THE WATCHMAN Chapter 1 “I have set watchmen on thy walls, O Jerusalem, which shall never hold their peace, day nor night. . .” Isaiah 62:6 Hebron, Wyoming What if you knew you could learn the deepest, darkest secrets of anyone you touched, but it would cost you emotionally? What if from your earliest childhood you could disappear in thirty-minute intervals and while invisible you could move through solid objects with impunity? What if these anomalies came as natural as breathing—clothing and anything in pockets or hand disappeared—an unknown field that surrounded you erasing everything inside? What would you do with such powers? I’d settled that question long ago, but this afternoon, as I focused on the scene outside my car window, it occurred to me perhaps I needed to rethink my mission. I’d covered domestic abuse cases during my five years with the Hebron Police Department, and I’d put away a lot of bad people. Different scenario here. I was no longer a cop. Ahead, a small boy stepped from a school bus into the upscale Crown Heights neighborhood. Dead leaves and powered snow swirled around his high-end sneakers as he shuffled along the sidewalk. My foot hovered over the gas pedal. The image disturbed me, and I almost drove away. His small shoulders slumped forward, and I was hooked. I had to know. He stopped and turned around as if he might go back to the bus stop. He reversed and faced me again. Confused? Lost? Cute kid, maybe six years old. The designer logo on his backpack bounced with each step. Blonde locks pressed against his brow under a blue baseball cap, reminding me of another little boy—minus the designer gear. Decision made, I swung the SUV to the curb, snatched the cell phone from its holder, and texted my friend. Got 2 bow out of dinner talk 2 u later. I left the car and stepped to the sidewalk. With a glance both ways, I moved into the boy’s path. Slow and easy. Not too close, not too fast. I didn’t want to frighten him. With my friendliest smile, I took a step closer. “Hey, son, can you tell me where to find Oak Street?” He gazed up at me and shook his head. Eyes dull, as if he’d lived life and found it wanting. I patted his shoulder. “Thanks, anyway.” He winced and jerked away as if I’d slapped him. I’d suspected abuse, but his pain caught me by surprise. In an instant his life opened up, film clips at the speed of light. Visuals of physical pain, overwhelming fear, helplessness, and a silent scream for help. Emotions too heavy for a child to carry streamed through my consciousness. With proof of abuse came certainty. The violence at home was escalating. Something frightening rose within me―rage against the defenselessness of children and those who caused them pain. Abuse cases drew and repelled me at the same time, reviving memories I’d long ago buried. I inhaled a resolute breath. When had I ever walked away from a troubled child? I couldn’t save the world—just the small corner God gave me. A common man, given uncommon gifts—a watchman on the wall. I scanned the area for traffic and pedestrians. When I turned back, the boy had quickened his pace through the gated entrance to his home. Invisible, I wheeled and followed him. Inside the house, a woman’s voice called from the kitchen. “Cody, is that you?” “Yes, Mom.” The boy took the stairs two at a time to his room with me close behind. “Get ready for dinner. Hurry, your father will be home any minute.” At the top of the second-floor landing, a spacious lounge area came into view. Kid-friendly furniture, bookshelves, stereo components, and a wide-screen plasma television filled an area with scattered group seating. Four doors opened onto the landing. The boy’s bedroom was the first one on the left at the top of the stairs. Cody tossed his jacket and backpack on the bedpost, and darted into the bathroom. Hands shaking, he turned on the tap, splashed water on his face, and grabbed a towel from the rack. After a swipe at his cheeks, he bounded to the stairs. Halfway down, he stopped, and then hurried back to the bathroom. He wiped down the sink with the damp towel and dropped it into the clothes hamper. With a quick glance, he scanned the room before heading back downstairs. At the ground floor, the stairway emptied into the living room. The accoutrements of wealth spread out before me. More showroom than a home—decorative and spotless. The room held no smiling family photos, books, or personal touches, no warmth. Even the Christmas tree with its silver and glass ornaments seemed cold and sterile. Not my taste, but what did a former Marine know about interior design? On the right, a formal dining room opened into a kitchen exuding homey smells of spices and yeast. Cody took a seat in the bay window, drew up his legs, and wrapped thin arms around his knees. His gaze followed his mother as she put finishing touches on the evening meal. The woman examined each piece of china with care, and then replaced the dish on the placemat. She picked up the silverware and polished each piece with a towel. Her frantic actions told a story. A lump formed in my throat. I knew the drill by heart. Perfection was an elusive goal she could never attain. From the back entrance, a car hummed into the garage. With quick, deft movements, she placed Beef Wellington, browned to perfection, on the table. She must have spent half the day preparing this meal. A door slammed. “Rachel,” a male voice called. “We’re in the kitchen, Harry.” Her mouth formed a thin, strained smile. Harry’s linebacker form filled the doorway. Tough guy. He could beat up a woman and child. He took the chair at the head of the table. Cody and his mother joined him, taking seats across from each other. Rachel rose and filled Harry’s wine glass as he cut the beef into precise, small bites, seemingly oblivious to the tremor in her hand. The chimes of the analog wall clock sent a reminder my time limit had run out. I could leave or let the family find an intruder observing their evening meal. I left with reservations. Cody should be OK for a short time. His father would look for a reason to justify his cruelty, a reason to convince Cody the abuse was his own fault. Tactics used by abusive parents everywhere. Back in my car, I drove to the front gate and forced my attention to the job. Cody needed a champion, and like it or not, I’d been tagged his designated knight. Half an hour later, again invisible, I re-entered the kitchen. The meal had ended, and Harry sipped coffee from an engraved demitasse cup. I braced for the explosion, and it didn’t take long. Cody removed the napkin from his lap, folded it, and laid it on the placemat. When he released the napkin, his hand hit the milk glass. The crystal tumbler spilled onto the tablecloth, bounced to the floor, and shattered, sending glass shards across the tile. Harry’s glare flashed at Cody. “You clumsy little fool. Look what you’ve done.” Rachel jumped to her feet, darted to the kitchen, and grabbed a handful of paper towels. “Don’t yell at him. It was an accident. You make him nervous.” A vein popped out on Harry’s left temple. “Proper table manners are important to his future, regardless of his feelings. Obviously, a lesson he’ll never learn from his mother.” Harry turned to Cody. “Go to your room. I’ll be there in a minute.” Cody pushed back from the table and stumbled upstairs. I followed his dejected form back to his room. Rachel’s pleas echoed up the stairwell. “Leave him alone, Harry. He’s just a little boy. Accidents happen.” A sharp slap sounded, followed by dead silence. Doors slammed downstairs as though Harry searched for something. Heavy, deliberate steps ascended upward. Cody’s eyes widened as his father drew nearer. The knob turned, and Harry stood in the doorway, a leather belt clasped in his hand. He strode to Cody’s window and closed the blinds. Rachel slid into the room. She skirted around Harry and stood between Cody and his father. Cody screamed. “No, Mom. He’ll hurt you.” He tried to get around her, but she held him back. “Get out of the way, Rachel.” Harry bit out each word. Rachel’s chin went up, and her shoulders squared. “I’m not moving an inch. Not now—not ever.” My hands shook so badly I had to squeeze them into fists to keep from decking Harry. Breaking his jaw would ease the chaos in my gut and let him feel the pain he’d dealt Rachel and Cody. Inwardly, I railed against my limitations, but common sense prevailed. I couldn’t just materialize in Cody’s room without serious repercussions. I had to leave again, but this wasn’t the end. I was coming back for Cody and Rachel. Outside the gate, once more flesh and blood, I punched 911 on my cell. “I want to report a disturbance at 1220 Cedar Hills Drive. I hear a child screaming.” I gave my name and waited. The authorities wouldn't take long, but that didn't stop me from pacing. Crown Heights’ four-man police department received few emergency calls. Vanity cops more than a law enforcement unit, but this wasn’t the time to be picky. In less than five minutes a patrol car passed. Brake lights came on, and the vehicle backed up and eased to the curb in front of the estate. Two officers emerged and marched to where I stood. They could have been brothers, both thin and athletic with neat dark hair and brown eyes. “Officer Ryan,” he said and thrust his thumb toward his colleague. “That’s Officer Duncan. Did you report the disturbance?” “That would be me. I’m Noah Adams.” “Did you witness an altercation of any kind?” “No, only the child’s screams. Sounded frantic. Perhaps someone should check it out.” Duncan strode to the gate and spoke into the intercom. “Police. Open the gate, please.” Ryan pulled a notebook from his jacket. He cocked an eyebrow. “Got some ID? You look familiar. You a cop?” “Used to be. Five years on the HPD. Private investigator, now.” “You packing?” “Goes with the job.” I handed him my license and concealed weapon permit. He examined them carefully and handed them back. “You don’t live in the neighborhood?” “No, just passing through.” “How did you come to be outside the home? You couldn’t hear anyone scream driving by.” I looked the cop straight in the eye and lied. It didn’t sit well, but I justified it—a kid’s safety was on the line. “I pulled over to make a call on my cell phone. I don’t like to drive through residential areas while I’m on the phone.” That much was true. Ryan pointed at me. “Wait here.” He joined Duncan in the squad car. Someone buzzed them through the gate, and the cruiser inched up the drive. Cody’s mother waited in the doorway under the portico as the two cops walked up the steps. Voices drifted from the entrance, too low for me to understand. Before long, an irate Harry stood at the door. He pointed in my direction and shouted something unintelligible, and probably unflattering. Duncan motioned me inside. Ryan took a step toward me as I reached the group. “You said you heard screams?” “That’s right.” If the police didn’t believe me, I could always confess an honest mistake. At least Harry would know someone knew his secret. “You’re a liar.” The vein in Harry’s temple popped out again. “No one here screamed.” He glared at Ryan. “He’s got the wrong house.” “I’m certain the sounds came from here. Where’s your son?” In an instant, I realized my error. The screams could have been those of a daughter. I glanced at the group around me. No weird looks. I eased out the breath I’d been holding. Harry’s gaze turned hard. “What do you want with my son?” Duncan turned, and locked in on Harry. “Get your son, sir.” Harry disappeared and after a short wait, he appeared with Cody in tow. “What’s your name?” Ryan asked the boy in a soft tone. “C-Cody.” He moved close to his mother. “I’m Officer Ryan, and I’m here to make sure you’re safe. You OK?” Cody nodded. “Has anyone hurt you?” The boy shook his head, but his hands trembled, and he chewed at his lower lip. I moved into his line of vision. “Cody, turn around and lift your shirt.” Cody blanched and backed closer to Rachel. Apparently he didn’t recognize me from our earlier encounter. If so, he gave no indication. Ryan turned a hard glare at me. “You’re out of line, Adams. We’ll handle this.” He turned to the boy. “It’s OK, Cody. No one will harm you. Lift your shirt.” Harry’s confidence appeared to slip. A red flush started at his neck and spread over his face. He seemed to weigh the danger of refusal. “Do you know who I am? I’m Judge Harold London! You can’t come into my home and undress my son. I’m calling my attorney.” Harry swung around to face his wife. “Bring me the phone.” Rachel hesitated. “Bring me the phone!” The two cops looked at each other, and then back at me. “You sure about this?” Ryan asked. I couldn’t back down now. “Sure as death and judgment.” Cody huddled against his mother. Right cheek red, her left arm held at an awkward angle, Rachel reached down, turned Cody around, and raised his shirt. Long black bruises stretched from the top of his shoulder to his waist. Two swollen red welts stood out among the older stripes on his back. Echoes from my past reared their ugly head, but I pushed them away. This wasn’t the time. Suppressed anger mottled Harry’s face. Hard dark eyes stared back at me. In that moment, I knew he wouldn’t admit abusing Cody. Survival would supersede any sense of wrongdoing. Duncan gave his partner a knowing nod and drew Rachel aside. Ryan returned to the patrol car and came back with a camera and handed it to Duncan. He motioned Rachel and Cody to follow him indoors, presumably to photograph Cody’s bruises. Ten minutes later, Crown Height’s finest led a cursing, handcuffed, Judge Harold London away, shoved him none too gently into the cruiser’s backseat, and slammed the door. Large snowflakes fell as the squad car moved down the driveway and onto the street. Arms clasped around her body against the cold, Rachel stood there, Cody at her side, and watched the cruiser until it disappeared from sight. She looked down at her son. “Do you want something for pain?” He shook his head. “No, Mom. I’m good. It doesn’t hurt.” He turned and disappeared through the entryway. For the first time, I noticed Rachel London was a lovely woman. Tall, slim, with classic high cheekbones and large green eyes. Pale, bruised, and frightened, but strikingly beautiful. I caught her gaze. “If you’d like, I’ll take you and Cody to the hospital or to a shelter—somewhere your husband can’t get to you.” She gave a short, sardonic laugh that wrinkled her mouth. “That would be useless. Harry knows the location of the Hebron shelter. We don’t need a doctor; we need to get far away from here as fast as possible.” “Do you have any family?” She stared at some point in the distance then turned to me. “No. I grew up in an orphanage in Cheyenne.” Typical abuse victim. A woman alone with no family. “I’m sorry.” Silence filled the space between us for a moment. She gave a dismissive shrug. “It was a long time ago. I’m over it.” Her voice dropped to a husky tone and she looked up at me. “How did you know? Cody didn’t scream.” “Are you sure? Perhaps you were too frightened to hear.” “Maybe.” Uncertainty clouded her features. “Mr... I don’t even know your name.” “It’s Adams, Noah Adams. I’m a private investigator.” I searched my jacket and handed her my card. She studied it with blank eyes and slipped it into her pocket. A shiver ran through her body, her eyes wide. “We have to leave. Right away. Harry will never see the inside of a cell. My husband is a powerful man, Mr. Adams. A charter member of the good-old-boys network downtown. He’ll be home within the hour, and he’ll be raving mad. I don’t even want to think what might happen.” She shivered again. “We’ve left before. Wherever we go, he always finds us.” Angry tears pooled in her eyes. “Harry said he would take Cody away from me if I tried to leave again. I’d go mad knowing Cody had to face his father alone.” Her jaw clenched. “Harry London will be a dead man before I let him take Cody away from me.” Desperation resonated in her stiff posture and jerky motions. “Murder isn’t the answer. Cody needs you with him, not in prison. There’s a place I can take you, a place where your husband can’t find you. You’ll need to pack extra-warm clothing for the trip. It’s colder in the valley.” Her eyes brightened. “Where?” “A friend’s ranch near Green River. I’ll call and make sure it’s all right.” I reached for my cell-phone. “I won’t let him hurt either of you again. I promise.” She stood motionless, not making eye contact. The toll of clock chimes from the entryway spurred her into action. “Cody, we’re leaving. Gather up any toys you want to bring. Hurry. Your father will be home soon.” He appeared at her side. “Where are we going?” She gave him a gentle nudge toward the open doorway. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now, we must hurry.” Her gaze tracked him down the hallway, and then she followed him inside. While they packed, I called my friend Emma Hand. Rachel returned with two suitcases. She blinked rapidly, trying to convey her sense of despair. “I appreciate what you’re doing. I...I have to trust someone. There’s no place else for us to go. But if you let me down and Harry finds us―.” She dropped her gaze and drew a long, shuddering breath. After a pause, she raised her head, and looked into my eyes. “It could cost us our lives.”
BROKEN VOWS Chapter 1 Friday, July 3 Global Optics Twin Falls, Texas The telephone on Sara Bradford’s desk buzzed. Engrossed in the report she’d been studying, she reached for the receiver and lifted it to her ear. “Mrs. Bradford, my name is McKenzie St. Martin.” There was a long pause. The voice was cultured, professional, but nervous. “Um … Josh wants a divorce . . . we’re in love . . .” Sara tuned out after the first few words, knowing what was coming. A familiar pain exploded in her chest. This wasn’t the only call she’d received from a woman with such claims, but the deep sorrow never lessened. Her husband’s infidelity had eroded the foundation of their marriage past her endurance, leaving her insecure and shaken to the core. He didn’t want a divorce. If he did, he would have asked for it, not sent his girlfriend to do it for him. To quote an old cliché, he wanted his cake and eat it too. “Ms. St. Martin, if my husband wants a divorce, all he has to do is ask.” She dropped the receiver silently on the base and swiveled her chair to look out the office window. A well of emotions rose inside her chest, anger, hurt pride, sadness, and finally, resolution. Wedding vows were forever, a holy commitment, or so her mother had taught her. One man for a lifetime. And she’d believed that. But one person couldn’t make a marriage. Bright sunlight streamed through the floor to ceiling office windows, incongruent with the darkness that seemed to envelope her. The immaculate green lawn outside glowed in the mid-morning rays, the day too beautiful for mourning. She rested her head in her hands for a moment, too numb to move, then reached for the telephone again and called her secretary. “Jane, I’m leaving for the day. Why don’t you go ahead and get an early start on the July 4th Holiday?” Jane chuckled. “That sounds like a winner. I have family coming into town and they love to eat.” Early July in Twin Falls was never temperate. It was hot and with humidity so high it seemed to hang in the air like a stationary mist. Driving home, she tried to stuff thoughts of her husband into the deepest recesses of her mind, but it didn’t work. Josh Bradford had been the love of her life since their first meeting. He’d literally been the boy next door. She was six and he was fifteen. That fateful meeting rolled through her mind in neon flashes of color. *** Her parents decided to purchase the house on Lucky Lane after the heartbreaking loss of Sara’s best friend. Six-year-old Penny Pryor disappeared ten months earlier, leaving behind a devastated family and Sara, who was too young to understand the concept of “missing without a trace.” Penny’s house across the street from their own had been a constant reminder of the tragedy. Almost daily Sara would start to see if Penny could play, then remember she wasn’t there. The Taylor’s had moved hoping a new environment would help their daughter deal with the biggest crisis of her young life. Moving day had been a cold, but sunny March morning. Missing the familiarity of her old surroundings and friends, Sara finished off the peanut butter and jelly sandwich and set her milk glass in the sink. She wandered through the rooms of her new home, cluttered with cardboard boxes and a constant stream of movers. How she’d wished Penny were there with her bright copper curls and sparkling blue eyes to explore every inch of the house and grounds. She gulped a deep breath and pushed the sad thoughts away. Perhaps the pool party her mother had promised for her seventh birthday would ease her sadness. She could invite friends from the old neighborhood and maybe some new ones from here. Her pink tennis shoe clad feet moved silently across the Spanish tile floor and Sara finally settled on a bay window seat in the living room. She drew flowers and stick figures with her finger in the mist that formed on the glass pane and wished her dad would come home. He always made everything better. “I know you’re bored, Honey,” her mother said from the doorway, jarring her back into the moment. “Why don’t you unpack the books in your room and put them in the bookcase? That would be a big help.” After the books were neatly stored away, she wandered out to the patio. Bundled up in a thick sweater, the sun felt good on her skin. She drifted over to the empty pool and sat on the deck, dangling her feet over the side. The family Collie, Jake, ambled over and lay down beside her resting his head in her lap. She stroked his long fur, his soulful brown eyes gazed into her own. Jake always sensed her mood and tried in his own way to make things better. “Better be careful, Peanut. If you fall, you’ll get a nasty bump on your head.” Sara looked up into the bluest eyes she had ever seen. An athletic blond-haired boy, wearing an engaging grin and his school letter jacket stood beside her with a pie balanced in one hand. She lifted her chin and with all the dignity a six-year-old could muster, she said, “My name isn’t Peanut, it’s Sara Louise Taylor.” “Well, Sara Louise Taylor, come help me find your mother. My mom asked me to bring over this rhubarb pie as a welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift.” He leaned over and whispered. “Just between us, don’t eat the pie. My mom is a terrible cook.” She giggled and moved into step beside him to find her mother. He’d won her heart in the first ten seconds. As she grew up next door through Josh’s high school and college years, she’d watched a stream of beautiful girl’s parade through the Bradford home. That should have been her first clue. But love, as they say, was truly blind. Friday, July 3 Tarrant County Courthouse Dallas, Texas Josh Bradford left the courtroom minus his usual feeling of elation after winning a large settlement for his client. While he’d waited for the jury to return with the verdict, he’d stepped into the hallway to check his messages. A text from McKenzie flashed on the iPhone screen and an audible groan escaped his lips. Called ur wife told her u wanted a divorce. She said all u had to do was ask? What’s going on? u said u asked. He stuffed down an almost irresistible urge to slam the phone against the wall, but that would just destroy his phone, solving nothing. McKenzie was a stick of dynamite with a short fuse and she took no prisoners. He should have realized that before getting involved. She was delusional. He’d never said a word about marrying her or divorce. Straightening his shoulders, he ran his fingers through his hair, and shook his head. Sara was caught in the middle. Again. She would have left him long ago except for her beliefs in the sanctity of marriage. This just might push her over the edge. A stop by McKenzie’s apartment on his way home would put her straight. He was shaken by the thought he might lose Sara. She was the only meaningful thing in his life. *** The face of the sprite-like child he’d first met eased into his mind. A six-years-old with intelligent hazel eyes and a face no painter could do justice. Years passed and he hadn’t failed to notice Sara Taylor had grown into a long-legged beauty, but he knew instinctively she would never become one of his groupies. He’d kept his distance until that Memorial Day weekend just after her junior year in college. Working seventy-hour weeks as a senior associate in a large Dallas law firm, he’d staggered into his apartment and fallen across the bed, too tired to remove his shoes. Tie loosened, he lifted it over his head just as the phone rang. “Yes,” he growled into the receiver. “Josh, this is your mother. You know, the woman who gave birth to you but never sees your handsome face.” “Hi, Mom.” He pushed his hair off his brow and propped up on one elbow. “I’ve been meaning to call, but I’m working insane hours. How are you?” “I’m fine. The reason I called is Mrs. Taylor next door invited us over for a barbeque tomorrow. You’re included in the invitation. Your father and I would love to see you. The fun starts at 11:00 a.m. and goes to 10:00 p.m.” “I don’t know, Mom . . .” “Sara is home from college. She asked about you.” Suddenly, he wasn’t so tired. “Okay, I’ll be there. I may be a little late. I have a few things to take care of at the office.” Next morning, he finished up quickly at the firm, then hurried home to shower and change. There was a second reason he had avoided Sara Taylor. Her parents were religious and somehow he knew they wouldn’t approve of him as a suitor for their only child. And truthfully, he couldn’t blame them. He wouldn’t want someone like him for his daughter. He dressed carefully in freshly pressed chinos and a blue polo, perfect for the outdoor party. With an energetic gait, he hurried to his Porsche and roared onto the freeway. As he maneuvered through the heavy holiday traffic, he found himself humming along with “Lara’s Theme” from Doctor Zhivago on the classics music station and headed towards Twin Falls. The long driveway leading to the Taylor’s front door was lined with cars when he arrived, so he pulled into his parent’s driveway, and walked over to the Taylor’s front door. A huge two story white stucco hacienda with a red terra-cotta roof and clinging bougainvillea sparkled against the pristine green lawn. A black-railed balcony ran across the front of both floors, shaded by mature oak trees. Before he could ring the bell, the front door opened and Belle Taylor greeted him with a warm hug. Sara’s mother was a petite redhead with cornflower blue eyes that sparkled when she smiled, as she did now. “Josh, I saw you coming up the drive. I’m so glad you could make it. Come on in. Your parents are on the patio. I just came in to get more ice.” “Let me help,” he said, and hefted two large bags of crushed ice from the freezer. He passed through the living room that sparkled with vibrant reds and browns in the Spanish tiles and hand tied rugs. Belle directed him to a large tub in the patio’s shaded area where he dumped the ice. Good deed accomplished, he glanced around the crowd looking for familiar faces. He spotted Sara, her back to him talking to his mother. Her dark hair hung halfway down her back, its golden highlights sparkling in the sunlight. The long white Mexican dress she wore whispered around her sandaled feet He caught his mother’s gaze and she waved. Sara turned towards him. A dazzling smile spread across her face and she glided across the stone floor to him, both hands outstretched. She took his breath away. He knew in that moment he would make Sara Taylor his wife. *** After congratulating his client on the win, he strode through the courtroom’s double doors and toward the elevator. Immediate damage control was in order. He’d have to face Sara when he arrived home. But first he had to see McKenzie to end the affair. She’d committed the unpardonable sin. She’d involved Sara. On the drive to Twin Falls, dread deepened with each mile. He wasn’t looking forward to the confrontation with Sara. The only way to save his marriage was for him to change, that or lose his wife. He didn’t intend to let Sara go. After six years of marriage, she was still the most desirable woman he’d ever known. Even he didn’t understand why he sought the company of other women.
DEAD RINGER Chapter 1 Hamilton, Bermuda Friday, May 5 Mercy Lawrence wouldn’t have noticed the large man standing by the silver Mercedes, except for the way he was dressed. Unlike the tourists on the sidewalk, he wore a light gray business suit and tie. Sunglasses hid the upper portion of his face, and the grim set of his mouth detracted from his otherwise handsome appearance. He stood beside the car’s open back door, arms crossed as if waiting for someone. Not wanting to stare, she tore her gaze away. In jeans, T-shirt, and sandals, she blended easily into the vacationers along the boulevard. She’d spent the last five months in this wonderful country, recuperating from a head injury. Most of her memory remained intact after the accident, but dark recesses still refused to reveal their mystery. But tomorrow, like a good soldier, she would return to Houston and report to her new job at Sabine Oil fulfillment of a goal she’d worked towards for the past six years. The city’s main drag ran four lanes wide with a palm-tree-lined median, the sea on one side, shops and hotels on the other. A soft wind filled the air with the scent of sea kelp and brine, mixed with a light floral fragrance from the purple bougainvilleas hanging on the walls along the walkway. Seagulls swept low over the water, looking for lunch out past the rolling surf. She shook her hair loose from the confines of its ponytail clip and turned her face to the balmy sunshine mainlining vitamin D. Her path took her within four feet of the parked car. The man moved onto the sidewalk and grabbed her arm. “Having fun, are we?” He spoke with a slight Scottish burr, the strange question more an accusation than a greeting. She tried to jerk her arm away. “Let go of my arm.” His grip tightened. “I’ll just bet you’ve been living it up.” His voice was harsh, his jaw tight. No one intervened. Casual observers would think she knew him. One hand locked on her arm, he shoved her into the backseat, slid in beside her, and slammed the door. His movements were so quick, so smooth, she had no time to struggle, no time to scream or put up a fight. She swallowed the lump in her throat choking off oxygen. Women disappeared all too often on foreign soil, never seen or heard from again. “Who are you? What do you think you’re doing? Let me out. Now!” He ignored her protests and leaned forward in the seat. “Airport, Fergus.” Blood pounded a persistent rhythm in her ears. He couldn’t be police. They had to tell you the charges before making an arrest. Besides, she’d done nothing wrong. Her heart skipped a beat. She wanted to run, but it was too late for that. Pivoting towards him, she drew back her arm and aimed the heel of her hand for an upward thrust under his nose. The move from a seated position lacked the needed momentum. He blocked the blow, slamming her back against the seat with a forearm of steel across her chest. “You dropped off the map six months ago. To do what, find yourself?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She squeezed her eyes shut. This couldn’t be happening. “This is kidnapping. My name is Mercy Lawrence and people are expecting me back at my bungalow.” She struggled against the vise-like grip, slapping at his hand. “Stop it, and cut the crap, Traci, or I’ll slap you back. Taking a wife, a mother, home to the son she abandoned is not kidnapping. Besides, you’re not a kid.”
A TIME TO SPEAK Prologue Friday, May 15 Police Station Brave Souls Island Matt Foley shifted on the hard bunk. He sucked in a painful breath as his lungs expanded against his broken ribs. Helplessness was a feeling foreign to him. He’d never been in jail before. At least, not as a prisoner. He swallowed past his sandpaper-throat and glanced around the cell. It was surprisingly clean except for his blood and vomit on the floor. His gaze fell on the stainless-steel sink and commode, pristine, as was the entire facility. Could he make it to the sink? As Chief of Police in Twin Falls, Texas, he had jailed many men, and a few women, but never in a brutal place like this. A former Army Ranger and a Krav Maga martial art expert, he could hold his own in most combat situations, but against sadistic guards with a taser he had been out matched. They ambushed him outside the island clinic, tased him, then brought him to the station and tossed him in a cell. When he tried to resist, they hit him again with the electrical volts. Once he was incapacitated, they kicked the stuffing out of him and beat him unconscious with their nightsticks. The man used the new Axon Taser 7 that had recently been demonstrated to Matt’s law enforcement officers in Twin Falls. He hadn’t expected to be a test Subject for its effectiveness. There would be no way to hide his external injuries from Sara when she came. And she would surely come when she learned where he was being kept. She would go ballistic and could wind up in a cell as well. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to clean up and hide some of the damage before she arrived. Rolling onto his side he gritted his teeth and grabbed hold of the top bunk. He pulled himself to a sitting position. The pain was so excruciating he clamped his jaws tight to keep from screaming. He took a quick glance at his wrist where his watch should have been. Of course, they had taken it. He guessed he didn’t have much time to pull himself together. Sara would be here for visiting hours, whenever they were. “Hey, my brother,” a voice called from across the corridor. “You alive over there?” Through swollen eyes, Matt glanced at the man in the cell across from him. Only his black face and white teeth were visible in the dim lighting. “Barely. Everything in my body aches. Even my hair hurts, but thanks for asking.” The man laughed. “Bro, I hear you. Those guys sure worked you over. That Owens guy is one bad dude. First time I ever seen him use a taser. He prides himself on his brute force. He must be afraid of you. What did you do to make him so mad?” “I just have that effect on some people.” “Bro, I’ve never seen them go after a man like they did with you last night. My advice is to get out of here and off this island as soon as you can. You wouldn’t be the first man to go out of here feet first.” Matt laughed then regretted it when his ribs screamed. “That’s the plan but I’m having a few problems with the logistics at the moment. You have any suggestions?” “If I did, I wouldn’t be in here. The man who runs this show is Lewellen Mason Worthington III. Ain’t that a moniker? He got a place up on the coast near the mountains. I work with his gardener when I need extra cash. Man’s got the Midas Touch. You ain’t never seen a place like he got. Two swimming pools, tennis courts, horseback riding. You name it, he got it. Lots of politicians and celebrities hang out there.” Matt knew the name. “What’s he trying to hide besides human trafficking?” “Any and everything illegal would be my guess, but you didn’t hear that from me.” “You witnessed them beating men to death? Did you report it?” “You’re kidding right? Just who am I gonna tell? Owens? Then I’d be the next body to disappear.” The sound of a janitor’s cart rattled down the corridor. He was followed by a guard who opened Matt’s cell door. The guard let the janitor in then locked the door. “Let me know when you’re finished, Manuel, and I’ll let you out.” Manuel looked to be about sixty, his bronze wrinkled face topped by a dark mop of black hair liberally streaked with silver. He walked over to Matt, who was still seated on the bunk, and handed him two pills. “This is Tylenol. It’s not much, but it might take the edge off the pain.” He pulled a paper cup and a package of wet wipes from his cart and gave Matt the wipes, then filled the cup with water from the tap at the sink. Matt swallowed the pills then gulped the water until the cup emptied. Manuel quickly refilled it. After Matt cleaned his face, Manuel pulled a clean jumpsuit from his cart and laid it on the bunk, then pulled out a thermos and filled another cup with coffee. The hot liquid stung Matt’s busted lip but it tasted too good not to finish it. Matt’s throat tightened as he gazed into the old man’s kind eyes. “Manuel, I’ve always believed in guardian angels, but this is the first time I’ve met one. Thank you for your kindness.” “No need to thank me, senor. God don’t like what’s going on around here and what’s happening to his people. I just do what I can to help those in need.” The guard yelled, his footsteps headed toward Matt’s cell. “Manny, what’s taking you so long?” “I’m about done, senor. Give me five more minutes.” Manuel grabbed the mop and started cleaning. The guard’s steps turned back down the hallway. “You don’t happen to have a gun and a hacksaw in your magic bag of tricks, do you, Manuel?” Matt teased. “No, senor. No guns allowed on the island. But I do have this.” He pulled a lethal looking switchblade from his back pocket and handed it to Matt. Sounds of the guard approaching drifted down the corridor, and Matt quickly clasp Manuel’s shoulder and slid the knife under the bunk mattress. The guard opened the cell door and eyed Matt with a sadistic grin. “You don’t look so pretty this morning.” Matt glared at him. “Thanks to you and your friends.” His nemesis gave a deep belly laugh and walked away. After Manuel’s triage Matt felt almost human. When the men were gone his friend across the way spoke again. “That Manny is one good dude. He’s saved my bacon more than once. By the way, I’m Jackson Washington. I’d shake your hand but I can’t reach that far.” “That’s two good names you have there. I’m Matt Foley. You sound like you’ve spent a lot of time in here, Jackson?” “Just call me Jack. I confess I do more’en my share, that’s the God’s honest truth.” He grinned and waved a hand behind him. “I’ve been in here so often they’ve given me my own cell. I have a little drinking problem. When I get lit-up, I start shoutin’ my o-pinion of how this island is run. They don’t like that none too much, so they chunk me in a cell until I repent. Repentance sometimes takes longer than other times.” “How long have you been in this time?” Jack chuckled. “Almost two weeks, but I feel a spirit of atonement coming on.” “Jack, when you get out, will you contact my wife Sara and Bill Henry, at the church, and help them find a way off this island? I’ll make it worth your while. I figure a savvy guy like you knows where all the escape hatches are.” “I do know my island, but how do I know you gonna make it out of here alive? Those guys will come back tonight. Don’t make no difference though. I’ll do what I can, anyway.” “If anything happens to me, Sara will take care of you. Just make sure she, Bill and the child get off this island, whatever it costs. I’m good for it.”
DEATHWATCH Chapter 1 February, 1941 Bletchley Park Mansion Buckinghamshire, England The Director General’s secretary appeared in robe and slippers at Grey’s flat at 1:00 a.m. Grey held the door open for him but he remained in the hallway. “Get dressed, Commander. A car is waiting downstairs to take you to London. Someone from Special Branch will meet you there. He’ll explain what you need to do.” Urgent missions in the middle of the night were not unusual for MI6 Commander Grey Hamilton, but the secretary’s unusual lack of information sent his imagination soaring. Normally the summons resulted from a mission he was already involved in, but he was currently between assignments. Whatever the problem, it was important enough for someone to send a car all the way from London to Buckinghamshire to fetch him. Rain pounded a constant drum beat on the roof of the ancient Austin as he and the driver made their way through the darkness into London. The windscreen wipers fought valiantly against the downpour, and he struggled to find familiar landmarks. The Blitz had leveled most of the recognizable London streets and buildings, leaving a sprawling mass of jagged rubble in their stead. It was pitch-black and bone-chilling cold, and the automobile’s heater blew air almost as frigid as that outside. He glanced over at the WPC at the wheel, who had introduced herself as Molly Hixs, a middle-aged matron with tightly-permed red curls. She effortlessly avoided road cavities and ruins despite the blackout. “Bloody night, wot, sir?” “The only good thing about this weather, Mrs. Hixs, is that the limited visibility keeps the Luftwaffe at home,” he agreed. “Too right ‘bout that, Commander, and call me Molly, sir.” With most of the men ages sixteen to sixty in the service, courageous ladies served in the Women’s Police Corp, filling a desperate need at the Yard and other vital interests in England’s war efforts. “Where are you taking me, Molly?” She gave a soft chuckle. “Can’t say, sir. Was told to keep me lips zipped.” Bristol Arms Apartments London, England After a little more than two hours, the driver shifted gears and nosed the Austin to the curb in front of an address Grey knew intimately. It was an exclusive apartment building on the east side of Piccadilly that had so far escaped Jerries’ bombs. It was the home of his former fiancée. The flats stood within walking distance of his old office at St. James Place before they moved him to Bletchley Park. He tugged down the brim of his fedora and flipped up his Mackintosh’s collar before he opened the car door. A blast of wind and icy rain hit him as he stepped onto the sidewalk. He quickly leaned back into the car and spoke to the driver. “Will you be around to take me home later, Molly?” She smiled and nodded. “I’ll be ‘ere when you need me, sir.” Under the awning entrance, a grizzled old soldier wearing his ragged, too-thin First World War uniform stepped towards him. “Don’t have a fag ye can spare do ye, guv’na?” “Sorry, my friend. I don’t smoke.” He pulled a five-pound note from his pocket and handed it to the old warrior. “See if you can find something warm to eat and drink.” “Thank you kindly, guv’na.” A weary smile settled on his whiskered face as he stuffed the money in his trousers and hurried away into the rain-soaked darkness. He would probably head for the nearest pub, but he could get a bite to eat to go with his ale. A uniformed porter held open the door. “Sorry about that, sir. We try to keep him away, but it’s near impossible, and on a night like this I feel right sorry for the old bugger.” “No need to apologize; no harm done.” Grey hurried into the lobby’s warmth. Cold weather had awakened the pain of his leg injury. Fortunately, the heat would loosen up the stiff muscles. “Are you Commander Hamilton, sir?” the porter asked. Grey nodded. “There’s a gentleman waiting for you in the office to the left. He said to tell you just to knock when you arrived.” The familiar marble corridor was dotted with potted ferns. Huge oil paintings in gilded frames hung on the walls in muted shades of blue and gold that blended with the carpet runner. Before the war this had been the premier address for young aristocrats, but the old girl was looking a little worse for wear. He strode to the door the porter had indicated, and knocked. A cultured masculine voice invited him to enter. Grey closed the door behind him and studied the man, who stood and offered his hand. He was tall and lean, tending toward the frail side, his skin pale, brown hair neatly brushed, with light blue eyes. Near Grey’s own age of thirty-three, the cuffs of his double-breasted pinstriped suit were slightly frayed but still in fair condition. Tailors and fabric were in short supply in Britain, and, like everything else, were rationed. The man extended his hand. “Nigel Lewis, Special Branch, and you are Commander Hamilton, I presume.” “Yes,” Grey said. “Have a seat, Commander, and I’ll tell you why you’ve been sent here.” He waited until Grey was seated before he continued. “There’s been a murder upstairs, apartment 3C. She’s French, her name is Jacky Vidal, strangled with her scarf. She worked at Bletchley Park.” Grey immediately understood why he was here. He wasn’t a police inspector, but anything connected to the Government Code and Cypher School required the attention of Military Intelligence. The victim was a cryptanalyst at GC&CS. The Ultra program was the best-kept secret in England, and it was imperative that it stay that way. Unless, of course, Miss Vidal had already leaked their secret to the wrong people. Lewis probably didn’t even have security clearance. Few people outside of Bletchley Park did. The possibility the Nazis knew their secrets would be catastrophic. If Germany discovered Enigma had been broken, they would change the codes. The loss of information from German radio and tele-printer communications would be disastrous for Military Intelligence. They depended heavily on data of troop and ship movements from intercepted messages. Even worse, Germany wouldn’t change the code but would instead use Enigma to send false information. Lewis handed him a file. “This is all we have on Jacky Vidal and Grace Sullivan.” “Who’s Sullivan?” “She found the body, and also works at GC&CS. They were on scheduled leave this week.” Grey let his gaze sweep the room. “Is Vidal from a wealthy family? I know the cost of a flat here and I also know what those women earn.” Lewis shook his head. “That information isn’t in her personnel records. It’ll be your job to find out where the money came from.” “Has Scotland Yard arrived?” Lewis nodded. “Yes, an hour or so ago. Miss Sullivan had her head about her. She called Commander Dennison at the Park right after she determined Miss Vidal was dead. He notified the Director General, who called Special Branch. We made the call to the Yard. Inspector Milford has been assigned to the case.” “Aubrey Milford?” Grey asked. “Yes, I believe that’s his name. Do you know him?” “We were at Eton together. He’s a good man.” Lewis stood, ending the meeting. “I was instructed to tell you that your charge is to find out if Miss Vidal’s murder has anything to do with GC&CS, and if she compromised the operation in any way. I don’t have to tell you how important that is, Commander.” He was right. Grey knew that all too well. As he turned to leave, Lewis stopped him. “I’ve arranged for Inspector Milford to work with you. If this proves to be just a random murder, he will take over at that point.” “Understood.” Grey closed the door behind him and stepped to the lift. The door stood open and the operator, a short, plump girl with a friendly smile, straightened her posture when he approached then followed him inside. She took him to the third floor without asking where he wanted to go. He checked his pocket watch. At four-thirty in the morning, number three was likely the only floor seeing any activity. Sane people were still snuggled into their warm beds. The door to 3C was open. In a small alcove that smelled of Chanel No. 5. Aubrey Milford stood with a gray-haired man in a black suit holding a medical bag. Grey assumed he was the Home Office pathologist. Aubrey hadn’t changed a lot since university. His face had lost its boyish softness and he’d matured into a polished gentleman with film-star good looks. His green eyes and light brown hair revealed none of his Jewish lineage. Grey was one of very few people aware he had been adopted. His English parents deliberately kept his ethnicity secret. Almost as much anti-Semitism existed in the English upper classes as there was in Germany. The Inspector waved Grey over, beamed, and gave his hand a firm squeeze. “It’s been a long time, Grey. Lewis told me you were on your way.” Milford introduced his companion as Dr. Gordon Bruce, then said, “Dr. Bruce was about to give me some idea as to the time of death.” “Aye, she’s been in full rigor, and from the condition of the body she hasn’t been dead long. My guess would be the lass died aboot three to four hours ago, as the rigor is relaxing somewhat. If yer through here, Inspector, I’ll take her on to the university for autopsy.” “By all means, Doctor. I’ll be in touch with you later.” Through the bedroom doorway, Grey watched as two men transferred the silk-nightgown- clad body of the young woman from the bed onto a gurney and covered it with white sheets. Grey watched the gurney disappear into the hallway and glanced at Milford. “She’s African?” “Mixed, which accounts for her light coloring. Her father was French, her mother an African tribal princess, or so I’m told.” Milford gave a frustrated shake of his head. “It’s a bloody shame. She was a beautiful girl. Too young to meet such a tragic end.” Milford heaved a deep breath and seemed to collect himself. He nodded at a man with a camera strapped to his shoulder. “He’s the Special Branch photographer and is just finishing up. He has snapped photos of the bedroom and the body. We have also collected the other evidence from the flat. I’ll see you have access to everything. Would you like to speak to the young woman who found the body?” “Yes, if she’s still available. Sullivan is Irish, I take it?” “She’s American,” the Inspector said, and motioned for Grey to go first through the doorway. “Her apartment is just down the corridor.” He chuckled. “My sergeant has been quite beside himself in her presence. Says she reminds him of a Swedish film star whose name he can’t recall. I say, if I weren’t an engaged man, I would get in queue for that young lady’s hand.” Aubrey hadn’t changed in the years since Grey last saw him—still a Lothario. Grey’s attention was also turned to Miss Sullivan, but for a different reason. He almost voiced the first thoughts that came to mind. How was it that an American had been allowed to work at England’s top-secret code-breaking facility? And why would a young American girl be in war-torn England at all? Indeed. These were questions he intended to put directly to Miss Sullivan. They made their way down a long corridor to 3B, and Milford rang the bell. The door opened and the Inspector stepped forward. “Sorry to disturb you, Miss Sullivan, but we have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind.” “Of course, Inspector. I wasn’t sure you would return tonight, or should I say this morning. But I couldn’t sleep anyway. Please come in.” She stepped aside for them to enter, and Grey had his first look at Grace Sullivan. He immediately knew the actress whose name the sergeant couldn’t remember. Cynthia, his fiancée, had lured him into seeing Intermezzo, an American film starring Ingrid Bergman, and Miss Sullivan had the same fresh-faced natural beauty of the star. She was of average height, probably five-feet-five-inches. She wore a green wool dressing gown that managed to look both warm and elegant at the same time. Dark blond hair hung in loose waves around her shoulders, and her deep sapphire eyes appeared more shocked than grief-stricken. That wasn’t unusual. People were often first traumatized by violent death. The grief would come later. “This is Commander Grey Hamilton, Miss Sullivan. Because of Miss Vidal’s connection to Bletchley Park, he is working closely with Scotland Yard.” Milford sniffed the air. “Good heavens, is that real coffee I smell? You must have a good friend in the black market.” Her lips formed a slight smile. “No, just a mother in America who sends care packages regularly. Would you like some? I just made a fresh pot.” “I would love it,” Milford said without embarrassment. “The ersatz barleycorn substitute at the Yard is ghastly.” She led them into the small kitchen. “Have a seat while I get the coffee. We can talk in here.” Grey watched the young woman move into the kitchen, her poise obviously shaken by the death of her friend. She was acting the gracious hostess, but the sadness in her eyes said she would rather be elsewhere. A few moments later, she returned, placed a service tray on the table, and poured three cups. Milford took a long sip from his cup and flashed her a dashing smile. “And you have cream and sugar. It’s a wonder your pantry hasn’t been plundered by your neighbors.” “It isn’t real cream, just evaporated milk, but it’s better than nothing.” She gave a half-hearted smile. “There does seem to be a telegraph system in the building. When a package arrives from home, I’m suddenly the most popular woman in the complex.” “God bless mothers,” Grey said, not trying to hide the cynicism. He was tired and he wanted to get down to the business at hand. “How long have you been at Bletchley Park, Miss Sullivan?” “A little over a year.” Milford took out his notebook. Grey didn’t need to take notes; he had total recall, a blessing and a curse in his profession. “Tell us when and how it is that you found Miss Vidal’s body,” Grey said. “I’d gone out to dinner with a friend, and when I returned I found a note asking me to come see her, no matter what time I came in. I thought it must be important, so I went right over. I knocked on the door, and when she didn’t answer I went in. The door wasn’t locked and the lights were on.” She stopped and bit at her lower lip. “That’s when I found her . . .” “Is it normal for you to walk into Miss Vidal’s home if she doesn’t answer the door?” Grey asked. “Yes, if the door wasn’t locked it meant she was home alone. We were very informal.” Grey finished the coffee and set the cup aside. “Do you still have the note, and have you any idea why she sent it?” She reached into the pocket of her robe, withdrew a folded note written on quality stationery, and passed it across the table to him. “I have no idea what she wanted. It wasn’t like her to leave a note. That’s why I thought it important.” “Give me the name of your dinner date. It’s just routine, but we’ll need to confirm it.” She retrieved a notepad from a nearby desk and wrote down the name. “He works at Bletchley also. I’ll spell his name for you. He’s Polish.” “How well did you know Jacky Vidal?” Grey folded the papers and passed them to Milford. Her voice dropped to a low pitch and she blinked twice before answering. “I met her at work. We discovered we lived in the same building. Our leave rotations were scheduled together and we became friends. She was gifted, kind, and fun-loving.” Her grip tightened on the cup handle and she stared down into the liquid as if seeing the face of her friend. “I’ll miss her.” “Did she have any special suitors you are aware of?” She took a sip and gazed at him over the cup’s rim. “She had many men friends, but only two she saw regularly. A man she called Old Foss, a nickname I think, and an RAF lieutenant, Geoffrey Whitman. I met the lieutenant a few months ago, and I met Old Foss once in the elevator as they were going out.” “How did she afford to live here?” “I’m unsure of her family’s financial position . . .” She paused for a moment, staring at the blackout curtains covering the French doors. “I suppose you’ll find out anyway. Her friend, Old Foss, paid for the apartment.” Grey leaned back in his chair and studied her face. “So you met this ‘Old Foss’?” She gave a slight nod. “Only the brief encounter in the elevator.” “Can you give us a description?” Milford asked. “Tall, about six-feet, blue eyes, dark hair with a touch of gray at the temples.” She hesitated, apparently collecting her thoughts, then continued. “I would guess he was early to mid-forties. Not handsome like the lieutenant, but quite distinguished and extremely well-dressed.” Milford tapped his pencil on his notebook. “Anything else you can tell us about Jacky Vidal?” “She was beautiful, brilliant, and had a lovely French accent.” Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Her parents shipped her to England to finish college when Hitler began conquering one European country after another. Her father lived through one German occupation and didn’t want that to happen to Jacky.” Grey didn’t try to mask his suspicious nature when he spoke. “Do you have a ‘friend’, Miss Sullivan? Is that how you afford to live here?” Aubrey’s face tensed and he glared at Grey, but he didn’t speak. She lifted her chin and gave him a frosty glare. “No, Commander, I have a wealthy father.” Grey stood and pulled Aubrey aside, speaking in a hushed whisper. “You don’t have security clearance for the questions I need to ask Miss Sullivan about her work. I’ll need to speak to her in private for a few minutes. I’ll meet you outside shortly.” Milford nodded and spoke to the young woman. “Thanks for the coffee. It was a wonderful change from the usual war-brew. I have things to tie up next door. When you are finished with the Commander, I would like you to walk through Miss Vidal’s flat and see if you notice anything missing. I know it’s bad form to ask at this late hour, but it might be important.” “Of course,” she said. The door clicked as Milford left, and Grey returned to his seat across from Miss Sullivan. “Do you work with Joan Clarke in Hut 8?” Grey asked. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Before I answer any questions about my work, Commander, I need to see some identification. I had to sign a secrecy document in order to work on Ultra. Discussing my job with unauthorized personnel is considered treason. Your title is Commander, yet you’re not in uniform.” Grey placed his credentials on the table. “I’m no longer in the Royal Navy, Miss Sullivan. I’m with MI6. We occupy the top floor at Bletchley Mansion. I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other.” She scrutinized his credentials, then nodded and shoved them back to him. “I work in Cottage 3 with Alan Turing, among others, although I’m what they call a floater. I go wherever I’m needed.” He tried to hide his surprise. Turing’s team was the top echelon of the project. British Intelligence had been provided a copy of a prospectus written by the military attaché at the American Embassy in Berlin. In October of 1923, the attaché witnessed a demonstration with a working model of Enigma. The man who had demonstrated the machine was Arthur Scherbius, the Berlin engineer who had assumed the patents from its inventor, Hugo Koch. Enclosed in the report about the Enigma machine, the prospectus claimed it was capable of producing 22 billion different code combinations. “If one man worked continuously day and night and tried a different cipher-key every minute,” the prospectus said, “it would take him 42,000 years to exhaust all combination possibilities.” England had obtained the machine, code-named Ultra, but not the key that would unlock the codes. Alan Turing was designing a computer to do just that. Until then, hundreds of men and women worked around the clock to find a thousand needles in a thousand haystacks. “No offense, Miss Sullivan, but how is it that you, a young woman . . . I’m guessing you’re about twenty-one . . . an American . . . was allowed to join some of the finest minds in England?” “I’m twenty-three. My mother is English. I was born at Moorhead Manor, my aunt’s home near Sandringham, Norfolk. I have dual citizenship. “I met Commander Dennison at one of my aunt’s dinner parties. After listening to her rave about my linguistic talents, he invited me to test for the project. I have two God-given gifts that Commander Dennison thought would be an asset. Namely, a gift for languages, I speak six, and a talent for solving puzzles. I tested and he offered me a position on the team.” “How nice for you.” “You obviously haven’t worked on Ultra, Commander.”
DOWNFALL Chapter 1 The Connelly Home Twin Falls, Texas Shannon Connelly stepped out of the shower and slipped into a warm, woolly robe. Toes digging into the carpet’s thick pile, she walked across to the bedroom window and opened the drapes. Sleet pinged against the windows and she shivered. Mid-January had arrived with a rare winter storm, the worst in years. She gazed into the distance as large, white flakes almost obscured the second-floor view of the neighborhood. Almost. Across the street, movement in the near white-out caught her attention. Human or animal? Too tall to be an animal. Odd. Most likely her overactive imagination at work. She was nearsighted and her contact lenses still lay in the case on the nightstand. She turned away from the view and punched her feet into furry house slippers. With a dismissive shrug, she put the scene out of her mind and trailed downstairs. No work today, thank Heaven. After hearing the weather forecast yesterday, she’d made an executive decision to close the country club. Sundays were usually slow in the winter months anyway. No need to put her staff in danger for the few folks who might show up. As the club’s manager, one of her many responsibilities was also the safety of the members. They didn’t need to be out on the bad roads. Spending a rare day off with her husband was an opportunity she intended to take full advantage of. Unlike her, Colin never worked weekends; one of the perks of being president of Twin Falls Bank and Trust. The aroma of fresh brewed coffee welcomed her into the kitchen. She slid onto a seat at the bar, and Colin handed her a steaming cup of dark French Roast. He leaned over and kissed her brow. “Morning, Love. How about eggs Benedict for breakfast, in honor of my having you all to myself today?” She sniffed the coffee like a fine wine before taking a sip, and observed her husband. At forty-five, Colin Connelly was twelve years older than she, and two inches taller than her own five-foot-nine-inch height; a little overweight, but firm bodied and very sexy with his shaved head. Not only was he brilliant and an attentive mate, he was also an amazing cook. She shifted her weight on the bar stool. “Sounds wonderful. You spoil me.” A scratching sound on the kitchen door drew her attention. “What on earth…” She set her cup on the counter, shuffled her furry slippers across the tile floor, and hoped it wasn’t another raccoon. Last summer, when she’d heard a noise outside and opened the door, the masked animal sprinted into the house. It had taken her and a neighbor half a day to trap that sucker. She peered through the window panel in the door and blinked. A white bulldog stood on the doorstep, almost invisible in the snow except for two pleading obsidian eyes. “It’s Sugar, from across the street,” Shannon said and cast a quizzical glance at her husband. “Why would she be outside? The Davenports have a doggie-door.” Sugar’s chubby little body hurtled inside when the portal opened. The muscular mutt was too heavy to lift, so Shannon enticed her further into the kitchen with a slice of maple-flavored ham. Colin removed his oven mitt and knelt to scratch behind the dog’s ear. He glanced up at Shannon, his brow wrinkled into a frown. “I think she’s hurt. She has blood on her mouth and paws.” “I wonder what she’s been into.” Shannon said more to herself than to Colin. She stepped into the bathroom off the kitchen and came back with a warm washcloth. With little cooperation from Sugar, she scrubbed the dog’s paws and mouth. “You’re just a great big ol’ baby, Sugar.” Shannon smiled and gave her another treat. Sugar wasted no time making the ham disappear, and then settled on a rug in the living room in front of the fireplace. “I’ll call Kathy and let her know we have Sugar, so she won’t worry.” Shannon picked up the cordless phone on the breakfast bar and dialed Kathy’s number. No answer. “Guess they’re not at home. Maybe at church. After breakfast, while you shower, I’ll take Sugar home.” Collin turned from the stove to face his wife. “Maybe Taylor can come and pick up Sugar, or I’ll take her after I get dressed,” Colin said. “Taylor isn’t at home this weekend. She went on a church retreat with her Sunday school class. Won’t be home until tonight. I’ll take Sugar. It’s not a problem.” Venturing out into the snowstorm wasn’t something Shannon looked forward to, but Art and Kathy would be concerned about their pet. They doted on the spoiled mutt. Shannon swallowed the last delicious bite of breakfast and went upstairs to don Eskimo gear for the trek across the street: a warm, fashionable ski outfit, and boots she’d worn on their last trip to Vail. The belt from her bathrobe made a serviceable leash for the canine house guest. With a reluctant Sugar in tow, Shannon trudged across the street to the Davenports’ front door and rang the bell. No response. She rang again. Still nothing. She looked through the garage window. Both cars were inside. Funny. Lights blazed in the entryway. Perhaps the Davenports were ill. Flu season had hit Twin Falls hard. News reports claimed local hospitals were full. She made her way around to the back, admiring the beauty of the white landscape. Cedars, heavy with snow, and bare oak limbs hung with shiny icicles, like a scene from a Christmas card. Sugar’s earlier paw prints leading away from the house became a darker red the closer Shannon came to the back door. When she knocked and tried to push Sugar through the doggie-door, the dog whined and balked, staying close to Shannon’s side. Again, the knock went unanswered. She exhaled an exasperated breath and moved to the back windows, which presented an unobstructed view into the living room. The sight turned her feet to stone on the hard-packed snow. Bile burned the back of her throat and tears welled in her eyes. Panic suddenly released her stupor. She scurried across the street, burst through the front door, and crashed into Colin. He reached out to prevent her falling face-first onto the tile floor. “Colin, oh, Colin.” She took deep gulps of air to slow her heart and quell her trembling hands. “Something terrible has happened to the Davenports.”
Chapter 1 “Down these mean streets a man must go who himself is not mean neither tarnished nor afraid.” -Raymond Chandler Willow St. Clare Twin Falls, Texas If Willow St. Claire had known what lay ahead for her that day, she would have called in sick. Foresight is a wonderful thing. The only foreshadow of things to come were the dark clouds forming outside the bay window , and the lightning flashes followed by rolling thunder. At the sound of her 6:30 am alarm, Willow opened her eyes to the familiar surroundings of her bedroom. It was a beautiful room, a lovely and elegant home in an exclusive community in Twin Falls. The prime real estate sat on a man-made lake complete with boathouse and dock. On her present salary, she couldn’t afford to live here. The property came to her when her mother died four years ago. Despite the home’s title being free and clear, the upkeep, insurance, property tax and Homeowners Association fees strained her budget to the limit. Unless her financial situation improved drastically, she would have to sell out next year. It would be hard. She had deep emotional ties to the place. She expelled a soft groan. Freeway traffic would be a beast on the drive to downtown Dallas in the rain. Texans didn’t know how to drive on wet streets. They had two speeds, too slow and too fast. Neither appropriate for slippery roads. After a quick shower she dressed , added lip gloss and a touch of blush then pulled her long Auburn hair into a ponytail. She added matching earrings then grabbed her handbag and briefcase. After slipping on black pumps, she flipped off the lights and closed the bedroom door. She found Lucas her almost five-year-old son, in the kitchen finishing his breakfast. Murphy, her Gray and black, eighty-five pound German Shepard lay at his feet. She thumped her tail on the tile when Willow entered. The big animal was a former Marine bomb dog. Her father adopted Murphy, whom he lovingly called Jarhead, shortly before his death. Murphy acted like Lucas was her pup. The two were almost inseparable. “Good Morning, Delores,” she called to the plump fifty-something Hispanic woman, standing at the sink. Delores was the live-in housekeeper and baby-sitter. She wore a bright flowered dress and a crisp white apron. Delores Flores had been with Willow three years. She had become family. They met when Willow hired her to clean house. One afternoon on her scheduled cleaning day, Willow brought sandwiches from a local delicatessen and invited the shy woman to join her on the patio. It was then Delores timidly confided her home situation. She lived with her son, David and daughter-in-law, Carmen. Carmen resented the unwanted presence in the home and was verbally abusive. Willow privately wondered if the son’s wife had also been physically abusive as well, but she didn’t ask. Delores was so sweet you couldn’t help but like her. Willow felt bad for her and pondered the gentle woman’s dilemma overnight. The following day, she offered Delores a full-time job as a live-in nanny. She accepted and the deal was set. It had been a perfect arrangement for them both. She turned to Willow with a warm smile and gentle eyes. “Buenos dios, senora. I have your toast and tea ready.” Thank you. Would you please put the tea in a thermos cup so I can take it with me? We need to leave early because of the weather. “Sure. No problem o.” She poured the tea in a thermos cup with a Dallas Cowboy emblem, wrapped the toast in foil and placed both on the island. Willow kissed the top of Luke’s head. “You need to finish up, babe so I can drop you off at school a little early. He grinned and scooped in the last bite of oatmeal, wiped his mouth then grabbed his backpack. “All done.” Willow helped Luke into his rain gear and directed her attention to Delores. “You won’t need to pick him up afterschool today. He is spending the night with the Bishops. Tomorrow is Chad’s birthday. They were planning a backyard campout, but I’m sure the rain will move it inside to the game room. I’ll pick him up Saturday. I’m also taking Murphy. The Bishops love her and she’ll whine all night if Lucas is gone. Will you be okay until I get home later tonight?” “Sure, I’ll watch TV then go to bed. No worries. “Why don’t you order something good from Uber Eats and have a relaxing evening?” “Sounds like a good idea. I’ll order in fried chicken then find an old Fernando Lamas movie. He’s my crush. she giggled like a school girl. Willow laughed and gave her a hug. “Enjoy. I’ll see you later.” *** At seven-forty-five Willow dropped her son and Murphy off at Twin Falls Baptist Academy. Murphy was the school mascot. Pastor Seth Davidson greeted his charges with a smile and shepherded them inside. She Pulled from under the church portico and minutes later merged into highway 75 freeway traffic to Downtown Dallas. Lightening flashed in the darkening sky. The heavens opened in a deluge that followed her all the way to the office.
Chapter 1 The Black Pearl Yacht Off the Coast of Libya Sam Roberts stood in the cabin’s doorway watching Sergei Cherkesov adjust his tie. Considered by most women to be handsome with his high cheekbones and the dark coloring of his Slavic ancestors. Tall, broad shouldered with perfect white teeth, which flashed often when he was in a good mood. The most despicable man Sam Roberts had ever encountered. Hired six months ago as the Russian’s personal bodyguard, Sam was charged with keeping the slimy rat alive. “I won’t need you tonight, my friend. I’ve persuaded the lovely Miss Winter Merton to come aboard the yacht. I’ve been trying to lure her here for weeks.” The Russian spoke in a slightly accented voice then smiled at his reflection in the mirror, smoothing his straight, dark hair with a brush. “This will be a memorable evening, and I don’t want any interruptions.” Tension tightened Sam’s chest, and he had to work to keep his voice calm. “If this is the missionary you’ve been telling me about, I wouldn’t make any long-range plans.” The big Russian laughed. “Don’t worry about me. There are ways to persuade an unwilling lady.” Great . . . Just great. Sam was one week away from completing his job as Cherkesov’s bodyguard and getting off this wretched ship. Sam clamped his mouth closed on a quick retort then left the cabin before he did something that would jeopardize his mission. His Mossad handler in Tel Aviv sent Sam to get information on the Russian’s involvement in arms and munitions flowing to Palestinian terrorist groups through a man known only as “The Viper.” The elusive terrorist bought guns, bombs, and rocket launchers from Cherkesov. The Viper had also financed construction of the tunnels under Israeli defense walls to kidnap and murder Jewish citizens. The man was at the top of Mossad’s most wanted list. Cherkesov was to meet the buyer in Benghazi the following Tuesday. Agency informants received credible intel that Cherkesov was the man selling the war weapons to the elusive Muslim financier for use by Hezbollah, al-Qaeda, and other smaller factions. Israel intended to chop off one of the Hydras’ heads at the source. All Sam needed was a name. He was set to accompany his boss to a meeting with the buyer in Benghazi in seven days. Once Sam identified the source, he could put Cherkesov and his terrorist partner out of business. Permanently. Sam wrestled his conscience while heading for the upper deck. He could let this girl fall into Cherkesov’s hands or come to her aid and undermine the assignment . . . a project he’d been working on for months. A mission critical to protecting his country. Any woman stupid enough to associate with Sergei Cherkesov deserved whatever happened to her. Maybe not. Muttering under his breath at the turn of events, he stomped up the stairwell and stood at the railing, filling his lungs with the salty breeze to release some of the anger. Distant harbor lights reflected off the calm silvery sea. Deceptively serene. Men in tailored suits and women in barely-there dresses mingled around the bar and lavish buffet. Disco music blared from hidden speakers, making it difficult to hear. Just a typical evening aboard the Black Pearl. Sam was dressed casually in a tan linen jacket over jeans and a short-sleeved Polo shirt. The coat gave him ease of movement and concealed the Sig P229 that hung under his left arm in a shoulder holster. A silent group of men clothed in black, with AK47s strapped over their shoulders, patrolled the boat’s perimeter. Supposedly to protect the vessel and guests from pirates, but their real purpose was to keep passengers onboard until Cherkesov permitted them to leave. As was his custom, Sam ignored the music and laughter. Cherkesov attracted politicians, businessmen, and prostitutes to this weekly social event like caviar to crackers. He bought power with money, blackmail, or intimidation. And somehow, he had lured a missionary onboard. Incredible. Sam scanned the crowd looking for Cherkesov’s latest victim. She had to be attractive, or his boss wouldn’t have been interested. And considering her vocation, she should stand out from the other scantily-clad beauties. No one matching the description he’d conjured up came into view. He pushed off the railing and moved into the partygoers’ midst. A woman he knew as Jill, a regular onboard, grabbed his arm. “Have a drink with me later, Sam?” He removed her hand. “Don’t count on it. I’m working.” She pouted prettily and turned away. After a few minutes, he spotted the missionary. A group of unsavory characters had moved into her personal space, pressing her back against the bar. Her hazel eyes were widened with concern. Dark brown curls with gold highlights hung past her thin shoulders. No more than five-feet-two, she had the plush lips of a child and could pass for a twelve-year-old. A look women paid plastic surgeons a fortune to achieve. If she had added a too-long string of pearls to her simple black dress and a smearing of red lipstick, she’d look like a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes. He groaned. The face of his sister flashed into his mind. Why did this girl have to look like such an innocent? He rubbed his finger across his lower lip weighing what coming to her rescue would cost him. He could imagine what his handler in Tel Aviv would say. Nothing that could be repeated in mixed company. Sam would find himself in an unemployment line or at the North Pole monitoring Russian radio signals. Cherkesov stood at the top of the stairs, his gaze searching the crowd. A vision of the girl in Sergei’s clutches made Sam’s decision. A decision he already regretted. He strode across the deck to the girl. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Sam said, taking her thin but toned arm. “I need to borrow Miss Merton for a moment.” She cast him a grateful look. “How do you know my name? Do you work for Mr. Cherkesov? Is he ready to see me now?” Sam led her to an alcove out of his boss’s sight. “Not after tonight I don’t. You were easy to spot. And yes, he’s looking for you. But trust me, you don’t want him to find you. What on earth possessed you to come aboard this yacht?” A quizzical wrinkle formed between her brows. “I—I don’t understand. I met him at the American Consulate in Tripoli. Why?” “Figures.” Sam heaved an exasperated breath. “You shouldn’t be here. Do you know what this boat is used for?” How could he tactfully explain what she’d fallen into before Cherkesov found them? No time for tact. “Miss Merton, this is a floating bordello.” A pink tint flushed her cheeks. She tried to push past him. “I don’t believe you.” He held her in place. “You’d better believe me. Take a close look at the women onboard and tell me you can’t see it. Why do you think those men were hovering around you? You’re fresh bait.” She peeked around him. Her face paled signaling an acute awareness as the reality of her situation dawned. She blinked, hazel eyes wide. “Then why did your boss invite me here?” Could anyone be this naive? He cocked his head and raised one eyebrow. “You’ll have to figure that one out for yourself. Why did you come?” “Mr. Cherkesov promised a large contribution to our mission hospital in Kenya. We need medical equipment and supplies for the clinic.” She leaned back against the bulkhead, a white-knuckled grip on her handbag, then moved towards the open deck. “How do I get out of here?” Sam nearly missed grabbing her arm as she twisted away from him. “This boat has tighter exit security than Libya does.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “No one leaves without Cherkesov’s permission. No one.” “He can’t hold me here against my will.” “You’re kidding, right? What do you think the men in black are for? If we try to take a launch, those guys will open fire. You were duped into coming here, and I’m going to try to get you off the boat without getting us both killed.” She took two deep breaths as though she might hyperventilate. Looked like she finally realized the gravity of her situation. “Then how—?” Her dark gaze found his in the dim lighting, and she lifted her chin. “Tell me what I need to do. I’m not as helpless as I look.” “I certainly hope not.” He moved them farther back into the shadows. Getting off the yacht was just the first step. They would have to make their way to the American Consulate then ensure she was on the next flight out of Libya. Scanning the crowd, Sam plumbed his mind for a way off The Pearl without getting caught. He didn’t want to think what would happen to both of them. Cherkesov wouldn’t let his bodyguard leave alive if he could stop him. Sam knew too much. The Russian would chase him like the Hounds of Baskerville. He secured his wallet and gun then reached into an orange bin of lifejackets and removed two. Great, reflective tape. They’d be visible for ten miles. He tested the threads and slipped his Bench-Made switchblade from his pocket. “I’ve got a knife on my keychain. It belonged to my grandfather.” She dug through her purse and handed him a small folding blade then shrugged. “It’s not very big, but it should be easier to cut through the threads than yours.” He sized her up again. So, she wasn’t totally helpless. Working on her jacket first, he quickly removed the reflective tape. If they were discovered, he would toss her overboard. She could make it to shore alone. He could take care of himself. Finished, he handed the life preserver to her. “I hope you can swim.” She fastened it on over her handbag strapped across her chest and gave him a curt nod. “Olympic caliber. But I don’t usually swim in a dress and pantyhose.” “That’s the least of your worries. This is North Africa. The water this close to the harbor is nasty, if you know what I mean. That’s why we’re anchored a mile offshore. Be careful not to ingest it.” She wrinkled her nose and gave an involuntary shiver. He hastily removed the reflective tape from his life vest, donned it, and secured his cell phone in the waterproof pocket. He held out the knife and she slipped it into her purse. They waited until a guard passed out of sight then crossed to the railing. “No splashing. Use a breast stroke until we’re well away from here.” He helped her over the side then climbed down the ladder and slipped silently into the sea. The Mediterranean’s water temperature this time of year hovered around eighty degrees but that didn’t decrease the chill factor. People could die of hypothermia at that temperature. The body’s core temp only had to drop six degrees to cause organ failure. As if he needed something else to worry about. Once on shore, with his dark features, he could pass as Arab. She could as well, but not in their present clothing. He could fix that once they were in the city. He spoke Arabic, Farsi, Hebrew, English and a few other languages. It was doubtful she was fluent in Arabic, but if she kept her mouth shut, no one would know. “I hope you’re prayed up, Miss Merton,” he whispered as they struck out for the shore. “We’re going to need all the help we can get.” Sam headed towards the beach, the girl swimming easily beside him. He avoided the harbor. That would be the Russian thug’s first stop. They would question everyone there. He glanced back at the ship from time to time, looking for unusual activity on the deck. So far the party appeared still in full swing. But the minute Cherkesov realized the girl had slipped through his fingers, the launches would be loaded and a full-scale search would get underway. Sam figured they’d use up about twenty minutes searching the ship to ensure they weren’t hiding on board, then the boats would hit the water. Sergei didn’t take kindly to having his plans thwarted. As they neared the beach, their feet touched the sandy bottom, and they waded ashore. Sam helped Winter out of her life vest then removed his own. He scanned the area then walked across the warm sand and hid the vests in the brush. Sam removed his coat and hooked it over his shoulder with one finger. Heading up the beach towards the lights, they walked along the edge of the tide to keep from leaving footprints. Once they reached the city, they’d have to find cover quickly. There was a Mossad safe house in Benghazi, but it was too far to walk. Besides, he had no intention of taking the girl there. He looked over his shoulder and saw Winter shiver. The wet black dress clung to her thin frame like a second skin. The good news was with the temperature in the mid-eighties, and with the physical exertion, she would warm up fast. He turned around walking backwards, watching her. “You okay?” “Y-yes.” She grabbed the hem of her dress and squeezed out a stream of water, trying to keep up with his long strides. “It’s a m-miracle fabric. It doesn’t wrinkle, and it dries quickly. But I lost my sh-shoes in the water.” “Tell me, how did you wind up with a name like Winter?” She grinned. “Three older sisters named Spring, Summer, and Autumn. I’m the last one.” He spun back around, a smile tugging at his lips. “I guess that explains it.” Night air against his skin was hot and dry, and the salty seawater made his skin crawl as he dried out. Cool waves felt good against his legs. She caught his arm and stopped him then pushed back a lock of wet hair from her face. “So what do we do now?” He paused and took in her bedraggled appearance. “Get you back to the safety of the Consulate, and we don’t have time to stop for a discussion.” He started on down the beach talking as he went. “Then you’ll get an armed escort to the airport tomorrow morning to catch a flight home, wherever that is. Are you quartered inside the Compound?” “Yes,” she called from a few steps behind him. “I just arrived this morning.” He glanced down at his watch. Almost ten o’clock. “They’re probably locked down for the night. Does Cherkesov know where you’re staying?” “I never told him. I wouldn’t have given him my address even if he’d asked, but I’m sure he knows I’m at the Consulate. A woman can’t travel alone in Middle Eastern countries. I wouldn’t be welcome at the hotels.” He halted, but kept his eyes on the beach behind them. “I’ll take you to your residence. They’ll probably put me up for the night as well. It’s a big place. Tomorrow, I’ll see you safely to the airport.” Even though she’d followed him off the ship without question, swam a mile and kept the pace he’d set, he couldn’t suppress the resentment eating away at him. Because of her, he had to desert the job he’d been sent to do. He looked up at the sky and shook his head. At least she kept her mouth shut. Hadn’t complained once. They reached the edge of the city, and he glanced over his shoulder. The girl had dropped behind about ten paces. A glance at her bare feet told him why. She was picking her way through the rocks and debris, limping. Annoyed with himself that he’d failed to notice her predicament, he strode to her. “Here, get on my back.” “I beg your pardon?” “Didn’t your daddy ever give you a piggyback ride when you were little?” He knelt in front of her. “Yes, but I can’t . . .” “Sure you can. Come on. I can’t kneel here all night.” She climbed on his back and locked her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. He placed his arms under her knees and hoisted her higher. “You set?” She gave a soft laugh. “Yes, but this is embarrassing.” “For both of us, but it will save your feet until I can find you some shoes. It’s also not kosher in a Middle Eastern country, but neither is the way you’re dressed. If we run into any locals, we’ll just have to show them your feet and tell them we’re married.” “You can’t carry me far like this: It’s too much . . .” “I’ve marched ten miles in boots through desert sand in hundred-degree weather with a fifty-pound backpack. I think I can carry a hundred-pound girl two miles.” Marching forward, Sam glanced across the water at the Black Pearl. Men rushed around the deck, and a launch was lowered into the sea. The cat was out of the bag now. Cherkesov would be livid. Sam could imagine his reaction and foul comments. He increased his pace. “We have to hurry. Looks like Cherkesov just discovered we’re missing.” A thunderous explosion filled the night, followed by another, then another. Bright flames glowed against the dark sky, and the ominous sounds of automatic gunfire filled the night air. He knew those sounds. Rocket-propelled grenades and Gelatin IEDs. Maybe both. From the direction of the blaze on the skyline and the explosions, it had to be the Consulate under heavy fire. Then it hit him. Today was September 11th. They had bigger problems than Sergei Cherkesov.
Chapter 1 Kane Chalet Christmas Tyme, Colorado Sean McGregor pulled his rented four-wheel drive Jeep Cherokee onto the last turn before reaching his destination. It had been a harrowing drive up a steep snowy two-lane road with the mountain on one side and a sheer drop-off on the other. The stress of the drive worsened his already bad mood. He hated driving in snow. His home was in Key Biscayne, Florida for a reason. He would rather deal with a category five hurricane than ice and snow. He came to this isolated area because he needed this job. The climate in Florida was not good for him right now…the business climate, not the weather. The lawsuit he lost emptied his bank account, ruined his business, and tarnished the reputation he spent a decade building. Despite his near-death experiences getting here, he had to admit the scenery was beautiful. The forested mountain, covered in white powder, glistened in the Jeep’s headlights. He rounded a curve and the chalet came into view, its stone façade bathed in bright exterior lights. Sean took two deep breaths and his blood pressure dropped from stroke level to normal. Here the ground was level. He eased the vehicle to a stop at the front entrance. The chalet, known locally as Kane’s Kastle, was a private residence, yet it looked like an exclusive Alpine resort. Three floors rose above the snowy landscape. In a place that big, he hoped they could find him a room for the night. Driving back down the mountain to find a hotel was not the way he wanted this evening to end. Interior lights that glowed against the dark overcast sky showcased the peaked roof and tall glass windows which extended to the second floor. A large man dressed in a black coat, scarf, and beaver hat stepped from the entrance and opened Sean’s car door. “My name is Doyle, Mr. McGregor. Just leave the keys. I’ll park the car in the garage in back. Mrs. Kane is waiting for you just inside.” A cold wind stung Sean’s face as he stepped from the automobile. Snow crunched loudly under his feet as he mounted the steps to the front door. Through the expansive double glass doors, he saw a tall stately woman standing before an enormous stone fireplace. His client, Mrs. Hilda Kane, no doubt. A roaring fire in the hearth welcomed him inside and a black-clad maid rushed across the open space and took his cashmere overcoat. A luxury he had afforded himself when his bank account was healthy. Probably a bad investment for anyone living in Florida. The elegant older woman, also wearing black, stepped forward to meet him with a graceful stride. From the information he had gathered on her, Sean knew she was seventy-one, but she looked ten years younger. Her skin was smooth, apparently without the assistance of a plastic surgeon. Silver gray hair pulled back into a flawless chignon accentuated bright intelligent cerulean blue eyes. She offered her hand. “Good evening, Mr. McGregor. I’m Hilda Kane. I hope the weather didn’t make your trip too uncomfortable. Denver is our closest airport and the drive here can be quite unnerving.” Despite his foul mood, Sean gave her his most charming smile. “I admit I had more than a few tense moments getting here. I don’t have to deal with snow in Florida, and I like it that way.” “I’ll see that Doyle is available to drive you while you’re at the chalet. Having lived in Colorado all his life he’s an expert at driving in its varied weather conditions.” She turned to the maid. “Mary, bring a coffee and sandwich tray into the library, please.” She glanced at Sean. “If the only meal you’ve had was on the plane, I’m sure you’re hungry. No one eats on planes anymore. Not even in first class. Follow me, Mr. McGregor. We’ll have more privacy in here.” “Please, call me Sean. Less formality will be more comfortable for both of us.” “As you wish. Please have a seat.” She pointed him to a chair near the fireplace. “I deliberately didn’t give you any information other than I needed your security services. I didn’t want to put anything into writing or discuss it over the telephone. With hackers getting into the most secure government data, nothing is safe anymore. I hoped the sign-on bonus I sent would be incentive enough for you to make the trip.” He nodded and smiled. “That’s why I risked my life on your mountain roads to get here.” The library door opened, and Mary entered with a tray of coffee and an assortment of sandwiches and cake slices. Hilda poured the coffee, handed him a cup, and passed him the tray. He took two sandwiches. She had guessed right. He was hungry. Hilda waited until Mary was gone before she continued. “My solicitor researched various security firms and advised me to contact you. You were highly recommended, namely because you have never lost a client. I asked for you personally because I was intrigued by your special ability. It’s my understanding you have total recall of anything you hear. Is that correct?” He nodded. “It’s called an autographic memory but I didn’t know it was common knowledge.” “It isn’t. My contact had to do a lot of digging for that piece of information. That you won’t need to take notes or record what I’m about to tell you is a plus.” Hilda took a long sip of coffee, organizing her thoughts. “Mr. McGregor, Sean, my son Gilbert was killed in an automobile accident six months ago. He never married. Gilbert was something of a playboy, and we thought he had no children. “As Gilbert, grew older, he started to think about an heir. That’s when he told me that sixteen years ago, a woman with whom he had an affair notified him that he had a seven-year-old daughter. He ignored the claim at the time thinking it was a scam. “Six months before he died, my son began a search for the presumptive daughter he’d never met. The search was unsuccessful before his death. However, four months ago, my attorney located the girl.” “You’re sure her claim is legitimate?” “Oh, yes. It wasn’t her claim. Our search team found her. We have irrefutable DNA evidence she is the daughter of my son, Gilbert Kane and a fashion model, Nikki Norton. The mother died of cancer when the child, Candace, was eight. She grew up in an orphanage.” Candy Kane. How cute. “Why do you think she needs a bodyguard?” “My son was a billionaire, Sean, and Candy is his sole heir. Since this was made public, she has had two questionable accidents. She was almost run down by a truck, and two weeks ago, someone fired two shots at her as she left her apartment.” “What did the police say?” Hilda shrugged. “They said they would look into the matter. The first incident they thought was merely an accident. The second they wrote off as a drive-by shooting by local gang members.” “Where did these incidents take place?” “She lives in New York in not the most respectable neighborhood.” “She’s a billionaire and she lives in the hood?” “She says she doesn’t want the money. Candace harbors some deep-seated anger at her father because he wasn’t there to help her mother get the care she needed.” “What happens if she doesn’t accept it?” “Control of Kane Industries will go to some very unscrupulous people. As a board member, I don’t want to see that happen.” “Surely your son made provisions for you in his will?” “It’s not my welfare that concerns me. The firm employs thousands of people, many of whom have been with the company since its conception.” “And you want Miss Kane to take over the helm? It’s none of my business, but does she have any experience running a large corporation?” “She has a Master’s degree in business.” “That’s rather young to have completed her Master’s. How old is she?” Hilda placed her cup on the coffee table and took a deep breath. “She will be twenty-three on December 24. Her birth certificate lists her name as Candace Norton. I understand from her background, she’s exceptionally bright. She finished high school at sixteen.” “Where is she now?” “On her way here. She was reluctant to make the trip, but I persuaded her to come until the authorities can investigate the attempts on her life. That’s where you come in. This is a remote area. The population of the village you drove through is about five thousand so strangers tend to be noticed. As you might expect, there is an influx of tourists as Christmas draws nearer. “Our local authorities know the residents and can help in that regard. The police chief is a friend and will assist in any way you require.” Sean polished off the sandwiches and sipped the coffee. It was cold. He set the cup back on the table. “I have a few more questions, if you don’t mind. If your granddaughter were out of the way, who would inherit the estate?” A shadow passed over Hilda’s face. “I have two other sons, Tyler and Morgan, and they each have two children. Both my sons are on the board but have no interest in taking over, even if they were qualified, which they are not. However, they would love the money and the power. “I don’t think they are involved in Candace’s accidents, but I can’t rule it out.” Her candor surprised him. “Did your son leave a will?” “Yes. Even though he hadn’t found his daughter he left everything to her except the individual inheritances to other family members. He left very generous amounts to each of them so they wouldn’t contest the will. He knew his family well.” Hilda passed an envelope across to him. “If you’re interested in the job, look over the contract, and if the salary and terms are agreeable, sign the form and return it to me in the morning. There is an intercom extension in your room that goes directly to Doyle. If you need anything, anything at all, just let him know. He’ll take care of it.” He wondered if Doyle was on duty 24/7. “I’ll need a list of names of the family members and the key players at Kane Industries.” Hilda nodded. “I’ll have a list for you tomorrow morning.” Sean was shown to his room down a long hallway on the second floor with doors on both sides. There were at least eight rooms in this corridor or a lot of broom closets. Expecting to be stuck in an attic or basement, Sean hid his surprise when instead he was led to a luxurious suite. It sported a king-size bed, sitting room, full bath, and wonder of wonders, a fireplace with a cozy fire ablaze. His personal effects had been put away, including his toothbrush in the holder on the bathroom counter. Doyle must have brought up the luggage and unpacked Sean’s things. He wasn’t sure if Doyle was merely taking care of a guest or snooping. Sean spotted an unopened bottle of Remy Martin XO on a side table with a tray of glasses. Someone had done quite a bit of research on him as well. He poured a small amount of his favorite brandy into a glass and set it on the nightstand. Where had they picked up the information on the brandy? Must have interviewed the liquor store near his home. Checking to see if he had an alcohol problem? Liquor had never been important in Sean’s life. With alcoholics hanging from both sides of the family tree, he had a healthy respect for moderation in all things. Two ounces at bedtime was his limit. He figured if the Kane family knew about something as small as his drinking habits, they knew everything and had hired him anyway. Good to know. For now, he had a call to make. Bella Jackson was his executive assistant before his firm, Guardian Security, went belly-up. He managed to keep Bella on at her salary. It had been difficult. He paid her well and she was worth every penny. She was a genius at a computer keyboard. The strain on his budget was eased by the fact that he lost his home along with the business so he no longer had to worry about a mortgage. Bitterness was not an attractive trait in anyone so he straightened up and pushed Bella’s number. She answered with her usual sweet disposition. “What are you doing calling me at midnight, Sean Angus McGregor? Just because you never sleep doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t.” Sean chuckled. “You know you always want me to call and tell you goodnight.” “Says you. You must have some research you needed yesterday.” “You are wise beyond your years. Remind me again why I keep your disrespectful self on the payroll and at such an exorbitant salary?” “Because you couldn’t make a living without me, and because I’m the only woman on the planet who doesn’t fall at your feet. Give me a minute while I get to my laptop.” Sounds over the airwaves told him she had hefted her slightly overweight body out of bed and into her office. After a minute she spoke. “Okay, shoot.” “I have three people I want you to research for everything you can find.” “That’s what research means.” He ignored her sarcasm. “I’ll have more for you tomorrow. The names are Candace Norton and Tyler and Morgan Kane. “Good night, Bella. I love you.” She snorted.
“The night is far spent; the day is at hand, let us therefore cast off the works of darkness.” ─Romans 13:12 CHAPTER 1 Bay Harbor Development Construction foreman Jason Watts stood by his truck and gazed across the job site. Heavy equipment cleared the prime lakefront property of stumps and rubble as machinery shifted sand from one place to another. The smell of damp earth permeated the air around him. An early morning chill crept under his coat collar making him shiver. Across the way, his backhoe operator scooped up a load of sand, lowered the bucket, and stopped the machine. Isaac Hummingbird, the Native American operator, stepped off the front-end loader and tossed something to the ground. “Hey, Jason, you’d better come take a look at this.” Hummingbird stood next to what looked like a large, white trash bag. Jason shoved his clipboard onto the truck’s bench seat and trotted across the field, the dirt still sticky from the recent storms. He noted the heavy, dark clouds hovering overhead as he crossed the field. Fierce October rain that pummeled the area had thrown him behind schedule, forcing him to play catch-up. Big time. The moneymen who financed the project were popping Xanax by the handful. Those clouds would dump any minute, and he’d have to send the crew home. Again. And lose another day’s work. “Whatcha got, Hummingbird?” The machine operator didn’t reply. He stepped back and pointed at the open bag, the side folded back. It was the tattered remnants of a sleeping bag. Cold sweat broke out on Jason’s brow, and a tight knot clutched at his gut, his breath shallow as he gazed into the opening. Inside, were the skeletal remains of a child, the bones white and clean. Pink overalls hung on the shoulder bones of the wasted frame. Tennis shoes had slipped from the feet. A small birthstone ring hung loosely on the right ring finger. Jason rubbed his hand over his face and drew in a lung full of moist air. He removed a cell phone from his jacket pocket. “I’ll call it in.” Home of Police Chief Matt Foley After finishing an eighteen-hour shift Wednesday, Matt Foley hadn’t made it to bed until after two o’clock. He’d finished a full day at the station and then spent the evening at a political dinner with his boss. Matt’s Yorkie awakened him at six o’clock before the alarm went off. Rowdy’s whines predicted storms better than The Weather Channel and he stuck to Matt’s side like a burr under a saddle until the sky cleared. The dog shivered and tried to nose his way under the covers. Matt lifted the blanket and allowed the frightened animal to snuggle close. Otherwise, he would keep whining and neither of them would sleep. With luck, they’d both catch a few winks before it was time to get up. Half-awake, Matt reached over to touch Mary, to hold her close. But the sheet was cold and empty, her pillow undisturbed. He closed his eyes and turned over, refusing to revisit the dark memories. In his state between drowsiness and slumber, the phone rang. He waited. The caller might give up and the message go to voicemail. Didn’t happen. Whoever it was kept redialing. Fumbling for the bedside lamp switch, he snatched up the phone, and pressed it to his ear. “Foley.” Static filled the line before Sheriff Joe Wilson’s voice came through, strong and clear. He chuckled. “It’s me, Matt. Did I wake you?” His friend was persistent, if nothing else. “No, I always let the phone ring fifteen times before I answer. I’m awake now. What’s up?” The cell phone connection faded for a second before it came back. “Construction workers turned up the remains of a child at Bay Harbor. It’s about a mile past the bridge on the reservoir road. You know the place?” Matt tossed the cover back and slid his feet into slippers beside the bed. “What are you doing out there?” Lightning filled the bedroom with flashbulb brightness, followed by a bass roll of thunder. Rowdy whimpered and moved closer. “The foreman called me, but this one’s your baby. It’s within the city limits.” “Yeah, I know.” Matt slipped out of bed and headed towards the shower. “I’ll find it. Anything else?” Joe paused for a second. “I spoke to the desk sergeant at the station. Your people are already rolling on it. Since it’s a kid, I thought you might want to get involved.” “Thanks, Joe. I’m on my way.” “Wear your rain gear. It’s coming down out here.” Matt rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Don’t remind me.” “I’ll keep the scene clear of tourists and media until you get your lazy behind out here.” In twenty minutes, Matt had showered, dressed, and headed downstairs, the Yorkie whimpering at his heels. Matt picked Rowdy up. “I hate to leave you here alone in a storm, buddy, but I can’t take you with me.” Rowdy still in his arms, Matt snatched a Benadryl tablet from the medicine cabinet. He stopped in the kitchen, wrapped the pill in a hunk of bologna, and fed it to the dog. That would calm him until Stella came in at ten. He didn’t have time for a pet. Keeping Rowdy wasn’t good for either of them. But Matt had never been able to consider finding the dog another home. They both missed Mary. The Yorkie was the only reason he came home at night. Home had become an insidious adversary he didn’t want to face. Everywhere he looked, there were reminders of his wife. Even Rowdy had been her dog. Mary hadn’t been a morning person, but she had insisted on seeing him off each day. A cup of coffee in her hand, eyes half-closed, she’d leaned into him for a lingering goodbye kiss, saying, “Something to remind you to come home.” He recalled the first time he’d kissed her. They’d met at a political fund raiser and afterward he’d walked her to her car. She’d opened the door then turned to thank him. He’d leaned down and placed a light touch on her lips. A nice-meeting-you acknowledgement of his attraction to her. When he turned to walk away, she’d said, “Call me, Matt.” His job and his friend Joe had saved him. Kept him from falling into the abyss of grief. He couldn’t think of his own sorrow while helping others with theirs. Perhaps he should sell the house, find the dog a good home. But that was a decision for another time and another day. He strapped on his nylon holster, stuffed the 9mm Glock in the pocket, then retrieved his slicker and rain boots from the closet. With the galoshes securely snapped over his shoes, he strode through the kitchen to the garage and climbed into his Expedition. He backed out of the driveway and headed towards the city. Coffee would have to wait until the Starbucks drive-through. Bay Harbor Development An ocean of gray mist greeted Matt’s turn onto the aqueduct roadway. The downpour had stopped, but a steady drizzle persisted. In the distance, a flock of geese honked their way farther south for the winter. The fresh smell of wet pine needles drifted through the SUV’s window. Ahead, blue-and-white strobe bars of two sheriff’s cruisers pierced the gloom. The vehicles formed a roadblock just before the bridge. Uniformed deputies, in canary-yellow ponchos, stood in the road and turned back a press van and onlookers. The grim set of the officers’ jaws spoke volumes. One of the deputies recognized Matt and waved him through the maze. Matt made a right turn after the bridge. A mile down the gravel road, he swung his SUV in beside the sheriff’s vehicle. The mire clung to his rubber boots as he trudged up the muddy incline. At the top of the knoll, the land leveled out for fifty yards where construction trucks, sheriff’s patrol cars, black and whites, and a coroner’s van formed a half-moon around a muddy, yellow backhoe. The worksite lay about a hundred yards off the lake’s beachfront. Matt’s detectives had beaten him to the crime scene. Lead detective, Miles Davis, waited near the mud-splattered machine. He stood six-feet tall, with a tight, muscular frame. No ordinary slicker for Miles. In his belted London Fog coat and Denzel Washington good looks, he appeared more at home on the cover of a men’s fashion magazine than at a grubby crime scene. Within the cordoned-off area, Davis motioned for the Crime Scene Unit Chief, Dale McCulloch, to join him. Dale’s people set up two portable lights to dispel the morning gloom while he recorded video and pointed his assistant to locations where he wanted still shots. Camera flashes added sporadic brilliance to the gray morning. To the untutored eye, a murder scene looked chaotic as people moved in different directions. But to a cop, the investigation progressed like a synchronized ballet, a symphony of precise motion. The company missed nothing. Cataloged everything. Matt stood out of the way as the detective squatted like a catcher behind home plate beside the remains of a sleeping bag. Davis pulled the flaps aside and exposed the contents. He straightened and called the photographer to move in for close-ups. Sheriff Joe Wilson caught Matt’s eye and lifted a coffee cup in a salute. Joe’s fullback physique and chiseled features lent authority to his slicker-covered uniform. At six-foot-three, he could never meld into the background, and the Stetson he wore negated Matt’s one-inch height advantage. Joe saluted Matt with the foam cup in his hand. “It’s about time you showed up, Foley. I’m tired of standing in the rain, babysitting your crime scene.” “And a good morning to you, too,” Matt said and reached to shake hands. Joe scowled at him. County medical examiner, Lisa Martinez’s petite frame looked smaller than usual standing next to the sheriff’s bulk. The ever-present cigarette between her fingers was missing. Probably difficult to smoke in the rain. Her thick, dark hair was pulled into a ponytail under a navy-blue cap—strikingly beautiful, despite the miserable weather. “Hi, Lisa,” Matt said. “Is he always this grumpy in the morning?” She laughed. “Only when he misses his fiber.” Matt inclined his head towards the taped-off area. “Who found the body?” Joe pointed to a group of men near the backhoe with his coffee cup. “One of the workers uncovered it before the rain started. He unzipped the bag—found the skeleton. I haven’t talked to him. Detective Hunter is doing that now.” Matt followed his gaze to the crowd of construction workers. Detective Chris Hunter stood in their midst, notebook and pen in hand. A hole yawned in front of the machine. Dale had stretched a tarp over the grave, but it hadn’t stopped the storm’s runoff from seeping into the hole. Lisa left to join the CSU team, and Joe put his hand on Matt’s shoulder. “So, how are you doing?” Matt shrugged. They’d been friends too long for him to lie. “That doesn’t tell me much.” Joe released the grip, giving Matt some space. “I don’t know what you’re looking for, Joe. Why do you ask?” “Because I’ve seen you in the valley, my friend.” Matt knew Joe cared. Really cared. But his questions brought back emotions Matt didn’t want to deal with. Not here. Not now. Matt hesitated. He needed to change the subject. “Lisa been out here long enough to reach any conclusions?” “She arrived shortly after I did.” Joe nodded towards the group headed their way. “You can ask her.” Lisa, Miles, and Dale caught up with them. “Anything so far, Lisa?” She gave a slight shrug. “The articles we found, as well as the skeletal remains, are those of a child. Can’t be sure, but the age appears to be about six or seven. Two front teeth are missing, which is consistent with a child that age. I’ll have to have DNA tests done, but based on the clothing, it’s a girl.” “Any idea how long ago?” Matt asked. She turned and scanned the gravesite. “A very long time. My best guess is twenty years or more. The skeleton is intact. The depth of the grave and the sleeping bag kept animals from scattering bones across the countryside.” Davis handed Matt a plastic bag that contained a small piece of red plaid fabric. “We found this still inside the bag with the manufacturer’s label attached. The plastic liner is intact. Lucky for us, vinyl doesn’t decompose quickly. One reason landfills keep piling up.” “Any thoughts on cause of death?” Matt asked. Lisa shook her head. “Too soon to make a prediction. I’ll let you know more after I get back to the morgue.” “Anything to help with identification?” “Relatives, if and when we find them, should be able to make a positive ID of the clothing and a birthstone ring that were inside the bag.” A construction worker near the backhoe skirted around the crime scene tape and stopped in front of Davis. He held out his hand. “Jason Watts, job foreman. We’re packing up. How long you guys gonna hold on to the worksite?” The detective turned to the grim-faced supervisor. “As long as it takes, but just this area. You guys can work the other sections, weather permitting.” He shoved his rain hat off his brow. “Look, it’s a moot point. You can’t work today in this mess anyhow. We’ll have to sift through every shovelful of dirt inside that hole before I can let you guys back in.” Watts punched his hands into his pockets. “The developer will not be happy. We’re working on a tight schedule.” “I understand,” Davis said. “Nevertheless, I have to secure the scene, big and messy as it is. Homicide 101.” The man shook his head and turned to leave. Matt stopped him. “Those buildings over there, are they part of the Bay Harbor project?” Watts turned back and faced Matt. “Yeah, they’ll come down though. The plan is to clear the lakefront property first. That’s where we’ll start putting up homes as soon as it’s ready.” “Are they safe for us to go inside?” “They’re structurally sound,” Watts said. “But they’re a mess. A bunch of drunks and druggies have used them as crash pads.” “We’d like to take a look. Is that a problem?” Matt asked. “Knock yourself out.” He waved as if to say “They don’t pay me enough to do this job,” and walked back to his crew. Davis shook his head. “He thinks he has problems. Years of weather, people, and animals have erased any evidence there might have been here. You want to check out those buildings now?” “Yeah. It shouldn’t take long.” They trekked fifty yards uphill to the two structures. Davis moved up beside Matt as they stepped around the mud puddles that dotted the path. “What were they used for?” “For more than fifty years, twenty acres of this property k to the Twin Falls First Baptist Church. They sold it when the developer bought all the land around them. These buildings were a retreat. The two-story structure was a housing complex for guests, and the one-story was used as a fellowship hall for meetings and meals.” Davis raised an eyebrow. “What’s a retreat?” Matt’s gaze swept the property. The grass came up to his knees, most of the windows were broken, and a tree had fallen against the roof. “It was a place for people to get away from telephones and televisions, to reconnect with each other and God. As a kid, I used to come here for summer camp. It looked a lot different then.” The apartment’s outer door clung to its upright position by a single loose hinge. Matt shoved the door open and kicked trash out of the way. Inside, a wide hallway ended at the stairs that led to the second floor. There were eight bedrooms on each side of the corridor, all with built-in bunk beds. The same upstairs, six bunks per room. He and Davis checked the downstairs. The foreman was right. Empty wine bottles and drug paraphernalia were scattered on the bare wood floors. Deep down, it squeezed Matt’s gut to see the place in such disrepair. He’d spent some of the happiest times of his childhood here. At the last upstairs bedroom on the west side, he stepped to the window and stopped. “Davis, come look at this.” The detective’s footsteps sounded in the hallway. “You find something, Chief?” “Take a look.” Davis entered and stepped to the window. “What?” Matt moved aside so Davis could get a closer look. “That’s a perfect view of the burial site from here. Have Mac get some pictures. When we find out who our victim was, someone may have seen something. It’s worth a shot.” After a baleful glance at the debris on the floor, Davis rubbed both hands down his face. “McCulloch will have to bag and catalog all this stuff just in case we get a suspect.” Matt grinned. “It’s a long shot, but if it was easy…” “I know, I know…anybody could do it.” Matt slapped his shoulder. “You’re learning.” The CSU Chief met them as they came back down the hill. “We’re outta here. The weather forecast looks better tomorrow, and it’ll give this place some time to dry out. I’ll bring some extra help from the lab, maybe some college kids I know, and we’ll do a grid search. We’ll be here by first light.” He glanced at Davis. “You gonna leave people to guard the site until we return in the morning?” “Yeah. Probably not necessary but I’d rather be safe. Mac, before you leave, I have a job you’re gonna love.” He led Mac towards the retreat. Joe Wilson came forward as Matt reached the crime scene. The sheriff stopped, removed his hat, and smacked it against his leg before replacing it. “I’m heading out. I’ll give you a hand with the authorities in surrounding areas. Ask them to check old files for missing children.” “Thanks. That’ll save us some time.” “Tell that housekeeper of yours to throw an extra potato in the pot, and I’ll come to dinner one night.” He took two steps then turned back. “Even better, you can buy me a steak at Ruth’s Chris.” Joe crunched a foam cup in his big fist and handed the trash to Hunter who had just joined them. “Here, hold this.” Hunter took it then stood there, glanced at the crumpled cup in his hand, and shook his head. Matt grinned. “I’ll give you a ring.” The lab techs began to pack away their gear, and Matt plodded back to his vehicle. When he reached the truck, Lisa leaned against the door. She backed away with slow, easy grace. “I didn’t expect to see you today, Matt. You haven’t been around much lately.” “I’ve been busy. How’s Paul?” “He’s fine.” Her tone held a slight edge. “He asks about you often. The other kids were impressed the police chief came to watch his games.” Matt attended a few of Paul’s little league games in the summer, but stopped when Lisa’s attraction to him became apparent. Divorced from Paul’s father only a few months, she was vulnerable. Not a situation he could handle right now. Besides, involvement with someone he worked with was asking for trouble. His hand closed around the door handle. “Tell Paul I’ll try to catch a game soon.” Davis shouted Lisa’s name. She gave him a wave of acknowledgment and called back to Matt as she departed, “Better hurry. There’s only one left on the fall schedule.” He started the ignition and watched Lisa walk away. Joe came into view as Matt backed out. The sheriff stood beside his cruiser. His gaze followed Lisa Martinez with an expression Matt hadn’t noticed before. Joe and Lisa? Funny, he’d never have put those two together. Joe, laid back and easy going. Lisa, volatile as a firecracker. Another reason to avoid the woman. He didn’t want to get in his old friend’s way. Matt pushed the hood of his slicker back and stared at the horizon. The deaths of children haunted his dreams long after the cases ended—ghosts that took up permanent residence. Mist swallowed the scene behind him as he drove back across the aqueduct. The last sound that drifted through the open vent was a chorus of katydids―singing a requiem for a fallen child.
CHAPTER 1 Matt Foley’s Home Twin Falls, Texas The assassin’s gaze searched the area surrounding Matt Foley’s home as his vehicle made a slow pass. His outward calm masked the storm of rage inside. The Twin Falls Police Chief knew how to live well. Rich. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Making decisions that ruined the lives of others without so much as a backward glance. Foley’s two-story redwood and glass home, nestled among stately oak trees and towering pines, was awe-inspiring. A rustic palace complete with a queen, prince, and little princess. Foley had it all, but not for long. The assassin had dealt with people like Matt Foley all his life. The assassin always came up short. The haves always won. They had the money, and those who had the money had the power. They called him a loser. Not to his face, of course. But it was there in their eyes and in the snickers he heard as he passed by. He’d show them loser. His chest expanded. He was an unstoppable force with the power of life and death in his hands. He turned the black SUV onto a dirt road and parked on a knoll above the Foley residence. He noted the date on his military style watch. May 5th, Cinco de Mayo, a holiday celebrated in most Mexican American homes in Texas. Sweat dripped from his brow and ran down his face. Summer had arrived. At 6:36 in the morning, the temperature already hovered at seventy-five degrees. It would be in the mid-eighties by noon. Typical weather for May in this part of the country. Concealed among the trees, the assassin stepped from his vehicle and lit a cigarette. He swallowed a sip from his first coffee of the day, a strong brew purchased from a nearby gas station. Black, no sugar. Standing in the shade of the trees, he watched the house awaken. A shadow moved past open blinds on the ground floor. Perhaps the housekeeper. A doe and two fawns ate corn from a feeder at the edge of the woods. They appeared almost tame, but alert. The doe lifted her head from time to time, looked around, and then returned to the corn. A feisty black Yorkie raced across the lawn and sniffed at the doe’s ankles. She ignored him. Foley would leave for work soon, his police revolver within easy reach. He never left home without it. The assassin accepted he couldn’t take Foley up close. Too risky. The kill shot would be long range with his scoped rifle. He wasn’t a Ranger sniper, like Foley, but he’d hunted enough with his dad to hit the target eight out of ten shots. The lovely wife would soon leave to take the kids to school. Should he take Foley out first, or his family? He still hadn’t decided. No need to follow Foley. The chief drove directly to police headquarters most mornings. And a cop as astute as Matt Foley would spot a tail in a New York minute. Blowing his cover wasn’t in the assassin’s game plan. The coffee was cold and bitter against his tongue. He emptied the liquid onto the ground and tossed the cup in the brush. No need to hurry. He would wait for the perfect opportunity, when the chief was relaxed with his guard down. A smile creased the assassin’s face. He had all the time in the world. *** Matt Foley rolled over and shut off the alarm then gathered Sara into his arms and kissed her brow. Her eyelashes fluttered. She raised a sleepy hand to his face and rubbed his sandpaper chin. “You have the loveliest wake up service.” He gave a deep chuckle. “It’s my pleasure, ma’am, just part of my job as police chief.” “It better not be,” she said, and gave his chest a playful slap. She snuggled closer. “I’m a very jealous woman.” Tightening his arms around her, he whispered in her ear. “No worries, Sara Louise. You’re the only woman on my personal radar.” He slid up in bed, leaned over, and cupped her face in his hands. “Soon, very soon, I’m going to carve out a week or two to devote to just you and the kids.” He expelled a deep breath and tossed the cover back. “But for now, duty calls. What’s on your agenda today?” “Taking Poppy and Danny to school. Then Aunt Maddie and I are flying to meet with her wedding dress designer in Oklahoma City. With her vision problems, she needs my help.” “How long will you be gone?” “It’s just a day trip. Unless we get hung up at the dressmaker. I may be home in time for dinner. Shannon will get the kids after school. She’s taking them for ice cream before she brings them home to Aggie. “Don is meeting Maddie at the dressmaker’s and taking her on to New York for a few days.” Sara slid out of bed and kissed his cheek. “How about you?” “I should be home by seven. Things have been quiet this week.” He watched as she slipped into a silk robe, flipped her hair from under the collar, and tied the belt in a snug knot at her waist. He grinned, appreciating how she made simple gestures look graceful. As though reading his thoughts, she wrinkled her nose at him. “Great, while you shower, I’ll get the kids up and rolling. Better hurry. Aggie will have breakfast ready in ten minutes. Have you noticed she’s getting better with her culinary skills? Dinner last night didn’t taste like hospital food.” Matt punched his feet into slippers and grinned. “It’s hard to go wrong with burgers and frozen fries.” Sara laughed and threw a pillow. It bounced off the bathroom door he’d quickly slammed behind him. *** Sara, Poppy, and Danny waved as Matt’s black SUV pulled out of the driveway. They all piled into her car, late, and made the quick drive to Twin Falls Baptist Academy. Her cell phone alarm pinged as she pulled away from the school, reminding her she needed to hurry. She rushed home and changed into a soft white blouse, tan slacks, and comfortable shoes. A glance at her watch confirmed she was on schedule to meet Maddie at 10:00 AM at Love Field to board their flight. No need to pack for a day trip. They would fly in a small commuter plane. Boarding would take less time, but you never knew what hang-ups could occur at the TSA station. As she applied a light coat of lip gloss, golden streams of sunlight peeking through the tall bedroom windows, promised another beautiful day. She loved the view of the small lake only visible from the second floor. Azure water peeked through the pines and sparkled like a rare sapphire in the clear morning light. Rowdy bounded through the door and dropped a wet, neon-green tennis ball at her feet, his little nub of a tail wagging furiously. She knelt and patted his head. “Sorry, pal. I don’t have time to play fetch with you. Maybe you can entice Aggie into tossing the ball for you.” He danced around Sara’s feet until he accepted she wasn’t going to play, picked up the ball, and rushed downstairs. In a few weeks, the Friday before Memorial Day, the children would graduate to the next grade level at the Christian Academy. Perhaps then Matt could carve out the time to take a family vacation. Maybe they could go back to Hawaii where they’d spent their honeymoon. She’d loved the beauty and relaxing spirit of the islands. She checked her large handbag to ensure the tickets and ID were there then headed downstairs. The doorbell sounded as she reached the bottom step. “I’ll get it, Aggie. I’m headed out anyway.” Rowdy barked and trotted behind her as she answered the summons. A little breathless, she swung open the door. A man of medium height stood on the front deck. He was blond with deep blue eyes and bore a strong resemblance to a young Paul Newman. He wore well-pressed khaki slacks, a yellow Polo, and a blue blazer. Casual yet expensive. Something about his eyes, other than their similarity to the actor, struck Sara as very familiar. Rowdy didn’t bark or growl. Unusual for him when confronted by strangers. The man gave her a nervous smile. “Mrs. Foley?” She nodded, and then it hit her. She held her breath and stared at him, struggling to maintain her composure. The resemblance between father and son was uncanny. Danny would look just like his dad as he grew older. “You’re Grady Morgan, Poppy and Danny’s father. How did you find us?” His handsome face tinged pink. He was as uncomfortable with this meeting as she was. Uneasy and scared. “It wasn’t hard. I’m sorry to drop in on you like this, but I didn’t have a phone number. I’d like to talk to you if I may.” “Mr. Morgan, I don’t have time today. I’m on my way to the airport. Besides, I prefer not to speak to you without my husband present. I suggest you call him at the police station and make an appointment.” Her voice sounded strained and rude to her own ears. That wasn’t her nature, but this man’s presence threatened her, possibly endangered her family. His brow wrinkled, and lines around his eyes became more prominent. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll do that. Sorry to bother you,” he said again and walked with slow, uncertain steps back to his truck. Before entering he hesitated and turned back to her. “I mean you no harm, ma’am. I just wanted to see my kids.” He closed the door and drove away. There was pain in his eyes, and she almost felt sorry for him. During their short interaction, many emotions passed across Grady Morgan’s face as he stood on her porch: fear, shame, and sincerity, things that didn’t square with what she knew about him. Criminals learned to survive by deceiving others. She wasn’t about to trust him. As the shock wore off, her mind shifted into overdrive. What was Grady Morgan doing out of prison? Despite his disclaimer, would he try to take or harm the children? She punched in Matt’s private cell number and held her breath, waiting for the reassurance of his voice. The call went to voice mail. She left a message for him to call her immediately. Next, she tried Miles Davis and Lucy Turner, two of Matt’s detectives, but the calls also went to voice mails. All probably in a meeting somewhere. She took five deep breaths to push back the panic. She should cancel this trip, but it had taken Maddie two months to get an appointment with the popular designer. And the wedding was in July. Her aunt would cancel in a heartbeat, but Sara didn’t want to put her in that position. Her next call went to Pastor Seth Davidson at the children’s school. “Pastor, this is Sara Foley. A situation has come up, and I need your help.” “Of course, Sara. All you have to do is ask.” “I haven’t been able to reach Matt. Poppy and Danny’s father is out of prison. I assume on early parole. You know their background, and I may be over-reacting. He hasn’t made any threats, but I want to be safe. Please ensure only Matt or Shannon Connelly picks them up today. Shannon will be there when school is out, unless Matt decides to come. I’m going out of town and won’t be back until tonight.” “I’ll take care of it. I’ll ask a squad car to stand by and follow Shannon to your home. I’m sure Matt will take over as soon as he knows what’s going on.” “Thanks, Pastor. I’ll keep trying to reach him. You might want to try as well. I’m also giving Shannon a heads-up.” Sara made the call to Shannon and just as she disconnected, her phone rang. Caller ID showed Detective Lucy Turner. “Hi, Sara. Sorry I missed your call. How may I help you?” Sara ran through the morning’s incident then told Lucy she had already alerted the school. “Matt is in a budget meeting with the City Manager all day,” Lucy said. “Give me the guy’s name. Cole and I will check him out. His parole officer will have his address. We’ll stake out his place and keep tabs on him until Matt is free. The guy was most likely one of the former President’s early release prisoners for non-violent drug offenders. We’re seeing a lot of old faces on the streets. If that’s the case, there won’t be a parole officer.” Relief washed over Sara. Lucy was smart and capable. “Thanks, Lucy. I’m going out of town, and I really appreciate your taking charge. You have my number if you need me.” Releasing the breath she’d been holding, Sara picked up her handbag from the foyer table and closed the door behind her, unable to dispel the anxiety that lingered.
CHAPTER 1 U.S. Airbase Muharraq Island, Bahrain Never again. I’d promised myself never to return to Afghanistan. Yet here I was, walking across the dark tarmac towards the C-130 Hercules waiting for me. Not just for me. There were twelve other travelers headed to one of the most desolate, primitive, dangerous places in the world. I slipped my arms through the straps of a lighter-than-normal backpack and boarded the cavernous giant turbo-prop freighter. It was nothing like a troop carrier, but it was headed where I needed to go. Dressed in civies rather than a uniform, I expected to have to show my papers and had them ready for the young Marine standing at the bottom of the entrance ramp. I wasn’t disappointed. He held out his hand. He scanned the orders carefully. “Chance Crawford, through to Kabul?” I nodded. The uniform came later when I reached my destination. The soldier guessed from my attire I was from one of the alphabet agencies and scowled. “Find a seat. We leave in ten minutes. You ever ride in one of these before?” he asked. I nodded again. Sadly, I’d made the trip four times in prior tours in Afghanistan with my Marine Recon unit, the Corp’s Special Forces branch. As usual, this trip wouldn’t be anything near first class. I found a web-netting chair along the plane’s hull, strapped myself in, and waited for the engines to crank up before inserting the prerequisite earplugs to prevent deafness. Twelve other men were scattered about the enormous flying warehouse. Dressed in flat desert khakis, I quickly identified them as SEALs. Their bearing, beards, and friendly banter made them stand out. They eyed me silently, and I overheard one of them whisper, “Spook.” That would be the last spoken word I’d hear until the plane landed at Kabul. The giant engines roared and the aircraft shuddered like a wet dog with fleas then lifted into the late-night sky. The soldier was right. I was a CIA agent pulled from my usual territory in Mexico and sent to Afghanistan because of my talent with languages. A Taliban chief somehow got word to Washington’s intelligence community he was willing to sell out his brothers for a price. I was charged with the task of finding him and bringing him into the fold. But there was a catch. The man, Dawoud Ghani, asked that his defection appear to be a kidnapping to protect the family he would leave behind. What did this mean for me? I had no contact information and would be forced to scour the recesses of the mighty mountain range of the Hindu Kush to find my man. The Hindu Kush was 500 miles of mountain range stretching from central Afghanistan to northern Pakistan. I didn’t like the premise. As a rule, these people were not interested in money. They are jihadist, on a religious mission to wipe out all non-Muslims in the world. The U.S. Military knew this, but the Washington establishment still lived in fairy tale land. If we would only be good and kind to them, they would learn to love us. This could be a setup with me as the sacrificial lamb. Ghani was involved in planning future attacks on American soil and had been on our radar for a long time. If his story was true, he had vital information which would allow us to prevent future strikes. No question. I had to find out if the guy was legit. Fastened into the seat, I watched the interaction between the SEALs with envy. Five years ago, I had that same kind of brotherhood with my Recon team. I was the first man out of the CH-53 Sea Stallion chopper when a hand-held grenade launcher sent an explosive inside, killing all five of the best men I had ever known. Their loss was still an open wound I couldn’t seem to close. After I recovered from the blast, it took me two days to track down the terrorist and kill him. It didn’t help. Three months later I opted out of my reenlistment contract and ended my military career. Two hours into my return trip to Hades, I unpacked a sandwich and bottled water from my knapsack and polished them off, then leaned back against the hull and tried to sleep. As soon as my eyes closed, a lovely face flashed into my mind. Sara Bradford Foley. The most unattainable woman on the planet, and I had fallen head-over-heels in love with her. She was married to a saint and madly in love with him. Not to mention he was movie-star handsome and rich. No way a guy like me could compete. I took the last sip from my water bottle, stuffed the trash into my backpack, and went to sleep. Bagram Air Force Base Afghanistan As the sun began to lighten the eastern horizon, we were on our final approach to the huge U.S. base at Bagram, 20 miles north of Kabul. The giant aircraft lumbered to a stop on the tarmac and dropped the tail for our departure. I let the SEAL team go first then followed them. The last guy turned to me with a grin as we walked down the ramp. “Don’t take this wrong, but you don’t look like the usual Company man.” I laughed and stuck out my hand. “No offense taken. I’m retired Marine Recon.” I stopped in the middle of the ramp and caught his gaze. “I’d appreciate it if you would keep that under your hat. Like you guys, my job and reason for being here are top secret.” He nodded. “Understood. Good luck, soldier. Keep safe.” “I’m going to do my best. You do the same.” I moved on down the ramp and headed for headquarters to check in and get my billet locations. On the walk to the camp control center, I became reacquainted with my old base. The massive mountains of the Hindu Kush were visible from the base. The summits wore snowcaps year-round. It had always seemed strange to me to see snow when the base temperature hovered in the high eighties. The dark face of the cliffs brought back memories of many cold, wet nights in those hostile recesses. The airbase was much the same as when I left. Except it appeared a hundred or more B-huts, quarters for the large forces stationed there, had been added. Many of them most likely empty because of the troop drawdown as the U.S. tried to leave Afghanistan. I followed the signs and stayed to the side of the road to avoid getting hit by the Jeeps and Humvees rolling by. One of the Jeeps stopped. “You look like you’re new here. Going to HQ?” “Yes, thanks.” I jumped in beside the Marine Lieutenant. “I appreciate the lift.” Again, I didn’t introduce myself or tell him I knew my way around Bagram. I’d wait for the base commander to give me directions in that regard. Inside HQ, the soldier at the first desk asked for my orders, which I handed over. “I need to make an appointment with General Nathan Mills and see which B-hut you guys assigned me to.” After a few taps on his mouse, he looked up. “The General is in his office, Mr. Crawford. Let me see if he has time to see you now.” He turned his back to me, picked up the desk phone, and spoke quietly into the receiver. After a short interval, he disconnected and turned back to me. “General Mills will see you. When you’re finished, I’ll drive you to your billet.” The soldier came from behind his desk and motioned for me to follow. He led me to a door at the end of the corridor and knocked. “Enter,” said a deep voice from within. “This is Mr. Crawford, sir,” the soldier said and backed away. “Thank you, Corporal. Come in, Crawford.” I stepped through the door, came to attention, and saluted. General Mills laughed. “Still remember the old army adage. When on a military base, if it moves, salute it, if it’s stationary, paint it?” Embarrassed, I relaxed and grinned. “I guess so, sir. Sorry. It was a reflex action.” Even out of uniform, I would have known he was in the military. His erect posture, broad shoulders, and close-cropped iron-gray hair shouted soldier. The General waved me to the chair in front of his desk. “You served under me here, right?” “Yes, sir. Four tours with Marine Recon.” He tapped a folder on his desk. “I’ve read your file. We hate to lose good men like you.” He shoved the folder aside and his brow wrinkled. “Are you comfortable with this mission, Crawford? I wouldn’t ask that question if you were still in uniform, but something about this seems a little off.” “How so, General?” “You’ve been here before. These people are fanatics, the worst kind of zealots. They don’t just change their mind. They like living with Western perks but it doesn’t change their ideology. Not to mention the fact Ghani asked for you personally.” This was news to me, but I hid my surprise. A detail my handler, Oscar Knox, failed to mention. I’d been told it was because I spoke Arabic and Pashtu fluently. No need to let the General know about my boss’s failure to communicate. “I share your concerns about his conversion, sir.” “Do you know Ghani personally?” I shook my head. “Not to my knowledge. But I met a lot of people on my previous tours.” The General looked at my papers again then handed them back to me. “I’ve been instructed to give you everything you need: men, equipment, supplies, including a guide who knows those mountains like the back of his hand. Corporal Johnson will take care of your material needs. Just tell him what you want. “Things haven’t changed much since your last visit. Stay on guard, even on the base. I’m sure you read about the suicide bomber who targeted a hundred of our people, military officers, contract workers, and soldiers getting ready for an early morning run near the airstrip. Killed four of our people and injured sixteen.” One of the most senseless commands ever passed down to the military, along with the ROE’s (Rules of Engagement), was that soldiers couldn’t carry weapons on base, even in a war zone, leaving soldiers unable to protect themselves when under attack. Notably, the 13 soldiers killed and 30 plus wounded at Ft. Hood, Texas, and the assassination of Maj. Gen. Harold Green at a training facility in Kabul. When under attack, soldiers are forced to run to the armory for their weapons before they can defend themselves and their base. Be assured that concept never originated from the military. If the Second Amendment haters had their way, soldiers would go into battle with slingshots and fly swatters. As non-military, I intended to keep my sidearm with me at all times. The General pushed back his chair and stood, signaling the meeting was over. “Be extra careful out there, Crawford. ISIS has been leaving Iraq and Syria and moving into the Hindu Kush caves.” He shook my hand. “There will be an intelligence briefing tonight on what intel we have on Ghani. It’s not a lot. Corporal Johnson will fill you in. I can give you six men to accompany you.” I had risen when the General stood. “I’ll just need the guide, sir. That way we’ll leave a smaller footprint and hopefully avoid detection.” “Oscar said you would say that. He thinks you’re a lone cowboy. He made me promise to send at least two men with you.” I couldn’t fight The Company so I nodded graciously. His brow furrowed and his hard gaze intensified. “The extra men are probably a good idea. You only have ten days to do your job and get out of those mountains, starting tomorrow. No exceptions. I can’t stress that strongly enough. If you don’t have your man by then, you’ll have to abort the mission. Understood?” “Yes, sir.” That was something else my handler failed to tell me. The time frame added a new element of urgency to the operation. I knew the military. A deadline was a deadline. And there was always a reason. I turned to the door then stopped. “General, do you think the new administration will bring some common sense to this war?” He gave a thoughtful nod. “The president has put some good fighting men in charge. If he turns them loose, I think we’ll see some positive changes.”
Chapter 1 Grayson Manor Twin Falls, Texas Light filtered through the cottage windows as Sean McKinnon drained the last sip of strong brew from his teacup. He took the empty mug to the sink, rinsed it, and placed it in the dishwasher. He pulled on a jacket, picked up his cap and umbrella from the rack by the door, then strolled up the hill to the big house. Morning clouds hung heavy in the gray sky and raindrops splattered the stone walkway in front of him. Sean sucked in a deep breath of cold moist air and smiled, glad to have the family home from their stay in England. The big estate was lonely when they were gone. He increased his pace as the rain pelted faster. He hummed despite the weather, looking forward to breakfast in the kitchen with Amanda Castleton. Aye, he’d missed the woman’s cooking. He crossed the large expanse of manicured lawn and bright flowers. It was a bonnie garden. He’d come over with the Graysons more than thirty years ago. Those had been dark times for the family. The task Mr. Grayson had set for him—planting a proper English garden in this arid Texas land, had proved a mighty one. He’d faced many failures before the land yielded its secrets. He breathed in the sweet fragrance of the delicate tea roses he’d planted in the spring, pleased that the garden rivaled any to be found in his native country. He slowed and bent down to examine a recently replaced rosebush. Satisfied, he moved closer to the manor’s back door. As he drew nearer, the sound of smoke alarms pierced the silent morning. The umbrella dropped from his hand, and he sprinted towards the manor’s back entrance. He stumbled on the stone path but managed to keep his balance. Snatching a deep breath, he hurried on. Black smoke engulfed him as he jerked the kitchen door open and rushed inside. “Mrs. Castleton! Mrs. Castleton!” Only the deafening blast of the alarms answered. Smoke billowed from the huge gas range on the right, just inside the doorway. Pulling his jacket over his nose, he pushed farther into the room, switched off the stove’s burners, then flipped on the exhaust fan. The acrid smell of scorched food burned his nose and stung his eyes. Through a blur of tears and smoke, he grabbed oven mitts from a rack and carried the charred pans outside. His mind raced. Something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong. Mrs. Castleton would never leave a meal unattended. Where was she? Where was the rest of the family? The questions would have to wait. For now, he must switch off the blasted alarms and attend to the smoke. With the burned food outside, he breathed easier. He re-entered the kitchen and moved around the large island to open the bank of windows on the other side of the room. He rounded the corner and stopped, his feet glued to the tile. Three bodies lay on the floor behind the counter. Sean whispered, “Dear Heavenly Father,” the sight too horrible to comprehend. He staggered and fell to his knees.