The baby wriggled. The mouth suckled an invisible teat. Brady had nothing to feed this infant. All he could offer was a promise that he would point the abandoned child toward a better life.
Trafficking in newborns was a new and horrible twist in the ITEP investigation—something he couldn’t ignore. Brady knew he wouldn’t be returning to Quantico today.
Chapter Two
In the front reception area of the Rocky Mountain Women’s Clinic in Granby, Petra Jamison stood on her head with her elbows forming a tripod and her bare feet against the wall for support. She’d propped the front doors open to allow the early evening breezes to waft inside and dispel the faintly antiseptic smell from the examination rooms. In about an hour, a group of pregnant women would arrive for Petra’s class on prenatal yoga breathing, and she’d decided to get in the mood by playing a CD of Navajo wooden flute music and doing meditation exercises.
Even though the room was dimly lit with only one lamp on the desk behind the counter and a three-wick sandalwood candle on the coffee table, she was bathed in the warm glow of positivity. Her mind and body were in balance. The rush of blood to her brain gave her a burst of energy at the end of the day. As if she needed an evening wake-up. Petra had the circadian rhythm of a night owl, maybe because she was born at midnight. Or maybe her preference for the dark had something to do with her fair complexion—people who freckle shouldn’t go out in the sun. Or maybe…
She heard a vehicle pull into the parking lot. A car door slammed. Still upside down, she saw a man in a black suit and white shirt holding a baby in his arms. He strode toward her and leaned over, tilting his head to squint into her face. He had tense eyes and the kind of high forehead that she associated with intelligence, even though she knew hairline was nothing more than a genetically determined growth pattern. Was he smart? Or clever? Did he have a sense of humor? Probably not. This guy didn’t look like Mr. Giggle.
“Back up,” she said.
“What?”
“I need for you to back up so I can put my legs down.”
When he stepped backward, the baby started crying.
Petra lowered her legs, stood and adjusted the long, auburn braid that hung down her back. Before she could say anything, Cole McClure charged into the reception area.
“Hey, lady,” Cole greeted her. “I need your help.”
“Anything for you.” She liked Cole, even though her fellow midwife and friend, Rachel, had moved away from Granby when she married him. “How’s little Emily?”
“Perfect.” He made the introduction. “Petra Jamison, midwife, meet Brady Masters, special agent.”
“Hi, Brady.” She purposely used his first name instead of his title. The clinic was her space, and her protocol applied. In here, it didn’t matter if you were a bank president or a car mechanic—she’d delivered babies for women with both of those occupations. “May I take the baby?”
“Be my guest.”
When he transferred the tiny bundle into her arms, her fingers brushed against his chest. It was hard as a rock. “Are you wearing Kevlar?”
“It’s a protective vest.”
She glanced between the two men. Even though Cole had on a dark blazer, his jeans and blue shirt were casual. Quite the opposite, Brady matched the stereotype for men in black, right down to his body armor. His underpants were probably government-issue. “Do you mind telling me why this baby has an FBI escort?”
“Long story,” Brady said.
The poor thing was filthy, swaddled in a blanket with a sheep design. The baby’s cries were fitful. The little face twisted in a knot.
She blew out the candle and went down the hallway that was covered with hundreds of photos of families who had used the clinic over the past five years.
In a spacious lavender room with sinks, cabinets and a refrigerator, she placed the wailing infant on a changing table and removed the blanket. There was a logo in the corner and a blood stain, but she saw no wounds on the baby as she peeled off a grungy T-shirt and a cloth diaper that looked like it hadn’t been changed in a very long time. “When’s the last time this little boy ate anything?”
“Don’t know,” Brady said.
She shoved the discarded clothing and blanket aside. “You probably need those things for evidence. Trash bags are in that cabinet. Cole, would you prepare a bottle of formula? You know where everything is.”
While the two feds did her bidding, she slid a portable tub into one side of the double sink. Using a soft cloth, she gave the baby a quick wash, inspecting him for cuts and rashes. The warm water soothed his cries until he was only emitting an occasional hiccup.
“Is he okay?” Brady asked.
“I think he’s going to be just fine,” she said. “Nothing wrong with his lungs, that’s for sure.”
After she dried him off, she applied a medicinal salve to his chafed bottom, put on a biodegradable diaper and swaddled him in a clean white blanket. She took the bottle from Cole and teased the nipple into the baby boy’s mouth. After only a few tries, he started sucking.
The whole process had taken less than ten minutes; Petra was an expert. She looked toward Cole who was on his cell phone. Even though she didn’t really want to talk to Special Agent Brady, she spoke to him in a soft voice that wouldn’t upset the feeding infant. “I’d like an explanation.”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” he said. “Thanks for taking care of the, um, immediate problem.”
“Are you referring to the poopy diaper?”
He scowled as though it was below him to discuss poop. This guy was uber-intense. Tight-lipped, he said, “The infant needs to be turned over to Child Protective Services.”
“There’s only one thing this baby needs. His mother. What happened to her? Is she dead?”
“Why would you think—”
“There was blood on the blanket. A big smear right next to the logo for Lost Lamb Ranch, whatever that is. So, what happened? Did you find the baby at a crime scene?”
Even though Brady had already washed his hands, he used a spritz of hand sanitizer. “The short answer is yes. There was a crime. We don’t know where the mother is.”
“I might be able to help. I don’t know all the pregnant women in the area, but I’ve got a pretty good network. Should I ask around?”
“That won’t be necessary.” His gray eyes were cool and distant. “We have reason to believe the mother isn’t from around here.”
“On the run?” she guessed.
His expression gave nothing away.
“Is she a hostage? Or kidnapped?”
“It’s an ongoing investigation. I can’t discuss it. You understand.”
She took his condescending attitude as a challenge to figure out what was going on. The infant she held in her arms had switched on all her protective instincts. She couldn’t just hand him over and walk away.
“It must have been something terrible,” she said, “that separated the mother from her baby. In spite of how dirty he was, he’d been taken care of. Mom didn’t want to abandon him.”
Brady said nothing.
She could only think of two reasons a mother would leave her baby behind. “Either she was forced to run or she thought the baby would be safer without her. If I had to guess, I’d say that mother and baby were being transported illegally.”
“Good guess,” Cole said as he ended his phone call. “I checked in with the sheriff, and he put me through to one of his deputies who picked up an injured woman—an illegal with no green card. She kept saying that her baby was stolen.”
“How badly is she injured?” Brady asked.
“Knife wounds. A lot of blood,” Cole reported. “The deputy took her to Doc Wilson’s house. It was closer to his location than any hospital or clinic. The doc stitched her up. He says she’ll be fine.”
“We need to talk to her,” Brady said.
“I told the deputy to stay with her at the doc’s place. If anybody is after her, she could be in dan
ger.”
Petra listened with rising concern as they discussed their plan to drive to Doc Wilson’s place. Her heart went out to this mother. She wanted to help. “I’m coming with you.”
“I can’t sanction that,” Brady said.
Still holding the baby, she left the room and went down the hall to one of the desks behind the counter. “What I do is my decision. Not yours.”
“You heard what Cole said. It’s dangerous.”
She whipped around and transferred the baby into Brady’s arms. “Keep the nipple in his mouth. He needs to get as much hydration and nourishment as possible.”
Sitting in her ergonomic desk chair, she slipped into her lightweight summer hiking shoes and unlocked her bottom desk drawer. In the back of the drawer, she found her GLOCK automatic, loaded a clip into the magazine and snapped the gun in a holster onto her belt.
“No,” Brady said firmly. “You’re a civilian.”
She pointed to a yellow-painted brick that she was using as a paperweight. “You know what that is?”
“An award for completing the Yellow Brick Road at Quantico.”
She gave a nod to her former career path as an FBI special agent. “I was number one on the obstacle course back then, and I’ve kept up my skills. Besides, I can take care of the baby.”
“The baby? Who said anything about taking the baby?”
She stood to face him. Brady was over six feet tall, and she was only five feet, seven inches. She had to tilt her chin to look him straight in the eyes. “If you want the mom to talk, you need the baby. She’s not going to open her mouth when she’s in a panic about her missing child.”
For a full twenty seconds, he glared at her, definitely ticked off. Then he inhaled deeply, exhaled and conceded. “You’re right.”
“Wow, I didn’t expect you to give in.”
“You might have the wrong impression of me.”
“Let’s see.” She took a step back and looked him up and down. “My first impression is that you’re rigid, controlling and always follow the rules. Pretty much the opposite of me. Is that about right?”
“Not bad for a superficial description.”
“Could you do better? Go on, tell me about myself.”
“You don’t want to play this game.”
Another challenge? She couldn’t let it pass. “I insist. Tell me your impression of me.”
“A risk-taker,” he said in a low voice meant only for her ears. “Pretty much fearless, but you’re afraid of fire.”
“What?” How had he known that?
“You heard me,” Brady said. “You come from a family where at least one member is in law enforcement. You’re rebellious and always root for the underdog. You’re honest to the point of tactless. You say that you don’t care what other people think but you’re sensitive. You lost someone close to you—a boyfriend or a fiancé. And you’re from northern California, near San Francisco.”
Taken aback, she gaped. He’d been correct on every single count. “Either you’re a psychic or a damn good profiler.”
“Psychics don’t generally become special agents,” he said. “If you come with us to pick up the mother, I’m going to insist that you wear a protective vest.”
“Fine.”
His snap analysis intrigued her. She wouldn’t mind getting to know him better, even if it meant putting up with his arrogance.
* * *
BRADY DECIDED THEY SHOULD take two vehicles. Cole had already left in Petra’s truck and would coordinate backup with other officers from the sheriff’s department. Brady, Petra and the baby would ride together in the black SUV. His plan was to pick up the witness and take her into FBI custody. He’d already put in a call for a chopper to meet them at the airfield.
Through the windshield of the SUV, he watched as she stood on the sidewalk talking to four hugely pregnant women. The ladies waddled into the clinic, and Petra came toward him with the baby in her arms. Over her left shoulder, she carried a diaper bag filled with supplies. Her right hand was free to draw the GLOCK automatic from the side holster that was only partially hidden under her long purple vest.
A gun-toting midwife wasn’t his first choice as a partner, but he could work with Petra. She was FBI-trained and would do anything to protect the baby. Her instinct to reunite the mother with her child had been smart.
She arranged the sleeping baby in the carrier she’d installed in the back of the SUV. Safety first. He approved.
When she opened the door to the passenger side, he held out the dark blue Kevlar vest with FBI stenciled across the back. It wasn’t necessary for him to repeat his order; she knew what needed to be done.
As she donned the protective armor, her blue eyes expressed an irony that contrasted the sweetness of her full lips and the innocence of the freckles that spread across her cheeks. She reminded him of a mischievous kid, but he wouldn’t make the mistake of thinking she was immature.
She hopped into the seat and fastened her seat belt across the vest. “Happy?”
“Delirious.”
He pulled away from the curb. The GPS in the dashboard showed him the route to Doc Wilson’s address, which seemed simple enough. Five miles outside town, he’d turn left on Conifer Street, then another three miles on a winding road. “Tell me what kind of cover we’ll find at Doc Wilson’s house.”
“Are you expecting an ambush?”
“I want to be prepared for any possibility.”
“It’s a two-story log cabin in a forested area. There’s a small clinic with a parking lot attached to the right side of the house. Doc’s retired but still sees a few patients.”
The forest bothered him. If the traffickers had picked up the deputy’s scent, they could sneak into Doc’s clinic without being seen. He remembered the brutally murdered body of his informant sprawled on the floor. These were vicious men who had reason to silence the witness.
“Fill me in,” she said. “What are we looking for?”
“Your job is to take care of the baby and the mother. That’s it. Period. Nothing else.”
“I should question her,” Petra said. “I mean, look at you and look at me. A terrified woman who almost lost her son is way more likely to open up to another woman. Plus, she’s an illegal, and I speak Spanish. Do you?”
“Fluently.” Once again, she’d outlined a good plan. A woman-to-woman conversation would probably be more productive than an interrogation. “We’ll both question her. I’m looking for the obvious information. Names, places and dates.”
“Was she brought here by a coyote? I hate those guys.” She shuddered with anger. The wisps of red hair that had escaped her braid flared around her face like flames. “What they do is so wrong on so many levels.”
For a moment, Brady considered telling her about the ITEP investigation into human trafficking and the sickening possibility that infants were being drawn into this web of crime. Her righteous rage matched his own feelings about the victimization of helpless people. This was a passionate woman, perhaps too much so. Her emotions were close to the surface.
He decided against adding fuel to her fire. “Our focus is to get information that can be acted upon immediately.”
“So we want to talk to her right away.”
“Correct.” Time was of the essence. The traffickers might still be in the area, and he needed to find them.
The light from a half moon and a sky filled with stars illuminated the sparsely populated land beyond the city borders. There were only a couple of houses with lights in the windows and few headlights on the two-lane road.
He used his hands-free phone to contact Cole. “Are you there yet?”
“Just approaching the house,” Cole said. “I haven’t seen any sign of the other deputies.”
“Don’t go in alone. Wait for me.”
“We might have a problem,” Cole said. “A few minutes ago, the deputy at Doc’s called me. Even though I could hear the woman sobbing and yelling in the background, he sa
id he had everything under control and didn’t need my help. He said he’d meet me at the sheriff’s department.”
“He was warning you off.”
“That’s what I thought,” Cole said, “but I played along and asked him if he was sure he didn’t need assistance.”
“His answer?”
“He confirmed that he didn’t need help. I could barely make out what the woman was saying. It sounded like she said, ‘Don’t hurt my baby.’”
Brady feared that the traffickers had caught up to the witness at Doc’s place. He might be headed into danger. Worse than that, he’d dragged Petra and the baby along with him.
Chapter Three
In the reflected light from the dashboard, Petra studied Brady’s profile as he ended his call. Intuitively, she knew something was bothering him. Not that he’d been cheerful before, but he was definitely darker and more serious.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“When I exit the vehicle, you get into the driver’s seat. If I don’t signal you in five minutes, drive away fast. Do not, I repeat, do not enter the house.”
“I’m armed,” she reminded him.
Under his breath, he said, “Please don’t kill anybody.”
“I’m just saying… If there’s a threat, I can respond.”
“A dead suspect isn’t going to do me much good. I need for you to concentrate on one thing—keeping the baby safe.”
She didn’t argue. It didn’t take FBI training for her to realize that there needed to be one clear leader in a crisis situation. “Are you going to wait for Cole?”
“He’s already at the house.” Brady eased up on the accelerator and drove slowly past a black panel van parked at the side of the road.
“What is it?” she asked.
“California plates on that van.”
Tension prickled along the surface of her skin. She rested her hand on the butt of her weapon. When she’d made her bold pronouncement about keeping up her skills, she hadn’t really expected to fire the GLOCK. And target practice was a lot different than facing real danger. “Do you think the van belongs to your suspect?”
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