Breaking the Honor Code

Inc.

…the mechanic shook out a rag

and laid it on the floor. Then, like a mother laying a baby in its crib, he gently placed a part from the engine on it. Finally, he straightened and started around the other side of the lift. As he took off the ball cap, a black ponytail fell over one shoulder. Replacing the cap with the bill facing forward, the mechanic turned and unzipped the grease-stained coveralls.

Hi. Sloan offered a smile. I hope you can help me. I’m looking for— The words stuck in his throat as he stared.

The mechanic wasn’t a man. He—no, she was Allison Richards. And she was safe.

The look on her face mirrored his own shock. He hadn’t expected to find her so quickly, and certainly not fixing engines in a garage.

That wasn’t his only surprise. Instead of the oversized white lab coat that was her uniform at Northstar’s lab, she wore faded denim coveralls that hung baggily off her shoulders. But it was what was under the unzipped coveralls that showed off attributes he hadn’t realized she owned.

Kudos for Stanalei Fletcher

2011 Absolutely Write First Page—1st Place

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2011 Utah RWA Great Beginnings—Finalist

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2006 Silicon Valley GOTCHA—Finalist

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2005 URWA Heart of the West Golden Pen—1st Place

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On PROVING GROUND—Finalist

2016 Heart of Excellence Reader’s Choice Award

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On DEAD RECKONING—Finalist

2016 National Excellence in Romance Fiction Award

Breaking the Honor Code

by

Stanalei Fletcher

Northstar Security Series

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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.

Breaking the Honor Code

COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Kim Finnegan

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by Diana Carlile

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Crimson Rose Edition, 2017

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1466-2

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1467-9

Northstar Security Series

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

My dream of becoming a published author wouldn’t be possible without the support of a very special group of writers who, over the last thirteen years, have shaped and inspired my dreams. Thank you to the past and present members of Utah Romance Writers of America Chapter for being a beacon in a storm of change.

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Acknowledgments:

A special thanks to ELF for her dedication and commitment to the Northstar Security Series. As always, thanks to my critique partners; Steve, Tracie, Kent, Lyn, and Mary for their time and input. Thank you to Michael who took time to review the pages on the computer stuff. Any missteps and mistakes are mine alone. Lastly, thanks to my wonderful readers who have championed this series and made it a greater success than I could have imagined.

…dishonor is like a scar on a tree, which time, instead of effacing, only helps to enlarge.

~Bushido

The Warrior’s Code, Inazo Nitobe

Chapter One

Sloan Cartland narrowed his eyes against the headlights’ glare that knifed through the bitter night. He tugged his overcoat closed against Washington, D.C.’s January weather. Snow blew down his neck and wet slush seeped into his expensive leather shoes as he trudged toward the car pulling to the side of the road.

Bundled in an overcoat, the figure climbing out of the specially equipped SUV could have been anyone. Except Sloan wasn’t expecting just anyone. About time you showed up.

Hey, I left a willing wife in a warm bed for this babysitting job, Riley O’Neal said as he slammed the door. Let’s just make sure Coles is okay so I can get back to—

Sloan raised a hand. Spare me the details.

Riley laughed and turned up his collar to cover his neck. You’re kidding me, right? Today’s your birthday. You must’ve had a celebration lined up.

Not your business. Laurel, his dinner date, had been royally pissed when Sloan left her at the restaurant. Hell, he was mad too, but he wasn’t about to share that with Riley. I don’t kiss and tell—like some people.

Cut the chatter. The tinny, authoritative voice of Byron O’Neal crackled through Sloan’s micro earpiece. You two can swap trading cards later. Go check on Coles and then get back here. ASAP.

Roger, that. Sloan stomped his feet to keep the blood circulating. He caught Riley’s shrug as if to say, ‘What can I do? He’s not only the boss, he’s my old man.’

Don’t forget I sign the paychecks too.

Riley rolled his eyes and waggled a gloved finger at his earpiece to prove his point.

Sloan stifled a laugh. No one had a sixth sense like the founder and director of Northstar Security Firm.

Moving to the house now. Riley’s tone was all business.

Sloan followed Riley as they zigzagged across the unplowed street, avoiding slushy mounds.

When they reached the sidewalk to Orin Coles’ house, Riley paused and pointed down. Footprints. He bent to examine the tracks leading to the front door. A dusting of snow indicated they hadn’t been there long. Hard to tell if they’re coming or going.

Sloan studied the cars along the street. Each had an accumulation of snow. No one else had driven by in the ten minutes he’d waited for Riley. Were they too late? Had Hector Jessop beaten them here?

Riley unbuttoned his coat and withdrew his 9mm pistol.

Sloan groaned inwardly. He’d hoped they wouldn’t need guns. But, they were here to warn Coles, the snitch who ratted out Jessop for a plea deal, that his life was in danger. Coles got his plea deal, along with a slap on the wrist and a ninety-day house arrest, in exchange for his testimony. What Coles hadn’t counted on—and what no one at Northstar expected—was the judge throwing Jessop’s case out of court on a technicality.

If they were too late, if Jessop had arrived first, there would be trouble.

Sloan slipped a hand inside his wool coat and retrieved his own semi-automatic pistol. Needed or not, he was going to be prepared.

Talk to me, O’Neal’s voice demanded through their earpieces.

Looks like our boy has company, Sloan whispered. Could still be inside. How long ago was Jessop released from custody?

Two hours. The distance between Northstar and their current location, near an old Catholic Monastery, couldn’t disguise O’Neal’s angry tone. I had hoped the snow would slow him down, but… I don’t like this. I’m calling the D.C. PD.

Roger, that. Sloan wouldn’t mind backup if they were heading into trouble. Approaching the front door, now.

He and Riley moved cautiously up the sidewalk. They reached the front steps, just as they heard a shot from inside the house.

Gunfire. Riley raised his weapon and pointed it at the house.

You two stay put. The police are on the way.

Suddenly, the front door flew open. Jessop rushed out of the house, a revolver in his hand.

Riley took a bead on the man. Don’t move.

Sloan sighted his gun on Jessop’s chest. Don’t do it. Don’t—

Jessop lifted his gun and fired.

Riley’s and Sloan’s shots rang out as one over the quiet, snowy neighborhood.

Jessop stumbled. He looked at Sloan. His eyes widened, then rolled up in his head as he crumpled on the steps.

Riley swore.

What the hell happened? O’Neal’s voice shouted through the earpiece. I heard shots.

He drew on us. Sloan kept his gun trained on the fallen man. We didn’t have a choice but to shoot back.

Sirens cried in the distance, clear and sharp through the cold night.

The police are coming. Sloan ran up the steps and pulled off his glove to check for a pulse. Jessop’s neck was still warm, but there was no life. He turned to Riley and shook his head.

Riley swore again as he holstered his gun. We’d better check on Coles.

Sloan stepped around Jessop’s body and entered the small white house, his gun at the ready. When he entered the living area, all he saw was a tattered couch, a small TV on a stand, and a recliner that had seen better days. No sign of Coles.

Riley followed Sloan inside and after they cleared the living room, Riley turned toward a hallway, while Sloan headed for the kitchen. There, he found Coles slumped over the kitchen table. Blood dripped on the floor from a bullet wound in his back. His stare was sightless.

For Coles’ cooperation in what should have been an airtight prosecution of a drug ring, Northstar had promised the man safety. They’d failed.

Riley poked his head into the kitchen. The rest of the house is clear. His gaze took in the body and he swore.

You need to work on your vocabulary. The failure of this one simple task sent a slow burn along Sloan’s neck as he holstered his gun.

With this mess, we’ll have all the time in the world to clean up my language. The police reports will be in triplicate. And back at the firm…

Don’t even say it. Sloan held up a hand. Homework.

Riley’s grin had a bleak tilt to it. Paperwork’s part of the job, man. You know that. The grin slid off his face when the sirens outside drew closer. Better go meet the uniforms.

Sloan checked his watch. They made good time in this storm.

Riley secured his pistol and looked around at the carnage. Coles trusted us to keep his statement confidential. He must have thought Jessop didn’t know he’d squealed on him. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have turned his back.

He hadn’t seen it coming, that’s for sure. Sloan gave the scene a final glance, then headed for the door. I’ll meet the police. Since entering the kitchen, he’d been swallowing to stop his seventy-dollar birthday dinner from making a second appearance. Happy birthday to me.

He stepped outside in time to see D.C. police climbing out of their cruisers. Working his way around Jessop’s body, he retrieved his ID. Sloan Cartland. He lifted his hands in the air, his ID displayed wide open. Northstar Security Firm. We called it in.

Thirty minutes later, the police had taken statements from both Sloan and Riley. An ambulance had arrived, but the bodies remained in their original locations until forensics finished processing the scene.

Sloan followed Riley out through the front door and ducked under the tape that already roped off the crime scene. Snow continued to fall in tight beads that stung when it blew into Sloan’s face. The temperature had dropped a few more degrees.

As they headed down the sidewalk, bright lights from shoulder-held TV cameras split the night and lit up the cold D.C. neighborhood, making the falling snow look like a curtain.

What’s all this? Sloan waved a hand at the line of news vans camped across the street. There was no way he and Riley would reach their cars without getting a microphone shoved in their faces.

A uniformed officer pulled Sloan aside. Did you guys call the media?

Hell, no.

Well, someone called them. They were waiting halfway down the block as we arrived. I watched them set up while we secured the scene.

Sloan didn’t have to ask how the media learned about the incident so quickly. He was pretty sure he knew. Even though they’d avoided texting their communications back to Northstar, their radio conversations had obviously been hacked. Again. Everything that went down here tonight had gone hot over the wires. All thanks to the cyber-hacker who’d been releasing Northstar’s confidential communiqués for the last three months.

When he got back to the office, Sloan planned to have a few words with the firm’s techno geeks about doing a better job securing their communications. Right now, he had to fend off the media sharks and hope there was no more damage to the firm’s reputation.

When he reached the curb, a reporter burst from the side door of one of the vans.

Sloan raised his hand to block a camera’s blinding flash. Get that out of my face.

A microphone appeared under his nose as a voice shouted questions. What happened here? Was there a shooting? Is someone dead? You’re not the police. What are you doing at this crime scene? Are you involved with Northstar Security Firm? Aren’t you Sloan Cartland? The son of Charles Cartland, the real estate mogul?

No comment. Sloan hurried to his car. As he slid inside, he saw Riley fending off another reporter. So much for their under-the-radar operation to protect Orin Coles.

Sloan’s gut burned with anger. From the expletives spitting through his earpiece, O’Neal was just as pissed.

You and Riley get the hell back here. NOW.

Yes, sir. Sloan removed the earpiece and tucked it inside his breast pocket. When the reporter mentioned his father, it was enough to ruin the rest of a lousy night. Thinking of his father reminded him why he hated birthdays.

The one exception was when he’d met Riley the day he turned twenty-three.

Sloan was written off as a reckless and unfocused youth after his parents’ divorce, and he’d been shipped to a boarding school. As he grew older, he lashed out, attending wild parties and skirting the edge of the law as he demanded that the world pay attention to a lonely rich kid. It took several thousand dollars, and a selfish desire to avoid embarrassment, for Sloan’s father to keep his son out of jail and the family name out of the papers.

During a university frat party, Sloan’s attempt to lure away the redheaded coed on Riley O’Neal’s arm had the two men meeting—fist to chin. Until then, Sloan had always thrown his name and a few Benjamins around to get what he wanted, as his old man used to do.

Riley had stood up to him. By the end of the evening, the two were sharing beers like long-lost buddies. The redhead left the party with some football jock and neither of them had even noticed.

The experience had been unique for Sloan. Riley had accepted Sloan for who he was, not his bank account. The unlikely friendship rescued his floundering soul.

As he followed Riley’s car back to Northstar, he wasn’t sure whose bullet killed Jessop. What he did know, was he was still alive because Riley had stood beside him. Although he never enjoyed his birthday, Sloan definitely appreciated Riley’s friendship.

When snow fell on the District, traffic in the nation’s capital came to a grinding halt. What should have been a thirty-minute drive back to the firm, took Sloan and Riley over an hour. The cars managed to get through the snow okay, but Sloan was relieved when they finally pulled into the parking lot. The plow service had been by, but newly fallen snow had covered most of the blacktop again.

Bitter air stung his cheeks as he slid his badge through the security reader and punched in his personal code.

Riley sidled up beside him. "I am not looking forward to the next couple of hours."

Me either. The magnetic lock clicked and Sloan held the door open for Riley, then followed him inside. Welcome heat warmed his face and bare hands as he stomped snow off his expensive leather shoes.

Just off the nearby rail yard, Northstar Security Firm’s location was as unique as its mission. The foyer served their elite clientele with a balance somewhere between we-welcome-your-business and stop-or-we’ll-shoot. Every time Sloan entered the firm, it felt like he’d finally come home. Although at this hour of the night, he felt more like a teenager sneaking in after curfew.

Hicks, one of the firm’s 24/7 on-duty guards, manned the front counter. In his sixties, Hicks stayed as fit as any of the agents and still sported his highway patrol crew cut atop a square head. You boys are out late.

Hey, Hicks. Riley nodded at the guard, pulled his badge out of his wallet, and handed it over the counter.

Is the director in the conference room? Sloan slid his badge across the chest-high counter, too.

Nope. Hicks shook his head and took both badges. He nodded toward the glass doors that led to the heart of the firm. The boss has been in the lab since he got here.

This is one time I’m glad I’m not a fly on that wall. Riley gave a mock shudder as he grabbed his badge that had been scanned and logged.

Don’t you know it. Sloan took his badge from Hicks. I’m going to grab some coffee before I start on my report. Hicks, you want a fresh cup?

No, thanks. The wife insists I cut back on caffeine. Hicks released the locks that led to the firm’s inner sanctum. You’re clear to go in.

Thanks. Sloan and Riley chimed together as they pushed through the bulletproof doors.

As always, Sloan’s gaze was drawn to the far wall. In standout gold lettering the firm’s mission statement read:

Northstar—Guided By the Truth

He liked working for a company that maintained integrity above all else. Something his father didn’t care much about. In a way, it gave Sloan satisfaction to know how much his father hated him working with the dregs of humanity. Helping others, earning a paycheck with actual taxes deducted, living the working man’s life was something his father didn’t understand, let alone appreciate.

Riley stopped at his cubicle. Sloan continued around a partition and peeled off his overcoat. He tossed it over the back of his chair and switched on the desk lamp, then headed straight for the break room at the end of the hall.

As he expected, a half-full pot of coffee sat on the warmer. The entire office knew the cyborg queen of the lab, Allison Richards, was a coffee junkie. Given what had gone down tonight, she and the other techs would be justifying their jobs to the director. Yeah, Sloan was damn glad he wasn’t in that meeting.

After filling his cup, he savored the aroma of the hot brew warming his hands as he returned to his desk. He had his own reckoning to deal with. Not only would he have to explain to O’Neal what happened tonight—in writing—he could also count on his father self-combusting once the news hit the morning broadcasts.

Twenty minutes later, Sloan typed the summary paragraph, snagged his now lukewarm coffee, and reviewed the text. He took another sip, grimaced at the temperature, then set his cup on the desk. As he pressed the SAVE icon for the document, his phone rang. He grabbed the receiver. Cartland.

Need you in my office. The director’s tone was short and to the point, and totally expected.

On my way. Sloan locked his computer and pushed out of his chair. When he checked over the partition, Riley’s chair was empty. He’d probably gotten his summons earlier, while Sloan was too engrossed to hear his partner’s phone ring.

Byron O’Neal was the heart and soul of the firm and had established Northstar as one of the most prestigious security agencies in the country. He mentored his employees as though they were members of his family and he inspired legendary loyalty. The waiting list of potential recruits from police, military, and the alphabet agencies was long and constantly vetted, allowing O’Neal to select only the best of the best.

As one of the fortunate few who worked at Northstar, he would always be in O’Neal’s debt, because O’Neal had taught Sloan more about himself than anything he’d learned from his father. Considering O’Neal’s seemingly boundless energy, Sloan expected to learn a lot more in the years to come.

Normally, O’Neal exuded a youthful air that belied his tragic past, but as Sloan entered the office, he saw that the director’s face was drawn. Graying, light brown hair had been raked by aggravated fingers. His suit looked slept in. An unshaven jaw accentuated a hard, battle-tested face.

Riley sat off to the side of the large mahogany desk, looking very much like a younger version of his dad. Both their expressions were grim.

Tom Delano rushed in, bumping Sloan’s shoulder.

Another of Northstar’s technicians, Tom reminded Sloan of a clumsy orangutan—short, muscular, and a bit on the homely side. However, he contributed his own brand of brilliance to the firm.

Did you confirm it? O’Neal barked at Tom.

The tech nodded. It was definitely the hacker again. He scooted forward a little. And there’s more bad news.

O’Neal scowled. Let’s have it. Might as well fight the entire firestorm at once.

Tom swallowed. His expression was almost fearful. "Five minutes