Deliberate Harm Read online

  Deliberate Harm

  Copyright © 2015 by J.R. Wolfe. All rights reserved.

  First Smashwords Edition: July 2015

  Edited by Michelle Aguilar, Sandra Gerth & Nikki Busch

  Cover Design by Streetlight Graphics

  All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Deliberate Harm

  by J.R. Wolfe

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  About J.R. Wolfe

  Other Books from Ylva Publishing

  Coming from Ylva Publishing

  To Deb, my soulmate.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To the best and most supportive editing team an author could dream of having, Nikki, Sandra, and Michelle.

  Also, a big shout-out to my mom, who has supported me even when I struggled. Also, many thanks to Patty, my sister-in-law, who encouraged me to keep writing.

  CHAPTER 1

  Was this how Imma had felt before she died—helpless and afraid? Portia Marks scolded herself for allowing her thoughts to wander into the past. She needed to concentrate on the present and join the crowd of people hurrying toward the hotel exit. She began to run, but her legs were wobbly, as if made of bendable rubber rather than solid bone. Worse, an all-too-familiar pounding in her right ear, caused by the blare of a fire alarm, made her feel disoriented. She pressed her hand against her bad ear, but the pounding was stubbornly relentless.

  The lobby’s red carpet and white plastered ceiling, with its ornate gold trim, somehow melded together into a slowly spinning tunnel. Only the Roman columns stood upright, not defying gravity.

  Someone tapped her shoulder from behind.

  “IIIIIIIIII…heeee,” a man said.

  Who was he? She hoped he was a doctor who could help her regain a sense of balance. She painstakingly turned around to face him, trying to keep her dizziness somewhat in check. Her eyesight, nonetheless, betrayed her. The man appeared as a giant who oscillated in and out of focus; even so, she could make out a few features that stood out.

  He had a muscular build that only came from hours in the gym, and at six foot two, he towered over her five-foot-eight frame. Smartly dressed, he wore a round-collar dress shirt, sports jacket, and pressed trousers. His shoes, though, were a black blur. The shape of his face defied her, but his handsome cleft chin stood out with utter clarity. She only knew one person who had that chin.

  “Thank God it’s you, Altan,” she said. “I’m dizzy. Can you get me out of here?”

  “Donttttt…wo…yyyy. I’ll…hhhhhhhhlp yyyyyouuu.”

  “Speak slower. I can’t understand you. My ear is acting up.”

  Altan opened his mouth to respond, but the whirring screech of the fire alarm ended as quickly as it had started. A welcome silence reigned.

  Portia inhaled with great effort, as though the air were razor thin. She shut her eyes, trying to will away the vertigo that had upended her. Just breathe, she told herself, just breathe. After several seconds, the hammering in her ear subsided to a tolerable ache. She lowered her hand and looked around.

  Altan stood perfectly still and was now visible in twenty-twenty focus. The hotel lobby was stationary, no longer swaying back and forth like a tugboat on high waves. The throng of previously anxious guests now walked calmly and chatted among themselves. Some even started to laugh, in what was surely a release of stress.

  “Everything’s all right, Portia,” Altan said. “There’s no fire. It was a false alarm that sounded in one of the hotel’s restaurants. When are you having surgery on your eardrum?”

  “Next week,” she said. “In the meantime, I’m supposed to avoid loud noises. I should’ve brought my earplug with me, but who knew a fire alarm would go off during our fundraiser?” Now that she felt almost herself again and the scare was over, she could redirect her thoughts to what mattered—the lackluster turnout at this event to raise money for the Zimbabwe International Relief Program. “When Ben asked me to be one of the speakers, he said they had sent out over two hundred invitations, but the audience was rather small.”

  He nodded. “Only seventy-five people.”

  “That’s disappointing.” Her voice, normally of powerhouse volume, was faint. She pretended to look around, but she was really trying to hide the unhappiness that misted her eyes.

  “You’re looking pale.” His high forehead creased. “Do you want to sit down?”

  “That’s a good idea, but let’s go someplace else.”

  “Where?”

  “How about a nearby bar? I could use a drink.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe we should do coffee.”

  “Maybe, but let’s not. This fundraiser has made for a difficult night. I’d like to relax. Come on. One drink is no big deal.”

  Altan watched her closely. “All right,” he finally said. “My favorite bar is just down the street on Michigan Avenue, not far from here.”

  “Is it quiet?”

  “Yes, and it has the best cosmopolitans in Chicago.”

  “Perfect. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Altan was essentially right. His drinking hole of choice, which was darkly illuminated with 1920s-style lighting, was for the most part quiet. Four young bruisers, out for the time of their lives, belly-hugged the bar and slugged down beers as if they were in a drinking contest. At a small table for two, a balding man in his fifties talked rapidly to an attractive red-haired woman who was ten years his junior. Like a teenager on a first date, he stared intently into her eyes, which were emphasized by generous strokes of black eyeliner.

  Portia cozied herself into a booth that had a window overlooking Michigan Avenue. The heavy rain, which had poured down on the city as if from buckets, had stopped. A trickle of pedestrians, all clothed in winter jackets and hats, chose to combat a frosty wind that whipped the street with unbridled power. The only brightness to the late evening were green and red Christmas lights that hung from the buildings across the street.r />
  Altan sat across the table from her and leaned forward. “How’s your cosmopolitan?” he asked.

  “It’s excellent.” His worried stare troubled her.

  “How’s the ear feeling?”

  “As long as there’s no fire alarm, it’s fine.”

  “Good.”

  Altan drank his bourbon as if it were water. He set down the glass, the light in his amber eyes disturbingly dim.

  “Altan,” she said, “what else did Ben tell you about—?”

  “Those bastards hid the IEDs well,” he muttered. “All three bombs just blended into the damn Iraqi sand.”

  A bitter cold embraced her. Looking down, she bit her lower lip. She didn’t want to dig up the past. Yet, flashing before her was a very real nightmare—the lifeless bodies of army soldiers, one with his legs blown off, and the motorcade’s lead vehicle consumed in yellow and red flames, as though it were a log in a fireplace. She twirled her shoulder-length brunette hair in her fingers. “Our mission that day was a simple escort of the lieutenant general and Iraqi officials,” she said. “One bad—”

  “Stop blaming yourself.” Altan’s voice was stern. “Nothing was ever simple in Iraq. Nothing.”

  “That’s true.” Portia drank her cosmopolitan. How much better if it were straight vodka, she thought.

  “That was over two years ago,” he said. “Did the IED explosion cause your ear disorder?”

  “My doctor doesn’t think so, but he can’t say with certainty.”

  “What does he think is wrong with your ear?”

  “I’ve been diagnosed with Ménière’s syndrome.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “It involves an excess of fluid in the inner ear. I’ve tried various medications, but nothing has really worked. My doctor thinks surgery can decrease the fluid and promote more drainage.” She sipped her cosmo. “I’ll be good as new after it’s over.”

  “Once you get the operation behind you, you can return to work and get on with your life.”

  “Maybe, but I’m not sure I want to work for the security and protection company anymore.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Altan’s eyes widened. “You’ve always loved doing protection work. This private company was perfect for you. You traveled and worked big events.”

  “Things change.”

  “Come on, Portia. This is old Altan you’re speaking to. Once you start working again, you won’t have—”

  “Time to think about Imma?” She glanced at her left hand. She still wore the canary gold engagement ring engraved with interlocking hearts that Imma had given her the night they confessed their deep love for each other and decided to marry. “That’s impossible, don’t you think?”

  Altan straightened his posture until he appeared as stiff as a cement column. “A normal routine will keep you busy.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “Imma was a wonderful combat doctor. She saved…well, she saved those of us she could.”

  “I know.”

  He leaned forward. “Okay, I know you know, but she’s not with us anymore. Let her go. Move on with your life.”

  “You’re right. I just need more time.” Portia crossed her legs. She wasn’t in the mood for a quarrel, particularly a senseless one. She had already made up her mind to pursue a different line of work. Protective services wasn’t her calling anymore. Besides, the job reminded her too much of her former life with Imma, and that caused an unbearable ache that afflicted her entire body. “What did you think about my speech tonight?” She hoped he’d take the bait to switch the topic. “I’ve given it so many times that I’m afraid it’s boring.”

  “What?” Altan’s voice rang with shock. “Your speech was wonderful and touching. You’re one of the main reasons ZIRP has been able to raise any money this year.”

  “Maybe.” She pretended to savor her drink, unsure of how to say what was really on her mind—Ben was a disappointing failure. Yet, she couldn’t put it like that, since Altan had recommended him for ZIRP’s highest position. She’d need to use tact, which wasn’t her best attribute. “I don’t feel good about the job Ben’s been doing as the executive director.”

  “So you heard,” he said.

  Good. He didn’t seem offended. “Heard what?”

  “It sounds like ZIRP won’t be around much longer given the downturn in the economy. Donors aren’t giving like they once did. Tonight’s poor showing is proof.”

  Altan’s bad news splashed over Portia like ice water. The sad chill, however, was quickly replaced by the image of a young boy, no older than twelve, being treated by Imma in a medical clinic in Zimbabwe for injuries he’d suffered in a vehicle accident. He sat on the edge of a table wearing only soiled shorts. He stared at Imma with quarter-size black eyes. She wiped his brow and half-smiled. “You’ll be fine, little man,” she’d told him with the voice of an angel.

  What had happened to that boy? Portia couldn’t remember. She took a deep breath, wishing she knew how to save ZIRP. Sadly, her mind became an uncomfortable blank, but one she was accustomed to experiencing. She drank her cosmopolitan. What else could she do?

  “Are you all right?” Altan slipped his hand through his thick brown hair. “I wish I hadn’t told you about this.”

  “I’m glad you did,” Portia said, not sure if she meant it. “ZIRP has been around for years. The number of Zimbabweans ZIRP has fed and provided medical care for is countless.”

  “Unfortunately, this global depression has hit everybody’s pocketbook, including those rich and faithful to the Zimbabwe cause.”

  “I understand.”

  He nodded but remained silent. Finally, he said, “You should talk to Ben about what’s happening at ZIRP.”

  “I will,” she said.

  “He needs all the help he can get to keep the organization alive.”

  “Nothing lasts forever. Not a damn thing.” She pictured Imma’s silky short hair, black as the night sky. She remembered how Imma stared at her with that sad smile. She guzzled the last ounces of her drink and then grabbed her wool coat from the bench seat and stood.

  “Where are you going?” Altan asked.

  “Home.” Portia’s throat was suddenly parched for stronger liquor. She had a bottle of aged Russian vodka in her apartment’s kitchen cabinet calling her name. “It’s been a long evening, and I’m exhausted.”

  “Do you remember what you said in your speech tonight?”

  “I said a lot of things.”

  “You said you became a ZIRP volunteer to honor Lieutenant General Carlson.”

  “Volunteering was the least I could do. He was a wonderful man, who was passionate about helping his parents’ home country.” Portia sighed. “My decision that day in Iraq cost him his life.”

  Altan rolled his eyes. “You also said that the Zimbabwe economy was in such distress for five years that it experienced hyperinflation. During that time, a loaf of bread—”

  “Could cost in the millions in Zimbabwean dollars. The government blamed US sanctions for its economic problems, but regardless, the people suffered, and they still suffer. Assistance from organizations like ZIRP is vital.” She spoke rapidly, and her normally strong, even-keeled voice jumped an octave too high. “Why are you repeating my speech to me? Don’t you think I know it?”

  “Of course you know it, but you’re not taking it to heart.”

  That remark punched her in the gut. “That’s not true.”

  He lowered his head, as if he knew he’d gone too far. “You’re right. I apologize.” His voice was kind, even gentle. “What I’m trying to say is that the people of Zimbabwe need you more than ever. They need you in a leadership role with ZIRP, not just in a public relations role. If you’re not returning to a career in protective services, which I hope you reconsider, you’ll need to do something else. Why not—”

  “I have been doing something.”

  He lifted her empty glass. “I’m not referring to this.”


  Portia toyed with the lapel of her wool coat. If only he didn’t know her so well. “I don’t want ZIRP to fail,” she said, “and you know that. It’s just been a long evening.”

  Altan stood and faced her, his jaw tightly clenched. “I know you don’t want ZIRP to go down,” he said. “I just care. Let me drive you home.”

  “Thank you.” Portia gently kissed his cheek. “But my apartment isn’t far from here, and I need the walk. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “No, of course not. You’ve always supported me, even when I may not have deserved it. I’ll always be grateful.”

  She turned and left before her dear friend could respond.

  * * *

  Portia’s journey to her apartment through the unkind cold of Chicago lasted only a few hard-fought blocks until she finally gave up. Hailing a taxicab was the warmest way to get home. Chicago was, in the end, not a city for wimps. She stood on a street corner with a handful of people who were all wrapped in layered garments and waiting for the crosswalk light to turn green. Unfortunately, no cabs were in sight.

  “Ms. Marks, your speech tonight was wonderful.” The male voice danced with the hint of a British accent. “It was informative and inspirational. In fact, before I left the hotel, I donated money to the ZIRP cause.”

  “Thank you,” Portia said, turning to face him. She wished his kind words made her feel better, but the news of ZIRP’s financial hardship had gripped her with sadness. “The charity could use every penny it can get.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Times are tough everywhere and will probably get worse, if the economists are right.”

  “Well, I hope they’re wrong.”

  A freezing wind powered through the night, slashing Portia’s cheeks with the sting of a metal blade. Without hesitation, she lifted the collar of her coat tightly around her neck and stared at the stranger.