Laynie Portland Renegade Spy Read online

  Table of Contents

  Laynie Portland, Renegade Spy

  Part 1: Once a Spy

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Part 2: Once a Renegade

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Postscript

  Books by Vikki Kestell

  Nanostealth

  A Prairie Heritage

  Girls from the Mountain

  About the Author

  Laynie Portland,

  Renegade Spy

  ©2019 Vikki Kestell

  All Rights Reserved

  Faith-Filled Fiction™

  http://www.faith-filledfiction.com/

  http://www.vikkikestell.com/

  Laynie Portland,

  Renegade Spy

  by Vikki Kestell

  Available in Print and eBook Format

  Once a spy, always a spy.

  And once a renegade . . .

  DIRECTOR WOLFE BRINGS Laynie “in from the cold” to a place of relative safety. However, she will remain free only if she meets Wolfe’s three conditions. She must accept the new identity he gives her, and she must meet with an agency “shrink” to address the emotional damage caused by her years undercover. This counselor, handpicked by Wolfe, will evaluate Laynie and determine if she is fit to participate in his secret task force. Moreover, Laynie must remain in Wolfe’s witness protection program. The program will hide Laynie from those who are hunting her, but it will also greatly curtail her freedom.

  Nothing goes as Laynie hopes. The rules grind and grate on her. They shackle her choices and constrict her movements. She feels controlled and manipulated. Her clashes with bureaucratic culture only serve to tighten the restrictions and send her spiraling downward, out of control.

  Meanwhile, in the background, dark forces are at work, forces that compel Laynie to disobey directives in order to save a life. Rather than proving her value to Wolfe’s satisfaction, Laynie’s risky exploit marks her as a faithless renegade, a rebel whose insubordination may earn her harsh, ruinous consequences.

  Laynie must fight to earn her place on the task force—even as unfolding events expose a looming danger. Wolfe’s task force has a leak . . . one that threatens them all.

  Laynie Portland

  THEY RECRUITED AND trained her for their purposes. She turned out better than they expected.

  Book 1: Laynie Portland, Spy Rising—The Prequel

  Book 2: Laynie Portland, Retired Spy

  Book 3: Laynie Portland, Renegade Spy

  Book 4: Laynie Portland, Spy Resurrected

  Acknowledgements

  All my thanks and appreciation

  to my esteemed teammates,

  Cheryl Adkins and Greg McCann.

  Here’s to our gestalt!

  Special thanks to

  Lora Doncea for her

  invaluable advice and wisdom

  regarding the ever-changing

  rules of the game.

  Special thanks again to

  Jim Rutske

  for lending his friendship

  and firearms expertise

  to my storyline.

  Cover Design

  Vikki Kestell

  Scripture Quotations

  THE HOLY BIBLE,

  NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV®

  Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.®

  Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  It Is Well with My Soul

  Lyrics, Horatio G. Spafford, 1873

  Music, Philip Bliss, 1876

  Public Domain

  To My Readers

  This book is a work of fiction,

  what I term Faith-Filled Fiction™.

  While the characters and events are fiction,

  they are situated within the historical record.

  To God be the glory.

  Part 1:

  Once a Spy

  Chapter 1

  October 2001

  LAYNIE LEANED HER HEAD against the plane’s window and stared out into the night, seeing nothing except the blinking navigation lights on the wings of the jet. Her thoughts returned to the events of the past several hours and sifted through them again.

  When Director Wolfe had called an end to the short visit with her family, Tobin had escorted her to one of Wolfe’s two waiting vehicles and climbed in beside her. Their driver and the agent in the front passenger seat said nothing. Their vehicle simply trailed the other Suburban away from Kari’s home and retraced the route back to Lincoln. When they arrived at the airport, the two vehicles followed a winding route through airport property, away from the commercial runways to a private airstrip. They boarded a waiting Gulfstream business jet—first the enigmatic Jack Wolfe, his four men, then Laynie—with Tobin at the tail end of the parade.

  Tobin steered Laynie into a vacant seat at the front of the plane and settled into the rear-facing seat opposite her. However, as soon as the jet taxied, took off, and reached its cruising altitude, one of Wolfe’s men motioned Tobin into the aisle.

  The man carried a camera bag, a folded tripod, and a collapsible screen. He pulled a brush and a mirror from the bag and handed them to Laynie.

  “Arrange your hair, if you would, please. Something professional.”

  Laynie glanced in the mirror. Her cheekbones seemed more pronounced than normal, her eyes tired and hollowed.

  Guess I’ve lost some weight.

  She ran the brush through her blonde hair, gathered its length, wound it into a chignon at the base of her neck and tucked in the ends. The camera guy asked Laynie to scoot forward in her seat. He opened the screen’s stand, set the stand behind her seat, and pulled down a pale blue backdrop that hung between her and her seatback.

  The agent then sat in the seat opposite Laynie, mounted his camera on its tripod and snapped away. After he’d taken about ten shots, he retracted the blue backdrop and pulled down an off-white one. He snapped ten more shots, then disassembled his equipment, packed it up, nodded, and returned to the back of the plane.

  Laynie saw that Tobin was no longer standing in the aisle. During the photo shoot, a signal from behind Laynie had called Tobin to the back of the plane, leaving her alone at the front. That was fine with her. She wanted and needed to be left alone with her thoughts. She switched off the lights over her seat, and leaned her face on the window glass. Gazed into the darkness.

  From the moment Tobin had shepherded her out of Kari’s house into the waiting Suburban, Laynie hadn’t spoken a word. She had spent the time on the road in brooding reverie. In the air, she had relived the brief hours she’d spent with her family, desperate to commit to memory each word, gesture, and embrace. She clung to those memories and held them tight, convinced this encounter with them would be the last she would ever have.

  I must carve these sweet memories into my soul. They will sustain me through what is ahead.

  Underlying her deliberations, a creeping, slithering whisper questioned whether the reunion had actually taken place. Had it been real? Ha
d she knelt and laid her head on her mother’s knees? Had Mama and Dad spoken to her, embraced her, and forgiven her for seven long years of silence?

  Or had her starved, emaciated heart only imagined it?

  Laynie forced herself to acknowledge that the wall of inner strength on which she’d leaned for so many years was crumbling—and she no longer had the will to shore it up. Would it fail her altogether? What would happen if she just “let go,” ceased struggling, and let the façade fall?

  She was so weary of the fight.

  I’m in trouble, close to a full-on meltdown.

  The lurking despondency drove her back to the memories of that precious respite within the walls of Kari’s home, a single hour when she had honestly felt safe and whole.

  Mama. Dad. Kari. Shannon. Robbie. Will we meet again?

  Kari seemed to believe they would. What was the last thing she had said?

  “The Lord be with you, Laynie. We’ll see each other again. Until then? Wherever you go, little sister, our hearts . . . our hearts will always be safest in him.”

  In him.

  Kari had meant, “in Jesus.”

  How had she answered Kari? “I’m not quite ready to, you know, take those steps to become a Christian, but it’s not for lack of God’s intervention in my life.”

  And Kari had replied, “Acknowledging his hand on your life is a big step in the right direction. You’ll get there. I know you will . . . but please, Laynie—no one can count on tomorrow. Don’t wait too long to give yourself to the Savior, to wholly surrender to the Lordship of Christ. He loves you so!”

  But why would you hide me from Zakhar, intervene and save me from many perils, bring me back to those I love—only to rip me away from them in the next moment?

  It struck Laynie that she was talking to him. To Jesus.

  No. More like she was talking at him.

  You love me? I find that difficult to believe. It was hard to swallow even as a child. And if you do love me, then why did you help me escape from Petroff? And why am I headed away from my family instead of remaining with them? What was the point? What purpose does it serve for me to go on working for Marstead—or whatever organizational designation they’ll slap on me? To what end?

  Tobin returned to his seat, a thick folder tucked under his arm. Laynie ignored him, kept her face planted on the window. He opened the folder and began to read.

  Despite the recent softening of her heart, she found a tiny bubble swelling within her. She studied it with cool detachment. The bubble expanded. It filled with resentment. And she did nothing to staunch its growth.

  Laynie heard the whine of the jet’s landing gear coming down. What time is it?

  It had been around 11:00 p.m. when the two Suburbans arrived at the Lincoln airport. They had boarded Director Wolfe’s jet and taken off shortly after. Now, less than three hours of flight later, they were preparing to land. During that time, Laynie had pulled in on herself, had sunk under the weight of her own thoughts and disappointment.

  When the aircraft came to a standstill, the copilot emerged from the cockpit to unlock and release the hatch. The door opened out and down, converting to a short run of steps leading to the tarmac. Wolfe and his men, without a word or glance, filed past Laynie and deplaned. Tobin waited for Laynie to leave her seat and move toward the exit before falling in behind her. Laynie paused in the cabin doorway. A chilly breeze stroked her face as she scanned their surroundings.

  They’d landed, Laynie presumed, somewhere inland of the East Coast, an hour ahead of Nebraska’s central time zone, perhaps 3:00 or 3:30 a.m.? Hours before sunrise. The landing field’s lights illuminated a small airport, but she could see nothing beyond what the lights disclosed nor did she spy signage that told her where they were.

  Two black Suburbans—twins of the vehicles they’d left in Nebraska—rolled across the tarmac and pulled close to their plane. Wolfe and his four men climbed into the first of the vehicles and immediately drove away. The driver of the second vehicle rolled down his window and waved Tobin and Laynie over.

  “That’s our ride,” Tobin murmured when Laynie hesitated.

  Without acknowledging him, she descended the stairs and headed toward the car. Tobin reached for the door before she could and opened it.

  “Still with the Southern good ol’ boy manners?” Laynie muttered, sliding in toward the opposite door.

  He scooted onto the back seat beside her. “Somethin’ like that.”

  The driver put the car into motion.

  Laynie, loath to start a conversation but concerned about their destination, asked, “Where’s he taking us?” Taking me, she added silently.

  “A secure location to start with. Until we’ve nailed down a few things.”

  “We? You’re one of them now?”

  Tobin sighed and looked down on his meaty hands. “You noticed Wolfe wave me to the rear of the plane after we left Lincoln, right? He—well, mostly his aide—spent the better part of an hour briefing me.”

  “What’s in the folder?”

  “Background reading. Initial instructions. We’ll get into the details later, at the safe house.” He paused, mulling over his next words.

  The countryside along their route was cloaked in night shadows, a rolling, wooded landscape with a glimpse here and there of a darkened house tucked into the trees. Laynie studied the landscape, searching for clues as to their whereabouts, waiting for Tobin to continue. Except he didn’t.

  “Aaand?” Laynie disliked having to pump him for information where it concerned her. Her peevish, one-word kick-in-the-side restarted him.

  “And I’ll be your handler for the foreseeable future.”

  “But you’re not . . . us. You’re a marshal.”

  “Yeah, well, apparently my superiors in the Marshals Service have sold me to Jack Wolfe, lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “Can they do that without your permission? And why would they do that?”

  “Why? Because I have a ‘preexisting rapport’ with you—and they think you’re pretty important.”

  That bubble of resentment in Laynie’s gut awoke. Burbled. Exhaled. Enlarged. “They appointed you my ball and chain and so you’re putting the blame on me?”

  Tobin shook his head. “You’re reading me all wrong, Marta. I said or implied no such thing.”

  “My name isn’t Marta,” she snarled.

  Tobin’s temper flared back. “Looky here, missy—I didn’t ask for this post any more than you did. You should at least be civil while they uproot my entire life and derail my career just so you have someone you know at your side.”

  “Oh, I should be civil, should I? While they ‘uproot your entire life and derail’ your poor, itty-boo ‘career’? They put a freaking hit on me, Tobin. Made me scramble, claw, hide, lie, cheat, steal, and crawl on my belly just to stay alive—and you’re concerned about your career?”

  Tobin’s jaw flexed, but his mild hazel eyes flicked toward the driver. “Save it,” he whispered, “until we can talk in private.”

  “Fine.” Laynie sat back and stared out the window.

  On the other side of the car, Tobin mused softly, “Did we just have our first fight?”

  Laynie huffed and turned her face away.

  FOLLOWING A FORTY-MINUTE drive wending deeper into hilly, treed countryside, the driver pulled over on the shoulder at a rutted, seemingly disused road enclosed on both sides by thick brush. A rusted gate blocked the road. An equally rusted sign hung on the gate.

  BROADSWORD ACRES

  NO TRESPASSING

  The steel post on which the gate locked had a hollow space near its top. The driver reached a hand into the hollow. It looked to Laynie, who was watching carefully, like he may have fingered something . . . maybe keyed in a passcode? A moment later, the gate released.

  Huh. Things are not as derelict as they appear.

  The driver tugged on the gate, opening the road for them to drive through. He got behind the wheel, motored through
the opening, put the car in park, got out again, and closed the gate behind them. He got back in and drove on, the rutted road gaining elevation as it wound ahead.

  Morning was closer now. Laynie leaned on her door, her eyes busy. She searched for cameras watching the road and spotted three of them—although she may have missed some. Around a mile from the turnoff, the road canted abruptly to the right. Almost immediately, they encountered a tall iron gate, a guard shack, and a pair of armed guards who were, clearly, expecting them.

  Key pad plus cameras equals advance notice.

  Tobin and the driver rolled down their windows and a guard, with one hand on the butt of his holstered sidearm, pointed a flashlight into the vehicle, while the other guard, his service weapon drawn and held at the ready, stood back and monitored the situation.

  “Clear,” the first guard said.

  The second guard holstered his weapon, stepped into the guard shack, pressed a button, and the gate rolled aside. The Suburban wound up the road as it twisted and turned, until they reached a wide clearing on the hillside. The major feature in the center of the clearing was a rustic, two-story cabin of indeterminate size and age. An elderly suited man awaited them on the cabin’s covered porch.

  Tobin went around to Laynie’s door and extended a hand to help her out. She slapped his hand away and slid out without assistance.

  Shrugging, Tobin pointed. “After you.”

  The waiting gentleman, weathered and bent, smiled. His attire—a brilliantly white shirt worn under an impeccable suitcoat and tie—was as incongruous to the setting as was his formal greeting. “Good morning, miss. Good morning, sir. Welcome to Broadsword Acres. I’m Richard, the caretaker. Please come inside and make yourselves at home.”

  Home. Riiight, Laynie mocked silently. Her attitude was trending toward embittered fast.

  Richard led them through an entry to a living room entirely in keeping with the cabin’s rustic exterior. A rock fireplace and chimney separated the living room from a dining area. Opposite the fireplace, on the same side as the entrance, a large window looked out on the clearing and toward the rising sun.

  East. That way.