.

  "Uh, AT&T."

  "Do we have someone there?" He was pretty sure they did.

  "Oh, yeah." The tech nodded. "We have a guy that's been working with us for years."

  "Great, I want Catherine Miller's phone records. The recordings of her conversations, not a list of calls. Have them sent to my cell phone along with any photos or video she may have posted online," the man said, shrugging on his unfashionable jacket with his full cup of coffee left steaming on the table, long since forgotten. "It shouldn't take us more than two hours to get to Seattle. I want any additional information on Catherine Miller in my hands when we land."

  "Yes, sir."

  The man lifted up his briefcase, and had just reached the door when he heard—

  "Crap!" Followed by furious tapping away at the worn keys of the keyboard. "You better make it an hour and a half, sir."

  "Why?"

  "She has a brother." The kid looked concerned. "Ansel Babineaux, thirty years old."

  "And?" He walked back to the computer.

  The kid spun in his chair and looked him straight in the eyes. "He's Special Forces."

  "How do you know?" the older man asked, the pressure in the room ratcheting up a notch as they both considered the implications.

  "Because I can't find a thing on him after the age of twenty. And I mean zero." The kid shook his head, amazed. "Do you know how difficult that is in this day and age?"

  "Are you sure the guy's not just dead?" he asked, knowing that records got lost down the government’s bureaucratic rabbit hole
at an appalling rate.

  "Absolutely sure." The younger man nodded, his dark curls emphasizing his point. "There was no death certificate ever issued. No news reports of his death. No obituary. Nothing. This guy is a ghost. And to become a ghost, you need help."

  "From the military?" Or CIA. Either was bad for them. The man ran his hand through his salt and pepper hair. "And this is Catherine Miller's biological brother?"

  "Yep."

  "Which means he's a carrier too." It wasn't a question and the kid did not take it as one. "He'll put up a fight."

  "Yep."

  "How strong is the sister's positive?"

  The analyst spun back around then ran his finger down Catherine Miller's DNA test results. "Eighty-nine percent. Wow, that's the highest I've ever seen and men tend to run even higher. So, the brother will—"

  "Call Cody and apprise him of the situation," the older man interrupted, inhaling deeply as he thought. "Have him meet us at the airport," adding, "Do you have an address on this guy… Ansel did you say?"

  "No way, this guy is off, and I mean off the grid," the tech answered, wiping it away with his hand. "The military, and maybe his sister, are the only people who even know this man exists."

  "Well, it doesn't matter." The older man shrugged his broad shoulders. "As soon as the Pentagon finds out he's a carrier…they'll kill him. But for now, I need to get to Catherine Miller." He glanced at his watch. "Before they do."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Pike Place Towers

  Seattle, Washington

  January 13, 12:07 p.m.

  The phone rang, and Ansel picked it up on the second ring. It was probably someone calling about his next assignment. Shit. He sighed, because he did not think it would be this soon.

  "Babineaux."

  "What's up, little brother?” Fuck, he forgot. “Expecting someone else?"

  "Nope, just work stuff."

  He flopped down on his couch and swung his size thirteens onto the ottoman, knowing this was going to take a while. His sister was a talker.

  "Good, because you have a date tonight, and I already started working on dinner."

  He was sure that she had. Cat was one of those annoying morning people who did more before sunrise than you would all day.

  "I didn’t know this was a date." He placed his left hand on his bare belly, unconsciously rubbing his fingers over the thin line of hair that ran down the middle of it. "As a matter of fact, you specifically said this was not a date, and that you were just asking your photographer over as a thank you for helping you with your latest issue. Come to think of it, I wasn't even aware that your photographer was a woman."

  "Oh, shut up," his sister spat, and he could not help but smile. "You know damn well that I'm trying, in vain I might add, to set you up with a nice woman."

  "I don't need you to set me up, Cat."

  Especially with a nice woman.

  "Oh, are you serious? You're telling me that you're going to marry one of those bimbos you always seem to date?"

  "Who says I'm getting married?" Ansel glanced at the crumpled sheets on his bed from the woman who had left not more than thirty minutes ago. "Plus, I like bimbos."

  "You like sleeping with them, that's for sure."

  "True." He nodded as if she could see him.

  But what his sister didn't understand was that he needed sex, and a lot of it, to release some of the tension he built up when people tried to kill him. But how could Cat understand that, when she didn't even know what he did for a living, or that it was dangerous for him to have a relationship. Any relationship.

  Even with her.

  "Fine. If you come to dinner and keep an open mind about my friend…" She exhaled in a frustrated rush as if it were a huge concession. "I will stop lecturing you about your poor choice in women."

  "Are you making Mom's pot roast?"

  "Of course. Are you bringing some good red wine?"

  "Yep. I already bought it," he lied.

  "Sure you did," Cat laughed, knowing him better than anyone.

  Ansel knew he should limit his contact with sister. But after their parents died, he just wanted to be near family. He had taken this latest post specializing in Asian operations so he could be near her.

  Even if the weather sucked.

  "What are you up to today?" Ansel asked, steering the subject well away from his love life.

  "Other than making you dinner?" He knew she was smiling. "I'm drinking coffee and watching the clouds roll in."

  Growing up in Louisiana, Ansel never understood why people from Seattle drank so much coffee, and then he moved here. He supposed you could drink whiskey to warm yourself from the constant rain, but employers tended to frown upon it. So, he drank coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.

  "Sounds like a very productive day," he teased.

  "I thought so. And how is the martial arts…market?" she asked, unsure of what to call it.

  Ansel smiled, touched that she cared about his fictitious business. Catherine knew that he had been involved in martial arts since they were children, but his sister had no idea how deadly he had become. The lie helped to explain his frequent trips to Asia, and was a subject in which Cat was completely uninterested.

  "I got some great new kick boards from South Korea. They really reduce the damage to your joints, so I think they will sell really well in the juvenile mark—"

  "Oh, hang on. That's the doorbell." Ansel heard her running for the front door. "I've been waiting on some prints, and I don't want to miss the UPS guy. Can I call you back?"

  "Sure."

  "Oh God, it's not UPS. It's Mormons," she whispered. "Crap, they saw me. Oh well, let me get rid of them, and I'll call you right back. Bye, love you."

  "Love you t—" Click. He rolled his eyes. Cat was always a bit short on manners when it came to him.

  Ansel set his phone in the kitchen charger and strolled to his bedroom to strip the sheets off of his king size bed. He normally did not bring women to his home, but this “bimbo” was a regular. A carefree bleach blonde who was and open to everything, which is what they had done last night.

  Twice.

  He put the sheets on to wash, and then went to take a long shower. He thought about his upcoming mission to Southeast Asia, and mentally listed everything he would need to take with him. His washcloth glided over his left shoulder, and Ansel watched as soap suds collected on the raised ridges of a nasty scar.

  "I'm getting too old for this shit," he mumbled.

  The job used to be fun. Traveling the world, catching bad guys, sleeping with exotic women. But somewhere along the way he figured out that most of his assignments were bullshit, ordered by some Senate douchebag who had no idea that people died for the intelligence they demanded.

  Jaded. That's what he was. There was a reason Special Forces recruited twenty-year-olds. They’re young, idealistic, and have not been around long enough to see Congress act on things they shouldn't, and fail to act on things that they should.

  Right then and there, Ansel made a decision. He was getting out. He had plenty of friends in the security industry, and would have no problem getting a job anywhere he wanted. But where? He should just stay in Seattle. His sister was trying to have a kid, and the idea of being an uncle made him smile.

  He turned off the water and dried himself, wrapping the towel around his waist while he shaved. Dark whiskers showered the white sink. He washed them away before checking that the three gray hairs he had found the other day had not multiplied. Vain, he knew. But the gray hair just reminded him that he was not married, he had no kids, and with his newfound clarity, he would soon be unemployed.

  "What do you want to do with your life, asshole?" he asked, staring into the murky green windows to his soul, hoping to find an answer. He did not get one. "Well, fuck."

  Ansel threw his towel in the hamper with the force of his frustration, before walking naked into his bedroom. He slipped on some boxer briefs, and decided he had better call his
sister back. She had undoubtedly called while he was taking his existential journey, and would be irritated with him for not having answered.

  Yawning, he picked up the bedroom phone and walked into the kitchen to pour himself some coffee with the phone ringing in his left ear. The answering machine picked up, and he scoffed, annoyed.

  "Seriously, Cat. I was taking a shower. And now you're gonna get pissy, because I didn't answer the phone?" he asked, his tone light. "Call me back if you need me to pick up anything else for tonight. Otherwise, I’ll see you at seven with some 'good' red wine."

  Now he just had to figure out where to get it.

  Ansel took a large gulp of his black coffee, and was ashamed to admit that he could now tell good beans from bad. These were rich, smooth, and had the caffeine necessary to wake him up after the multiple exertions of last night.

  He smiled just thinking about it.

  He set the phone down on the white granite countertop. But when he went to pull his hand away, he paused. Ansel picked the phone back up, and pushed a few buttons to scroll down to his incoming calls.

  Cat had called at 12:07, but she had not called him back.

  "Weird," he mumbled, thinking.

  His sister was a firstborn and all that implies. She would have called back, even if to tell him she could not talk to him.

  Ansel called her house again, and got the machine. Again. He hung up and tried Cat's cell, thinking she might have run to the store to pick up some last-minute items for the dinner party. Voice mail. He was putting on his pants now, while calling Dave at Microsoft.

  "Hello." His brother-in-law sounded as pleasant as ever.

  "Hey. It's Ansel." His tone was light and friendly, so he wouldn't alarm Dave unnecessarily.

  "Hey, Ansel.” He could hear typing in the background. “What's goin' on?"

  "Uh, not much," he answered. "I was just trying to reach Cat about what type of wine to bring for dinner, and I can't seem to get a hold of her."