Threshold of Danger (A Guardian Time Travel Novel Book 1)
Page 1
Contents
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
BLURB
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
DEAR READER
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THRESHOLD OF DANGER
A GUARDIAN TIME TRAVEL NOVEL
__________________
Copyright © 2018 Rachel Trautmiller
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles—without the prior written consent of the author.
COVER DESIGN by RACHEL TRAUTMILLER
PUBLISHED by RT-MILLER PRESS
EDITED by LORA DONCEA
This book is a work of fiction. When real establishments, organizations, events, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements and all characters in this novel are drawn from the author's imagination.
You are stronger than you think...
To the things we never say.
To the hurt we never share.
To what we do.
Day in and day out.
Strength is not merely about the muscles, but the inner beauty we hide from a world that is not ready for the light.
Keep on.
Do what you do.
USAF Pilot Elliot Knight's days of jumping without a safety net are firmly in the past. There's nothing and no one that would ever convince him to dust off his time travel gear and take the ultimate leap.
That was before Samantha Billings showed up on his radar with her foundation built on saving lives. Before her sister showed up on his couch half-dead.
Hope Alive Operative Samantha Billings' life has been limited by a past she can't change and an ex-husband who won't let her go. An ex-husband who is convinced her sister is responsible for a recent attempt on Sam's life.
As a former Foreign Correspondent, Haley Billings has been around the globe sharing stories of both extreme heroism and violent tragedy, including that of her own dark hour. The one that sent her into the clutches of severe alcoholism interrupted only by implicating memories and a host of secrets she can never share. Not even with her sister, Sam—the only person who hasn't given up on her.
Captain Simon Riley would love nothing better than to put Haley Billings behind bars where she can't hurt anyone ever again with her exaggerated articles. Where her stories are only just that. But he's already been down this road. One that resulted in two unnecessary deaths. A preventable suicide. A missing girl.
When a woman who was brutally murdered six months earlier reappears, Haley knows her secrets can't be hidden any longer—even the ones lost in the abyss of her mind. And Simon knows none of them are safe. Because whatever Haley has done—or not done—is coming for her. Coming for Sam. Coming for Elliot.
Enticing them across the threshold. Right into the hands of danger.
PROLOGUE
Six months ago
THE SCREAMING HAD stopped, but the echo was louder than a gong in a cave. It crashed and collided with the other repetitive noises in her skull. The ones that had been there all her life. They'd increased in high school and ebbed slightly in college only to resume full force the closer she got to thirty.
Guiding her. Running amok. Soothing. Irritating. Urging her to chase a story, chase a dream, chase her demons. To fix something.
Hal squatted near the frozen ground under a group of tall pines. She took a giant swig from the glass bottle she'd bought that morning from the corner liquor store. It either quieted or increased the never-ending trail of self-recrimination. Today, the sharp blast of bourbon on her tongue did little but disrupt the precarious balance she had between sanity and complete oblivion.
Soothing. Irritating. She clamped her eyes shut. Prayed the image of the bleeding woman in front of her would disappear. Loud. Too loud. All of it. The past and present. The future.
It would never change anything.
Hal was a screwup. Always had been. Always would be. The girl who had no boundaries. No decency. She was the black mark the family could never live down. There was no changing it. No praying it better. No medical diagnosis to fix it.
Watch out, Hurricane Hal's about to make landfall.
There were two exceptions to that. Maybe.
One was dead, the other blind. And neither of them could change anything because she'd be the same with or without them.
Hal sucked down the last of the bourbon and tossed the bottle to the frozen ground beneath her feet. The black lettering on the glass blurred as it bounced once before skidding to a stop at the base of a pine tree. The woman in front of her hadn't disappeared. Hadn't moved at all, the gash on her head dripping downward in an angry red—right into her brown eyes. It was already mangled in her blond hair.
Hal had to finish what she'd started.
Another story she'd followed to the crossroads. The only one she'd followed as of late. It was a compulsion. A sickness maybe. The only time she felt whole.
And when this particular story ended she might not feel that way ever again. She wouldn't. She already knew that.
A puff of white escaped her mouth as she looped her arms around the woman's chest, clasping them at the front. She managed to drag the woman into a thick patch of growth covered by a fine coating of snow. She took three steps. Stopped. Repeated the motion a dozen times—maybe more—before she positioned the woman against the bark of one tree.
This story would make headlines. It would change everything. It would...
The woman in front of Hal shivered and her teeth chattered uncontrollably. The twenty-degree temps of the Sierra National Forest promised more snow, the brittle air and gray clouds above threatening more than predicted.
And if she were normal, she'd be concerned about the need for snow chains to make her way out of the steep terrain. She'd be worried about her lack of a hat, mittens, or a scarf. The lack of something warmer than the leather jacket she wore—a Christmas present from back when she'd still forced herself to attend family gatherings.
But she wasn't normal and she wouldn't be here that long. The snow was the perfect cover, the wild animals in this area a willing and hungry secondary accessory to this crime.
The thought made Hal's stomach pitch. She took a breath. Focused on the woman in front of her. They w
ere out of sight of traffic. Hopefully, out of sight of everyone, the majority of Shaver Lake's regular high-traffic in the summer months.
What needed to be done didn't need witnesses.
The woman's eyes were glassy and unfocused as Hal ripped a patch of the inner lining from her jacket. Wrapped it around the gash in the woman's head. A gash she wouldn't survive without medical attention. A CAT scan. Sutures. Overnight monitoring.
They didn't have time for that. There was never enough of it, the plan to arrive ahead of schedule forever foiled.
This morning had been no exception, hitting home that she once again didn't belong here. She didn't belong anywhere.
She touched the woman's shoulder. "Where's your daughter?"
Did the kid even have on warm clothing? Did she—
Hal shook herself. She couldn't go down that path. This needed to be as simple as possible. No entanglements. This was a story. Maybe the last she'd ever write. "Claudia."
The woman's gaze didn't change, the chattering of her teeth only halting for the briefest of seconds.
"Her name is Anne. Same eye color as you. Almost your height at twelve. Has an amazing voice."
Hal had written an article on the girl once—eons ago. She'd been drawn in by the story. The way a tragic set of events had turned into a miracle.
Another lifetime.
Those brown eyes flickered, recognition right there as if she knew how important the girl was—important well beyond a mother's love. As if she remembered why she'd been in her car on an early Saturday morning. Racing through the Sierra Forest as if the treacherous winds and bends could somehow fix whatever she ran from.
As if life depended on it.
It did. Of course it did.
Nobody knew that better than Hal. And nobody had seen the accident coming except Hal. Which only solidified her screw-up status in life.
It didn't mean this woman would die. It didn't mean her daughter would suffer.
There was still time for change.
There was still time for bourbon or scotch or vodka. Hal eyed the bottle that had now slid down the embankment of Shaver Lake and sat at the edge of the deserted beach. Studied the way the smallest bit of sunlight lit on the emptiness of the container. The way it signified the emptiness of her own life.
Used up. Bone dry. Gone. Discarded.
A sharp inhale came from Claudia and grabbed Hal's attention. "Anne." Her eyes latched onto Hal. "She's in danger. She needs me."
"She did." Another voice chimed in. It sent chills down Hal's spine. Caused her hands to still on the woman in front of her and her heart to kick up. A circular piece of metal hit the ground between them as if shot from a cannon. It stuck in the ground and didn't move from her line of vision.
The "H" on the medallion blinded her, the words inscribed over it a giant beacon.
She didn't dare touch it.
The summer her mother died, she'd given one to Hal and one to her sister. Explained the importance of the words engraved on its surface. They had the power to reduce her to the twelve-year-old this woman's daughter was. Neither of them could afford for Hal to give up on everything, cave in to her fears.
Or to focus on the medallion's sudden reappearance after years of being lost. Seventeen, to be exact. Because she'd lost it almost immediately that summer, that moment replaying in her mind. Her mother begging them all to get along—for her sake. Her younger sister so eager to please. So oblivious to the truth about their beach vacation. Their father standing by, saying nothing, so typically removed.
And Hal—she couldn't take all of that. The pressure in her mother's words, her eyes, her gift. She didn't deserve it.
The truth had been a sucker punch that left her writhing in pain with no respite. The Colonel hadn't been there—not in any manner that counted. And Sam...
Her younger sister had been so naive. And she'd needed Hal. Had tucked her smaller hand inside Hal's—put all her trust there. But she didn't need Hal anymore and hadn't for a long time.
The slow crunch of shoes on gravel and snow filled the silence. The rustle of fall's leftover leaves filled the gap between. The heavy smell of fresh tobacco swirled around them. "Hello, Hal."
Claudia's eyes widened as she tracked the voice's movements. That face—a combination of horror and intrigue—never ceased to amaze Hal. Terrify her. Electrify her.
There wasn't enough bourbon in her system to enjoy this moment. Or to fix it.
"Listen to me." She grabbed the woman's face. Centered her attention and kept her voice low. "Go to Hope Alive. Remember that. Find Samantha Billings. She'll help you."
If the woman didn't die first. If Hal didn't die...
Claudia's lips moved, but no words emerged.
Hal had spent her whole life running around this circle. In this crazy game. But Claudia was new to its deceit. Couldn't possibly deal with the horrors. Hal stood, but didn't face the voice. Aimed to block Claudia's view.
Her last sight shouldn't be this abomination. And Hal's last fight should be a good one for whatever it was worth. She whipped her head around. "Long time no see."
There was a gravelly laugh. "I'll say."
"She doesn't have anything to do with this."
"I'll be the judge of that." The voice was closer now—within arm's reach. Close enough to have a gun up against the back of her skull. Close enough to swing a bat. Close enough to kill. Torture. Unearth secrets.
Slingshot.
CHAPTER ONE
Present Day
THE NUMBER FLASHED across the screen like a siren, the phone buzzing to life in Samantha Billings' hands. It spread a mixture of annoyance and dread through her body. She'd already ignored one call earlier this morning. Probably couldn't get away with sending a second straight to voicemail.
If she did, Lieutenant Jeff Hastings would physically search her out for no reason.
Well, no legitimate reason.
Nothing that actually had anything to do with checking in, staying friends, or the short marriage they'd dissolved over a year ago...and everything to do with today.
And the Colonel.
Sam tossed the phone onto her desk within Hope Alive headquarters. Watched it slide across the surface a few millimeters, the rough handling doing nothing to stop the incoming call.
Right now she had bigger problems than an ex-husband who had no qualms doing the Colonel's bidding or sticking his nose in business that was no longer his.
She fingered the sticky note on her desk. Tapped the Colonel's concise handwriting. Hoped the words would disappear along with the need to collaborate on a case with one sharp-as-a-tack, tall, and way-too-handsome United States Air Force pilot whose opinion of her bordered on hate.
She sifted through the file on her desk. Flipped past the smiling faces of a family of three—a girl standing between a blond-haired mother and dark-haired father. The woman's brown eyes were glued to her husband's, her hand entwined with her daughter's, love evident in their stances.
It was followed by a gruesome police report. A shallow grave. A dismembered body. A distraught husband. One missing pre-teen.
It should've made Sam uneasy. The way the Colonel had casually presented the case. An easy slip into her office before her arrival. A short note. Nothing else.
You. Elliot Knight. Figure it out.
And if she'd have been around to present the issues, he'd have brushed every single one aside. Left her holding the nonexistent company complaint box.
She slapped the file shut. He'd been operating this way forever. Minimal contact. If orders were followed, he was happy. Not that you'd ever know for sure. Some of the operatives could handle it. Some couldn't.
Sam had grown up with it, so she didn't know any different. Could often step in and fill in the empty places the Colonel left. But there were times—right now—where she wished all of that was different.
Where she could call on him and he'd be a dad first and not a commanding officer. Not someone who maintaine
d distance at all times in the name of keeping strict order.
Her phone buzzed to life again. Same number. If she answered, Lieutenant Jeff Hastings would attempt small talk. From there he'd segue into the colossal amount of ammunition the Colonel would've placed in his arsenal.
She'd never given him any of the ammo. Not even in two years of marriage. But he'd always had some anyway as if he were the Colonel's flesh and blood instead of Sam.
She shifted in her seat.
If she didn't answer, he'd call the office, or worse, he'd come to the office. He'd joke with Lucinda and schmooze with the Colonel. And Sam would sequester herself in her office hoping he'd go away. But he wouldn't, and in the end she'd be forced to talk to him.
She grabbed the phone. Brought it to her ear. Resisted the urge to greet him with a rudeness that would make it clear exactly how much this whole thing annoyed her.
"This is Sam." The Colonel had done this on purpose. Had probably even paid Jeff to call after months of blissful silence. Had put her and Mr. Way-Too-Blue-Eyes on a case together for a little extra insurance.
To keep her busy. Distracted. Keep her back up. To make sure she was safe.
The last one was a little questionable.
"Hey." Surprise etched out the syllable. "You answered."
"I did." Apparently the Colonel hadn't guided the twenty-nine-year old Lieutenant on what to do if that were to happen. And while she appreciated the forethought on what today meant, Sam wasn't in need of distractions.
She was good at what she did. The lives she'd saved accounted for that fact, with the families she'd put back together making Hope Alive the success that it was.
This was more than a job. It was her livelihood. The thing she excelled at. Finding things—finding people. Seeing the answers where others could not. Negotiating rough waters. Convincing those involved that she could and would guide them to safety no matter her own personal circumstances.
"I figured I'd call and check on you, because, you know..."