by Lisa Jackson
He had no weapon. No gun. Not even a knife.
But he’d learned hand-to-hand combat while he was in the military; knew what it took to kill a man.
And if Weston Taggert had done any harm to anyone, Kane would take him out. The engine ground up the hill, surely announcing his arrival, his tires spun and caught in the steep incline. He had to put his rig into four-wheel drive to keep from sliding down the hill and into the foggy nothingness.
“Come on, come on,” he said, expecting with every turn to see the pickup looming in the dark. To face Taggert. To, please God, save Claire. They had unfinished business, the two of them, and now they were four. Sean and Samantha were definitely part of the deal. Which was just fine.
Where the hell were they? God, he’d climbed for ten minutes steadily and still there was no sight of . . . suddenly he was in a clearing. Two vehicles, their lights dimmed were parked between dilapidated buildings with sagging porches and broken windows. Between the dark pickup and a filthy gray van, in the beams of the headlights where fog rose like smoke, a group of people huddled. Kane’s heart pounded as he recognized Claire and Tessa, very much alive and unmoving as Weston stood to one side, a rifle trained on both of them. On the other side of the clearing was a second man whom Kane recognized as Denver Styles. Sean was missing.
Heart in his throat, Kane slowly climbed out of the cab. Weston’s deadly gaze moved to him, but the rifle remained trained on the women. “Look who showed up. The goddamned cavalry. Put your hands in the air, Moran.”
Kane did as he was told. He only had to get close to Weston, near enough to jump him. The rifle, once it wasn’t pointed at Claire wouldn’t be a problem. Kane learned years ago how to disarm a man. The fog, heavy with the primal scent of the sea, would help camouflage his moves.
“What’s he doing here?” Styles demanded, sliding an irritated glance at Kane.
“Trying to save the day.”
“It’s all over,” Kane interjected. “The police know what’s going on.”
“Sure they do,” Weston mocked, but seemed a little nervous.
That wouldn’t do. The last thing Kane wanted was for the rifle to fire because Taggert was twitchy.
“Our plan will still work.” Weston wasn’t going to be deterred. He hitched his chin in Kane’s direction and from the trees nearby an owl gave off a lonely hoot. “We’ll just make sure Moran is in the accident. As soon as we find the boy.”
“I told you the kid isn’t important,” Styles said. “He’s not related to you. He’s Moran’s son, not Harley’s.”
“You’re sure of that.”
“Saw the DNA report myself.”
How? Kane wondered. What was the deal with this guy? Was he an assassin? A killer for hire? Styles complicated things. Kane knew he could take out Taggert, the guy was getting soft in the gut, but Styles was another matter. The two men he had to disarm were standing too far apart. Fortunately Styles didn’t have a weapon cocked and aimed. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t a gun hidden beneath his jacket.
“But the kid can make you. He saw your face.”
“I’m going to disappear,” Styles said. “And I’ll take the heat. That way if the cops think that the accident was planned, they’ll blame me. It’s my van that’s going to go off the road and into the sea anyway. No one will ever know that you were behind the deal. Just give me my money and I’ll do the rest. You can take off, go make yourself an alibi.”
So the guy was a gun for hire. Well he’d have to get close to Taggert to take the money and when he did, Kane would make his move. There was no way he was going to let Claire get in a car with either of these two pricks. His muscles tensed. He was on the balls of his feet, ready to spring.
“What about him?” Weston asked and motioned in Kane’s direction with the muzzle of the rifle.
Kane froze.
Styles didn’t so much as glance his way. His jaw was rock hard, his lips a thin line. “As you said, Moran gets it, too.”
“You bastards, do you think you’ll really get away with this?” Claire glanced at Kane.
“Shh. Don’t say anything,” Tessa warned and there was something about her attitude that seemed off. “Just go along.”
“Are you nuts? I’m not going along! Not ever.” Claire was angry and scared and Kane wanted to find a way to comfort her.
“Neither am I, Taggert. As I said, the police know just what you’re up to.”
“So where are they? Jesus, Styles, let’s get this over with.” He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a thick envelope. Kane inched forward. “This is most of it. You’ll get the rest once the job is finished and if I find out you’re lying about the kid—”
“He’s not. Leave Sean out of this,” Claire said. “Whatever it is.” She sounded desperate. Panicked. “Sean’s not Harley’s son!”
She was moving forward, pleading with Weston, ignoring the gun barrel pointed straight at her chest. Kane heard a rush in his ears, saw Weston aim. “No! Claire duck!” he screamed, rushing forward. In his peripheral vision he saw Styles move.
“Now!” Styles yelled as the barrel of the gun shifted, sighting on Kane.
He leapt at Weston.
A rifle cracked.
Kane hit Taggert hard. Taggert screamed as they went down, the rifle falling to the earth. Kane pummeled the man with his fists, reached upward, intent on driving the bastard’s nose into his brain. From everywhere there were shouts and from the corner of his eye Kane saw a dozen men in SWAT gear stream from the trees. Sirens sounded and he caught a glimpse of Claire, ashen faced, rushing toward them.
“Stay back!” Styles ordered, aiming a pistol at Kane. “Give it up, Moran.” He pulled a wallet from his pocket and flashed a badge. “Get EMT here now!”
Someone peeled him off Taggert who was writhing on the ground, blood gurgling from his lips.
“You’re hurt!” Claire cried, staring at his shirt and the bloody stain on it.
“It’s Taggert’s.” Styles still had his weapon trained on Taggert.
“Who the hell are you?” Kane demanded.
“FBI. Undercover. Taggert was into a lot of illegal shit.”
“Where’s Sean?” Claire asked, and for the first time Styles smiled. “With his grandfather. I don’t think Dutch is going to make a run for governor after all.”
“We need life flight!” the EMT who was working on Taggert said and Styles nodded, walked to the van and barked orders into a walkie-talkie.
Kane held Claire close. It was over. Taggert, if he lived would be in custody. Claire was safe. Sean was safe. He’d finally come home. He kissed Claire’s tear-stained face and sighed. “Come on, Princess,” he said. “Let’s go get our boy.”
Epilogue
“So Denver Styles was with the FBI?” Claire asked. She and her sisters were seated around the outdoor table two weeks after Weston Taggert had been captured. It was near twilight. Sean was shooting baskets and Samantha was upstairs listening to the radio, some of the strains of music filtering through the thick branches of the fir trees surrounding the patio.
“Styles was deep undercover, so deep that no one here in Chinook, not even the police knew it,” Miranda said, and her irritation was visible as she twirled the stem of her wineglass between her fingers.
“You thought he should confide in you, is that it?” Tessa said, as she lit a cigarette and placed one bare foot on an empty chair. “When you were a part of the investigation.”
“It would have been nice.”
“Oh come on, Randa, it would have compromised the entire sting or operation or whatever it’s called.”
“She’s right,” Claire added and smiled. “Admit it, the real reason you’re ticked off is that you started to fall for him.”
“If that’s what you want to think,” she said and sipped from her glass.
“That’s the way it is.”
“He called here looking for you,” Tessa added.
“I heard.”
“Did you call him back?”
One side of Miranda’s mouth lifted a bit. “I’m considering it.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, go for it. So you were embarrassed, so what? He was just doing his job and he does have a nice ass.”
“Tessa!” Miranda said, as if shocked.
“Yeah, like you haven’t noticed.”
Claire giggled. “Shh. My daughter might hear you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Tessa said. “Like that’s the biggest one of your problems.”
“Okay, okay, you’re right.” Claire did have more than her share of situations that needed her attention. Even though Kane had helped save his mother, Sean wasn’t certain he trusted the man who was his father. He was still stung from dealing with Paul and wasn’t eager to let another man, regardless of being blood related, into his life. Recently he’d voiced his opinions about Claire remarrying.
“Are you nuts, Mom?” he’d asked while trying to perfect a skateboard jump over a retaining wall near the lake. “You just got out of one bad marriage and now you’re jumping back in. Can’t you give it some time? Isn’t that what you always tell me to do?”
She’d argued of course, even told Sean that Kane had been her first true love. Her son had indelicately thrown Harley into her face and the implication, though unstated, was that she was fickle. She’d decided he had a point. Then Sean had pushed the issue. “And I don’t like the way he calls you ‘princess.’”
“It’s a joke,” she’d explained.
“Yeah, a bad one.”
“I’m not changing that, I like it,” she’d explained, and on that issue they were at a standoff. It only made things worse that Samantha thought Kane was cool. That really bugged Sean. Well, tough, he could just be bugged, Claire decided, as she took a sip from her glass.
“So you’re getting married to Kane next year?” Tessa asked.
“Umm, that’s the plan.”
“It’s not like you don’t know the guy. What’s it been now, sixteen years?”
“Maybe even longer, but who’s counting? It’s what’s happening now that matters.” And that was true. She loved Kane, he loved her and they could wait a little while, just let things settle down.
Tessa finished her wine. “I’m just glad Dad gave up all that nonsense about running for governor. Wouldn’t that have been a pain in the butt?”
So much had happened. Weston was in custody, still hospitalized but expected to live and stand trial. Paige was now in charge of Taggert Industries and Kendall had filed for divorce. She and Stephanie had already moved to Portland. Dutch had given up his political dreams and was satisfied to spend more time with his daughters while constructing another phase of Stone Illahee. Ruby and Jack Songbird were suing Weston Taggert for the wrongful death of their son and Tessa was getting restless.
“So what’re you going to do?” Miranda asked her youngest sister.
“Now that I’m a free woman, that I know I didn’t kill Harley, I’m going back to California and maybe I’ll try to take some art classes or something. I don’t know.” She narrowed her eyes on Lake Arrowhead. “Maybe I’ll just hang out here a while. You don’t know how good it feels to finally be free.”
“Yeah, I do.” Claire said. “The divorce papers came on Monday.”
“Congratulations!” Miranda said, then turned as she saw a boat slicing across the lake. At its helm was Kane Moran and damn it, Claire’s heart still jumped at the sight of him in his beat-up leather jacket and jeans. He’d aged in the past sixteen years but there was a part of him that was still the rebel boy whom she’d fallen in love with all those years ago.
“Are you sure you can wait a year?” Tessa asked, seeing her sister’s face.
“Mmm. We’ll see. I think it would be best.”
“You think?” Tessa wasn’t convinced.
Kane moored the boat, waved to the sisters, then hurried up the dock and headed toward the garage. He said something to Sean and with a disinterested lift of one shoulder, Sean passed him the ball. A heartbeat later they were involved in an intense game of one-on-one.
“Looks to me as if it might work out,” Miranda observed just as Sean faked Kane out and made a layup.
“Fingers crossed,” Claire said, smiling as she watched her son and his father vying for the ball. “Fingers crossed.”
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed the “new and improved” WHISPERS. As I said, it was fun revisiting Kane and Claire and Lake Arrowhead. Let me know what you think of the new version through my website at www.lisajackson.com or www.themysterymansion.com.
Now, I’d like to tell you about my newest romantic suspense novel, which will be available from Zebra Books in March 2004. It’s THE MORNING AFTER and is the companion book to THE NIGHT BEFORE, which is still available.
Remember Pierce Reed, the sexy, dogged detective in THE NIGHT BEFORE? And Nikki Gillette, the feisty never-say-diereporter for the Savannah Sentinel who gave Reed fits? Well, they’re paired together again and this time the sparks really fly.
Once again the story takes place in Savannah. When Detective Reed receives a chilling anonymous note telling him that time is running out, he’s stumped. The return address is the Colonial Cemetery in Savannah, which makes no sense to him whatsoever. He dismisses the letter as a prank.
It’s not.
Later that day, in the mountains of upstate Georgia, a grizzly discovery is made: Hunters have stumbled upon a makeshift grave, complete with coffin and not one, but two bodies! Within the satin-lined rosewood box is also another note, once again addressed to Detective Reed.
Nikki Gillette, ever searching for a story to propel her into the limelight, follows Reed to the crime scene where Reed recognizes one of the victims and realizes that the killer is playing a dangerous and deadly game with him. It’s not random. It’s not a coincidence. Reed is the target and the words of the first note that time is running out take on a new, horrifying meaning. With each new discovery, the tension becomes very palpable and the stakes become higher. Soon Reed realizes that the killer’s diabolical plan includes not only Reed, but Nikki Gillette as well. It seems that no one who knows him is safe.
THE MORNING AFTER is about hatred, vengeance, love and lust. For a quick preview, just turn the page to read an excerpt of THE MORNING AFTER. I think you’ll enjoy it!
Lisa Jackson
Please turn the page
for an exciting sneak peek of
Lisa Jackson’s
newest thriller
THE MORNING AFTER
coming in March 2004!
Prologue
Oh, God it was cold . . . so cold . . .
Bobbi shivered. She was sluggish, could barely move, her mind groggy and dull. She wanted to sleep, to ignore the vague sense of uneasiness that teased at her mind. Her eyelids were heavy. As if she’d taken too many sleeping pills. An acrid odor reached her nostrils, something foul. She cringed and realized that her room was quiet. Still. Eerily so. No sound of the hall clock ticking off the seconds, or the fan from the furnace turning the air . . . no . . . the silence was deafening.
You’re not in your room.
The thought hit her hard.
You’re not in your bed.
She forced an eyelid open. She was . . . where?
The rancid smell made her gag. Her mind began to clear. Where the hell was she and why couldn’t she move? Her lungs were tight, the air thin, the darkness complete. Panic shot through her blood as she realized she was lying on her back, wedged against something hard, her nose pressed against slick fabric.
It was dark. Airless. She had trouble drawing a breath. And that god-awful smell . . . She nearly wretched.
This was wrong all wrong.
She tried to sit up.
Bam! Her head cracked against something hard and there were sides keeping her in tight, hard sides wedging her onto the bed . . . no not a bed, something softer and spongier and squishy. Fear scorched her brain as the
horrendous smell assailed her. She was crammed into some kind of box.
A coffin?
God, no! That was impossible! This was all some kind of weird, macabre dream. That was it. That had to be it. But her blood was pumping frantically through her body. Panic chiseled down her bones. She screamed and the sound thundered in her ears, going nowhere. Oh God, oh, God, oh, God. Wildly she tried to kick upward, but her bare feet hit the hard surface, a toenail catching on the lining.
This couldn’t be happening. It was a nightmare. Had to be. And yet . . . with all her might she tried to push, to climb out of this horrible confining space with its satin lining and . . . And . . . Jesus Christ, she was lying on something soft in places, hard in others, a . . . a . . .
A body! You’re lying on a body! Her scream echoed in her ears, ricocheting back at her.
“Help me! Oh, God, Oh, God . . . please, someone.” Jesus Christ, was she really lying upon a dead person?
Maybe it’s still alive—just comatose like you were.
But she knew better. The once-live padding beneath her was cold as death and reeked and was probably already decomposing and . . . oh, please let this be a horrible, monstrous nightmare. Please let me wake up. She heard sobbing and realized the sounds escaped from her throat. Don’t panic. Try to figure a way out of this . . . while you still have air. The fact that you’re breathing means that you were probably just dropped here. Just because you’re in a coffin doesn’t necessarily mean you’re underground . . . But she smelled the dank earth, knew that she was in a grave. It was only a matter of time before—
Snap out of it and figure a way out of this! You’re a smart woman, think! THINK! If you’re not buried, just trapped in here, there could still be time . . . But she knew the seconds were running out, each one bringing her closer to a horrid death. Please God, don’t let me die. Not like this . . . not . . . not like this.
