Lethal Redemption
Page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by April Schwartz
Excerpt from Fatal Deception copyright © 2020 by April Schwartz
Cover illustration and design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes.
Cover copyright © 2019 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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ISBNs: 978-1-5387-6338-4 (mass market), 978-1-5387-6336-0 (ebook)
E3-20191010-DA-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Epilogue
Discover More
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by April Hunt
Acclaim for April Hunt’s Novels
Keep Reading for a Peek of Fatal Deception
Extreme Honor
Dedication
Acknowledgments
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
About the Author
To my second mom and dad…
“Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope.”
—Maya Angelou
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Chapter
One
From the back seat of her Lyft, FBI profiler Grace Steele eyed the old Kline Textile factory. It was one of the many abandoned riverside structures she saw daily during her New York City commute, and had never once given the building a second thought.
She gave it that second thought now. And a third. And as trash skidded across the potholed utility road like urban tumbleweed, she gave it a fourth.
Windows not boarded up gaped open, their glass long since fallen victim to a game of handball or a good rock toss, and less than six feet away, the only somewhat-working streetlamp flickered ominously. It was as if the horror movie she’d watched last week had come to life.
“You sure about this, lady?” Her Lyft driver pulled the car to a slow stop. “My ma always claimed I couldn’t spot a bad idea if it stared me dead in the eye, but I can see that isn’t a place you should walk in daylight, much less after the sun goes down. I can take you back—no charge.”
Grace read her boss’s text message for the third time in as many minutes: 321 Pier Six. Nine o’clock. Be there.
Correct address. Correct time. And loaded with an invisible warning that to defy the FBI director would mean severe consequences. Disobeying orders had never been so tempting—except when Aunt Cindy forbade Grace from buying a prom dress she considered “light-years too short.”
Thwarting Aunt Cindy had gotten her a month on laundry duty, which was no small punishment living with four overgrown male cousins. But disregarding Director Vance would get her fired.
She was already on her boss’s shit list and couldn’t afford a second ding. Not that the first one was her fault. If given a do-over, she’d still tell her former regional supervisor where he could stuff his sexist comments. Except, maybe, with more explicit detail.
But Grace’s notorious Steele temper flare-up last month was the reason she couldn’t disobey orders now. Karma had a wicked sense of humor.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine. I already put in a request for a ride back.” She tucked her phone into her back pocket as she climbed out of the car.
“It’s your life, lady. Hope I don’t see you on the morning news.”
Grace did too.
If it wasn’t December, and if the text hadn’t come from Vance herself, she’d think this was an April Fool’s prank hatched by one of her colleagues—maybe Toby for the wasabi toast incident.
But the director didn’t joke, or smile, or make second requests, which meant Grace had ten minutes to get her ass inside.
She tugged her coat collar up to protect her from the chill wind whipping in from the Hudson and headed to the rusted iron door. She kept her head on a swivel and surveyed her surroundings, something she’d done even before entering the FBI, thanks to her four military-trained cousins.
This far down the river, there were no tourists soaking in the sights, and any dockworkers who frequented the place during the day were long gone, their statuesque cranes sitting unused.
But Grace wasn’t alone.
She’d sensed the telltale shiver slide down her spine the second she’d stepped out of the car. It was the same one a woman felt while being eye-fucked on a nightclub dance floor or when the creepy man from the produce section miraculously appeared in front of the milk, then again by the bakery, and ended up behind you at checkout.
Every woman everywhere knew how to pinpoint The Source, and Grace wasn’t any different. Beneath her jacket, Magdalena’s weight warmed her right side, her tr
usted Magnum .22-caliber handgun reminding her in its own way that it had her back.
One man—no, two—stood on different sides of the factory’s front door. She came to a stop six feet away and unzipped her coat to give them ample time to identify themselves.
“I’m going to throw out a warning because I’m feeling magnanimous tonight. I really hate being cold. It’s a fact. I’m a perpetual bitch from the months of December to March—give or take an early spring. Just in case you lost track of time, it’s December and we’re supposedly in the crosshairs of an arctic blast. Do with that information what you want.” Grace paused and waited for acknowledgment.
The one on the left stepped forward, leaving his partner in position.
Clean-shaven with close-cropped hair and a fit, lean physique, the man couldn’t have been much older than she was. Maybe early thirties. His long, confident stride and the cocky glint in his eyes gave him away as law enforcement. “Special Agent Steele. It’s good to see your reputation wasn’t exaggerated.”
“You’ll have to excuse me for not returning that sentiment—at least until you tell me who you are.” Grace’s eyes flickered to the pin attached to his suit’s left lapel, and she swallowed a curse.
“Agent Jake Corelli, ma’am. Secret Service.” He flashed a set of credentials. “Are you carrying a weapon?”
“Yeah, I have my service weapon, like I do any time I’m called to the field.”
“You’ll need to relinquish it to me before you go inside.” Corelli held out his hand expectantly.
Grace laughed…and realized she was the only one. “Oh, wait. You’re serious? Yeah, sorry, but that’s not happening.”
“Sorry, ma’am, but it is.”
Again with the ma’am crap.
Releasing a heavy sigh, she carefully reached beneath her jacket and handed over Magdalena. “Only God can help you if something happens to her. You hear me?”
The Secret Service agent’s lips twitched. “Loud and clear, ma’am. I’ll take good care of her while she’s in my custody.”
“You better. And while you’re at it, you can stop the ma’am.”
“Noted…Special Agent Steele.” He smirked, the move showcasing an impressive set of dimples.
Once upon a time, the handsome, self-assured type had been her catnip. Oh, it was fun at first. Exciting. But reality always rushed back, and it usually did so with a harsh metaphorical smack on the face. Or the ass. Thankfully, Grace learned early on that the only way to ensure a happily-ever-after was to make it yourself.
Knights on white steeds need not apply.
Agent Corelli tapped the communication device hooked around his left ear. “Special Agent Steele has arrived and is on her way inside.”
The door behind him opened with a heavy thunk.
“And where exactly am I going once I’m inside?” Grace asked.
“You’ll see.”
“Oh goodie. I love surprises that lurk in dark warehouses,” Grace muttered, her sarcasm earning her a small chuckle from the agent.
Truth was that she hated surprises with a passion, nearly as much as cliffhangers in books. Unanswered anything practically gave her hives, which was one reason why profiling suited her perfectly…and why her boss’s severely-lacking-in-details text was driving her up the wall.
She gave Magdalena one last, longing look and stepped through the doorway, where she was instantly greeted by two more Secret Service agents, one of whom had traded her own weapon in for a metal detector baton.
“Arms and legs out, ma’am.”
Grace bit her tongue at being called ma’am again and waited as the agent ran the baton over her body. Once satisfied, she nodded to her cohort. “All clear.”
“You can go inside.” The second agent opened the next set of double doors, and Grace stepped into the large, and obviously unused, old factory.
When Kline Textiles had declared bankruptcy a million years ago, they hadn’t bothered taking all their belongings. Stacked three high, old, mildewed boxes took up the far left corner, and on Grace’s right, at least a dozen cobwebbed sewing machines had been lined up in two rows. The place was an industrial wasteland, but she didn’t spare any of it a second glance, because her gaze locked on the lone table in the center of the room…and the man standing next to it.
Grace’s earlier curiosity weighted her stomach to her feet.
Pierce Brandt.
Vice president of the United States.
Deemed too pretty for government work while on the campaign trail, the former Army General sported a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and broad shoulders. Both his smile and his youthful appearance had been media fodder before he’d taken office, but neither was in the room with them.
Dark circles framed his once brilliant green eyes, and his well-known smile had been replaced by a tight-lipped grimace. This Brandt looked a far cry and a few decades away from the man on the news who effortlessly charmed foreign dignitaries.
This so wasn’t her typical office appointment with an FBI colleague or a direct superior. Agents at her level did not get private audiences with the second most powerful person in the country.
It made her all the more wary.
“Special Agent Grace Steele. Finally, we meet.” He held out a hand in greeting. “I’ve heard many great things about you from Director Vance, and I can see that my presence is a shock, which means the director didn’t tell you about this meeting.”
“Not a thing, sir.”
“Good. I’m sorry for all the secrecy, but it was a necessary evil. This conversation needs to remain private.”
Grace barely withheld a snort. “Because the White House isn’t secure, sir?”
He chuckled at her sarcasm. “Secure? Most definitely. Private? No. I’ve asked you here as a personal favor because, for a litany of reasons, I can’t involve local law enforcement or federal resources.”
And the surprises keep coming.
Secret meetings and personal favors didn’t ease Grace’s mind one bit. Nothing good ever came from them, especially when they involved politicians.
She chose her words carefully so as not to offend him. “You do realize that I’m a federal agent, right?”
He smiled, but the act never reached his eyes. “I know many things about you, Special Agent Steele. I know that you graduated at the top of your class at Quantico. I know that you could’ve written your own ticket to any high-valued branch of the Bureau you wanted, and yet you chose criminal profiling.”
Grace shrugged. “I’ve never been a glory seeker. I’m more than happy to work behind the scenes and let others get their time in the spotlight.”
Brandt leaned against the table, crossing his arms over his chest. “And from what I understand, you also work well with a team.”
Grace’s internal warning light blinked to life.
Criminal profiling was a solitary job. She dissected people—psychologically. She picked away at their thought processes, examined their motives, what made them tick, and why they did the things they did, with the hope of stopping them before they did it again.
Though trained like any field agent, most of her time was spent behind a desk or across an interview table…which made her even more suspicious about the vice president’s comment.
There was only one time in her eight years of service that she’d worked with a team.
“Sir,” Grace treaded carefully, “I don’t mean any disrespect, but this cloak-and-dagger business isn’t my thing. Director Vance summoned me down here in the middle of the night for a reason, and I’d really like to know what that reason is.”
“I like your no-nonsense attitude, Special Agent Steele. And you’re right. You were asked here because I’ve hired Steele Ops to help me deal with my personal matter.”
And there it was.
Steele Ops. Her four overgrown cousins who’d made laundry punishment hell on earth.
“I believe that you worked with the private security firm in the re
cent past.”
“I was actually consulting with the DCPD on the Beltway Cupid Killer case, but you didn’t ask me here about the BCK. Are you looking for a personal recommendation? I may be a bit biased, but you’re in good hands with my cousins. Failure isn’t in their vocabulary.”
“Which is exactly why I hired them…and why Steele Ops has requested the use of your expertise.” Pierce Brandt’s gaze slid over her left shoulder. “Isn’t that correct, Mr. Wright?”
Grace froze.
Wright.
A common name. Thousands of people had it in New York alone, but only one possessed the power to raise her body temperature a good few hundred degrees. Right now, she was dangerously close to finding out how hot a human had to be before bursting into flames.
It didn’t make sense. This was New York, not DC, where her cousins had been deep in the throes of wooing him into the family business.
Steeling her spine, Grace turned and came face-to-face with the last man on which she ever wanted to lay eyes—or anything except a strong right hook.
Cade Wright leaned against the far wall, looking better than he had any right to in worn blue jeans and a long-sleeved Henley. The shirt molded to his upper body and didn’t leave much to the imagination as to what was under it—a rock-hard chest and eight pairs of abs, the last time she’d counted.
Grace forced her gaze off his body and up to his eyes.
Big freakin’ mistake. More times than she could count, those cobalt-blue eyes had been her undoing. Lord knew they’d been a key factor in gifting him her virginity a million years ago. And when she’d been in DC for the Cupid Killer case, those eyes—and an ample amount of Jack Daniel’s—were directly responsible for her sexual relapse.
Grace fisted her hands at her side, barely resisting the urge to throw the nearest object at his overinflated head. Probably a good thing, since that thing happened to be the vice president. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“It’s good to see you too, Grace.” Cade smirked, the move showcasing the old scar on his chin. His few days’ worth of dark blond stubble nearly covered it, but she knew it was there.
She’d been the one to give it to him during her one and only motorcycle lesson.
Not a day went by that she didn’t wonder how her sweet best friend, Zoey, shared an entire gene pool with the cocky ass. Cade Wright made her cousins seem humble, and that was saying a lot, since each of their pictures could have been published in a visual dictionary under the term smug.