by Lisa Harris
You can find out more about our work on our websites: www.lisaharriswrites.com and www.LynneGentry.com. On the final pages of this boxed set collection, you’ll find our short bios and see a listing of the other books we’ve written together and separately.
We’d love for you to do a review of Lethal Outbreak as part of the Dangerous Deceptions boxed set. Since word-of-mouth testimonies and written reviews are usually the deciding factor in helping readers pick out a book, they are an author’s best friend and much appreciated. We also love receiving email from our readers. You can email Lisa at: [email protected]. You can email Lynne at: [email protected]. We look forward to hearing from you!
Now, you’re in for a real treat! The next book in this collection is Collision Course, written by the award-winning author, Elizabeth Goddard. Her books never fail to leave readers wanting more.
To whet your appetite, here’s a short description of Collision Course: His cover blown, FBI Special Agent Reg Jacobson finds refuge on the other side of the country, but trouble follows him when he faces off with a woman from his past. Private Investigator Nicole Weatherly, hired to catch a thief, suspects Reg. When the bullets fly, Reg and Nicole must escape secrets from their pasts before their futures collide.
Turn the page to read Collision Course by Elizabeth Goddard.
* * *
Lisa and Lynne
Collision Course
Dangerous Horizons Book 1
by Elizabeth Goddard
© 2020 by Elizabeth Goddard
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design: Kelly A. Martin of KAM Design
Chapter One
He’d never looked certain death in the face until today.
On his motorcycle, Reg Jacobson stared down the five gunmen who aimed illegal automatic weapons at him. No doubt behind their dark sunglasses, cold eyes stared back. Two black SUV’s idled between the men, holding more of the same ilk who watched Reg.
Waiting for his surrender.
The deserted alley in downtown Savannah, Georgia didn’t allow for any witnesses. Surrounded, he considered his next moves. Choose poorly, and his fate would be sealed. Except, really, there was only one move. One choice.
He was grateful that he’d donned full leathers that would protect him in case of the unthinkable—a spill on the freeway at high speeds could skin him alive—since this had now turned into the ride of his life.
But leather wouldn’t protect him against bullets.
Speed was his only choice because he could never surrender.
Revving the engine, he squeezed the throttle, spun the bike, and peeled out, spewing dust and pebbles at the gunmen along with the smoke of burned rubber.
The motorcycle lurched forward, a kind of bullet all its own. He circled around and careened between the vehicles and the men. A daring move that had taken them off guard.
But it was his fastest escape. He sped through the city streets then took the freeway onramp. In his mirror, he saw the two SUV’s had followed. Hunkering against the machine, he swerved back and forth, dodging bullets as he accelerated to an illegal speed—after all, the gunmen were shooting to kill. His escape lay in outrunning the bullets.
Heading north, he swerved around cars on the freeway. His laser-focus remained on the stretch of road ahead of him so he avoided bringing harm to others as his machine passed vehicle after vehicle.
Eighty miles per hour. Ninety. . .one hundred. . .
The Hayabusa would hit three-hundred thirty. But only on a lone stretch of highway devoid of other traffic, and only if he had totally lost his mind.
As the traffic slowed, he slowed with it. In his rearview mirror, he no longer saw the two SUV’s that had followed him. Instead, he spotted another motorcycle weaving between the cars. Someone else following him?
He willed the traffic to move. Come on, come on, come on . . .
So much more than his own life hinged on his escape.
Finally, he was able to exit the freeway onto a two-lane road that would take him closer to the coast where he could make the hand-off.
When a stretch of road cleared, he pushed the motorcycle faster. Putting as much distance as he could between himself and his pursuers was all that mattered. Heart pounding, he ignored the heat and sweat gathering inside his helmet, in the visor protecting his eyes and face against the wind and bugs.
Reg saw no followers in his rearview mirror, and at this speed, he couldn’t risk a glance over his shoulder to confirm. He hoped he’d lost them for good when he’d exited the highway. He’d already risked enough, and he carried vital intel in his pocket.
He put miles and distance between him and Savannah, and eventually he approached the small town of Jeffries, Georgia, slowing as he entered the city limits. This would be a good place to get out of the leather, hide the motorcycle, and find different transportation. Then, he’d be in the clear.
Ahead of him, a Mac truck approached a stop sign on a side street and plowed right through the intersection without stopping.
An elderly woman was halfway across the street on the crosswalk—in the truck’s path.
“Look out!”
But she hadn’t heard him, nor had she noticed the truck heading straight for her.
“Come on man! Slow that tanker down!” Reg throttled his bike, accelerated to put himself between her and the truck to get the driver’s attention. Tires screeching, the truck skidded and then finally swerved . . . right toward Reg. He angled to get out of the way as the big grill of the Mac truck advanced toward him.
Reg leaned away and sped up, but the truck clipped his rear tire. Reg’s body flew through the air. He slammed into the ground, breath whooshing from his lungs, pain igniting everywhere as he rolled and rolled and rolled.
A tree trunk stopped him.
A crack resounded.
Stunned, Reg blinked a few times. Swallowed. Sucked in oxygen. He stared up at the moss-covered branches of an old oak. His bones ached. He could do nothing but wait for the sky, trees, clouds, and buildings to stop spinning. Nausea rolled through him.
He was pretty sure his helmet had split. Or had that crack been his bones?
The fact that he even had the thought confirmed that he was alive. Still dazed, he lay where he’d landed. When he turned his head to the side, his neck protested. Through his fractured visor he spotted boots and legs as someone approached. Friend or foe? Or someone to finish the job? He had every reason to remain paranoid and cautious.
Reg sent up prayers, begging the Almighty for protection. He couldn’t make out the stranger’s face in the shadows. But he could tell by the way the guy approached—sauntering and cocky—that he was not a friend. Reg had been followed, after all.
Was this the end? Would the man kill Reg in broad daylight?
Reg tried to reach for his gun tucked beneath his jacket. His body wouldn’t respond, wouldn’t cooperate. He couldn’t defend himself.
The man closed in and crouched. He reached forward as if he would search Reg’s pockets, then changed his mind. A crowd was gathering. He leaned closer and spoke in a threatening tone. “Twenty-four hours. That’s all you have to return what you took.”
Sirens blared, and the man backed away and fled.
A police cruiser appeared as darkness edged Reg’s vision. What was happening? A new ache blinded him with pain. His head. He fought to keep consciousness.
An officer approached and knelt. “You okay buddy?”
FBI. I’m . . . FBI . . .
four months later
Reg opened his eyes. Familiar musty smells and the four-poster bed gave him the odd sense of times long p
ast. He was in Grandmother’s old mansion, which clung to the cliff overlooking coastal Washington. He twisted out of bed and put his feet on the Persian rug covering the hardwood floor. When he stood, he still felt the ache in his feet, his body, and his head.
And the pain in his soul.
Would it ever go away?
He wasn’t sure if he would fully recover from the last few painful months, or from the FBI evaluation.
The debriefing.
And then there’d been the physical therapy that had nearly killed him.
He’d told his grandmother, Harriet Berringer, about the motorcycle accident, but he’d hidden everything else. Hidden that he’d worked undercover for the FBI. Wasn’t as if he could share details of a covert operation anyway.
Especially when he couldn’t even remember half of them.
Reg had woken up forty-eight hours after a motorcycle crash. At least that’s what he’d been told because he couldn’t remember what had happened to land him in the hospital. Nor could he remember what happened days before that accident. The days after were a blur, so he’d been nearly worthless at the debriefing.
Reg only vaguely remembered the ASAC, his boss, Assistant Special Agent in Charge Tye Sorento being the first person he’d seen when he’d woken up in the hospital. So he’d not only been worthless at the debriefing, but he was also useless as an agent going forward. At least in his current condition.
He was off the case—every case—while he recovered from his injuries. Four months in, and it seemed like his traumatic brain injury would take much longer. Just how long, no one knew.
Debilitating headaches could hit him at any moment. Memory loss and confusion could knock him off his feet. He couldn’t be counted on to remember to put the laundry in the dryer, much less to function as a special agent for the FBI. Who knew when the doctors would clear him to go back to work. If they would ever clear him.
In the meantime, Reg had contacted his grandmother. Grandfather had died two years before.
Sitting at the edge of the bed, Reg took a long steadying breath. Nearly losing his life coupled with being here in this old house had caused an explosion of memories and nostalgia to grip him. His neurologist had suggested he stay somewhere that would ignite memories and stimulate his brain. Grateful that he still had at least most of his memories, he dressed for the day. Though how could he truly know just how much he’d lost?
He left the bedroom and headed for the grand staircase. At the top, he waited for the dizziness to pass. A few steps down, and he squeezed the intricately carved bannister, waiting again to regain his equilibrium. To lose the nausea.
Was this the new normal?
When he opened his eyes, the faded wallpaper caught his attention. Finally remembering a painting had once hung in that spot took him exactly five seconds too long. A painting by some artist whose name escaped him at the moment—and that was the least of his worries.
TBI—traumatic brain injury—brought with it a tragic list of things he couldn’t do and might never do. At the top of that list? He might never ride a motorcycle again.
Grousing, he continued down the steps, uncertainty about his future weighing on him. He feared that he might never be the same. In the kitchen alcove, he found Grandmother. Her back to him, she sipped from a steaming bright orange mug while she spoke on her cell phone.
Through the spacious windows, he took in the gray skies hanging over the Pacific. The house rested precariously near a cliff—part of the whole dramatic effect—and from the alcove, waves could be seen crashing on the rocky outcroppings. A mesmerizing site.
Reg had spent many hours as a child watching those waves, but he couldn’t get lost in them now. He had to get his mind back. His life back. Grandmother was the only one who knew about his accident—his superiors had delayed contacting his family due to the sensitive nature of his assignment, and when Reg woke up, he had decided against telling his parents while they were on their trip to Europe. Or his brothers . . . they were busy with their lives. A former Air Force pilot, Connor was now a successful test pilot. Jake, a commercial pilot. And what was Reg? The older, successful brother? Not anymore.
“No, I can’t go on a cruise with my grandson here.” Grandmother lowered her voice. “He’s not himself, and I won’t leave him. He needs me. No, no. You enjoy yourself. Ask Peyton to go . . .”
Well, obviously he hadn’t fooled his grandmother into thinking he was fine. Why had he thought he could? He stepped closer to the windows to make his presence known.
She glanced up at him and smiled, her skin crinkling around her eyes. “Listen, hon, I have to go. Call me later to tell me who you got to go with you. Bye now.” She ended the call.
He angled his head toward the staircase. “What did you do with that painting?” Big hideous thing that it was, he was glad it was gone.
Ashton Darrow was the artist’s name.
Yes. He remembered!
“You should have stayed in bed.”
She hadn’t answered his question.
Before he could comment, she continued, “You look like you could sleep for twenty-four hours.”
The long-forgotten words slammed into him.
You have twenty-four hours . . .
Clearly, twenty-four hours had long passed, so his accident had effectively stopped that clock. What did it matter? The FBI undercover agent he’d been would stay gone for good.
The gray day and rainier-than-usual weather provided another layer of cover for Nicole Weatherly. She tugged the hood of her rain jacket forward to keep her face in the shadows.
She’d known going in that her years of experience wouldn’t help her when it came to trailing this particular man. At least if she wanted him to remain unaware of her presence as she watched and documented his every move. He wore a jacket the color of muted turquoise but endured the rain without the hood. His strides were long and confident, his shoulders broad, his physique obviously toned.
She half-stared at her phone, pretending to read texts, so she would blend in with everyone else walking in the rain in the small coastal town square of Windbarrow, Washington.
The man hadn’t spotted his shadow. But the crazy sensation that she, too, was being watched, crawled over her. Maybe she was trying too hard to stay invisible. Maybe something about following him had jumbled her instincts.
The subject crossed the street at the stoplight, and Nicole hung back under an awning in front of a shoe store. He picked up his pace as the rain increased, passing an antique mall and art gallery, then stepped into the Sea Pine Coffee Shop. Nicole would wait a few minutes. If he didn’t come out, she might just follow him inside. If he was onto her, he could head out the back door, in which case there wouldn’t be much point in continuing to follow him, would there?
She gritted her teeth and held back the groan fighting to escape. This whole thing felt off. Or rather ridiculous. She needed the money and this client paid far better than most. The rent was due. Bills had to be paid.
And yeah . . . she was closer than she’d ever been to finding the man who’d murdered her father. A private investigator could do a little personal investigating on the side, couldn’t she? Working this case, getting paid three times her usual fee, could free her to find the killer once and for all. To solve what the authorities had been unable or unwilling to solve.
A car sped down the street through a puddle, splashing Nicole. Not all of her. Just some of her. A sign that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time? Yeah, standing across the street was probably the wrong place. She needed to be inside that cafe with him.
Given the nature of this particular beast—this subject—agreeing to follow him might have been a mistake.
The gray day coupled with the illumination inside the shop allowed her to watch the coffee shop patrons sitting at tables and standing in line. He’d been in line too. But suddenly . . . she lost sight of him.
Watching for cars, she crossed the street and entered the coffee shop.
Nicole kept her head down and moved to the long line, hoping he hadn’t gone out the back. Hoping he wouldn’t notice her if he was still there. Praying he wouldn’t recognize her.
Glancing up at the offerings on blackboard behind the counter, she used her peripheral vision to locate the man in the turquoise jacket. The coffee shop was crowded, as usual. Had this been his intended destination when he’d parked two blocks down? He might have been out for a stroll, or he might have planned to meet someone.
A clandestine meeting with a prospective buyer to discuss handing off stolen property?
All this she needed to learn before it was too late.
The line moved slowly and, when it was her turn to order, she still hadn’t located him. Hot coffee in hand, she found a corner table when a couple vacated it. Nicole sat to wait for the coffee to cool enough to sip, using the cup as a hand warmer. She glanced up in time to see the man she followed cross the room as he cut through the line then headed down a short hallway where he entered the restroom.
She breathed a sigh of relief. So she hadn’t lost him.
The door jingled as a few patrons left and more entered. Dreary, rainy weather was nothing new to the region but still drove people inside. A stocky man wearing sunglasses and slicked-back hair entered and glanced around. He shoved his pointless sunglasses on top of his head as his eyes skimmed over her on his way to taking in everyone in the cafe.
