by Joan Swan
Fire, explosions, mayhem: fine. Keira kissing another man: torture.
After testing the water temperature, he stepped under the wimpy spray and let go of the tension in his neck, his shoulders, his arms.
Luuuke!
He winced as Keira’s terror-filled cry ricocheted around his brain, more distant than in that moment on the roof when he’d been frantically searching for her after the blast. But it still brought back the sight of her hanging off the edge, the fear tearing at him like that of a dream in which he’d been falling, only to wake just before he hit the ground, sweating, panting, heart jumping from his chest.
He closed his eyes and let his head drop back and under the water. And there she was, imprinted on the back of his eyelids—kissing Tony.
Anguish closed his throat around a groan. “Fuck me.”
His cell rang. He pushed the shower curtain aside and leaned out to grab it off the counter.
“What?” he barked, ready to take off the head of any unsuspecting victim.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” A female voice met his ear. A perturbed female voice. One he couldn’t place. “Tell me you’re stuck in traffic or make up some other elaborate excuse, ’cause I’m about as pissed as you sound right now.”
His mind tangled, searching for her identity. Since his mother had passed over a decade ago, his sister, Teague’s first wife, had committed depression-induced suicide, and Keira had gone off in search of something better with the FBI, there were no constant women in his life. But there had been attempts, women he’d hoped to connect with in an effort to forget Keira. So many attempts. So many failures. And after seeing her today, he finally knew why.
“Um . . .” Instinct told him to tread lightly. “By the sound of your voice, I’d say I should be somewhere I’m not.”
A second of dark silence brought the tension back to his shoulders.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“I’m . . .” He had a feeling this was going to start World War III. “In Nevada.”
“Nevada?” she nearly screeched. “That’s not even funny, Luke.”
“It’s not meant to be funny,” he said, resigned to the fallout. This had happened many times over the last two years, since he’d begun dating again after returning Kat to Teague. After realizing Keira wasn’t coming back. The arguments over the demands of his job, the lack of connection, of even the desire to connect with anyone. “I was dispatched to an incident here this morning. Have you been watching the news?”
“No. I’ve been getting ready for our date. Do Bon Jovi tickets mean anything to you? Front row center?” Her voice rose with anger. “I spent a week’s pay on these tickets, Luke.”
Oh, shit. That did mean something to him.
“Jesus, Carly, I’m sorry.” He closed his eyes and hung his head. Such a loser. “There’s no way I can make it back in time.”
Nor did he have any inspiration to try. A really big fucking loser.
Silence.
The beginning of the end. He’d been here so many times.
“We’re in the middle of nowhere.” He attempted to sound apologetic, but somehow the absurd disparity between his reality and hers—burning children versus Bon Jovi tickets—limited his depth of sympathy. “I’ve had lousy cell service and this is a damned war zone.”
Another extended silence followed by a long, drawn-out, frustrated sigh.
Luke leaned his forehead against the tile. He would have thrown in his near-death experience if he’d thought it would have mattered. He didn’t. “Why don’t you take your sister? Or your friend, what’s her name, Sunny?”
“Summer.”
“Right, Summer.”
“Or maybe,” she said, her voice now cool, “I should take Damon. He’s been after me for months.”
A tired, defeated laugh slipped out. Carly was an incredibly beautiful, intelligent woman who shared Luke’s desire for children and a family. Yet, he couldn’t summon even an ounce of jealousy.
“You know what? That’s a great idea.” A fucking fantastic idea. “This obviously isn’t working out for either of us. You and Damon have my blessing. Good-bye, Carly.”
Luke disconnected with a combination of remorse and relief, and tossed his phone on the counter. It clattered hard as he put his head back under the spray and ran the hotel soap over his hair and body.
The phone rang again and Luke growled. He didn’t have the patience to go through the easy letdown. Couldn’t summon the compassion he needed to justify the situation to an irate, hurt, emotional female. But guilt made him pick up his phone anyway.
“Ransom.” He sighed, watching the water drip off his body and onto the chipped linoleum floor.
Nothing.
He frowned, looked at the display. Still connected. He put the phone back to his ear and listened. A scrape. A whisper. The rustle of cloth.
Luke. Thank God.
The water layering his skin turned cold. Goosebumps rose on his arms.
“Hello?” he queried again, then, for a reason he couldn’t explain, said, “Keira?”
“Yes.” The word came in barely a whisper, but the frightened tone drifted through loud and clear. “It’s me.”
He hit the shower control and cut the water. “What’s wrong?”
“I need you.” The words reverberated through his body like a mini-quake, and the desperation in her voice pumped his heart rate higher. “I couldn’t call anyone else. It’s Tony. He’s not Tony. I mean, he’s not who he says he is. He’s not Mateo’s father. I don’t know—”
“Don’t know what?”
“What’s happening. You were right. Nothing about this is what it was made out to be. I need you to . . . Come get me, Luke. Mateo and me.”
“I’m coming. I’m there. Where are you?” He barely swiped a towel over his body before grabbing his jeans and pulling them on with one hand.
“I . . . Hell, I don’t know. He took us from the hospital after you left. We’ve been heading east on back roads for about an hour. But it’s dark and deserted and I can’t see anything. Damn, Luke, I left all my weapons in the chopper. He has a gun and he’s twice my size and he’s trained and . . . I have Mateo . . .” She paused to drag in a shaky breath. “Luke, if I don’t see you again . . .”
“Don’t.” He forced the possibility from his head. “I’ll find you.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t stay. I’m sorry I didn’t come back. I should have tried harder.”
His heart split open. “Jesus, Keira—”
“He’s coming,” she whispered. “Luke, whatever you do, don’t trust anyone.”
The other end of the line went quiet in Luke’s ear.
“Keira?” He gripped the phone harder. “Keira!”
Those same sounds that had initiated the call now ended it, a murmur, a shuffle of fabric, then nothing. But the line didn’t go dead. She’d left her phone on. Which meant it probably had GPS tracking.
“Damn,” he murmured. “You are one smart girl.”
He grabbed the hotel phone and connected to an outside line, then dialed the operator. As he waited, he set down his cell and threw belongings into his duffel with his free hand.
The operator came on the line.
“Yeah,” Luke said. His mind fragmented into a dozen pieces, his heart pounding too hard and too fast. “I need the number of the nearest—”
The words FBI field office never made it out of his mouth.
Don’t trust anyone.
“Hello?” the operator queried.
“Uh . . . Never mind.”
He hung up. Stared at the phone. Who exactly did anyone encompass? Her boss? Her agency? He didn’t know. But if Tony was supposed to be FBI and wasn’t, if the incident had been taken over by the army, if it had included several different law enforcement agencies, there was no telling how deep the conspiracy went.
He needed help. Needed someone with connections. Someone who could get information. Who could elicit answers
.
His mind calculated routes and miles and speeds. Tony had a good seventy-, eighty-minute jump on him. It would take him hours to catch up, even if he knew where he was going, which he didn’t.
Without disconnecting his cell, he punched into the directory, searched until he found the number of the only person who had everything he needed, and dialed the hotel phone again.
“Mitch Foster,” the other man answered in a brisk business tone.
“Mitch, it’s Luke.”
“Oh, it’s only you. What number are you calling from?” Mitch didn’t wait for an answer. “This better be important, Ransom, ’cause my Padres are spanking your Giants, and if I miss even one good pitch, I’m going to be pissed.”
“What the fuck? You’re supposed to be on a plane.”
“I am. Haven’t you ever heard of in-flight television? You really need to get out more, cop. There’s even in-flight Internet nowadays, and—”
“There is no in-flight cell service. Where the hell are you?”
“On the tarmac, taxiing in. They’re entertaining us through a delay at the gate with a rerun of the San Diego–San Francisco game, which I happened to miss last night because I was, shall we say, entertaining one very beautiful, enthusiastic young Harvard law student on break for an internship at—”
“I couldn’t care less about your sex life, Foster.”
“You should pay more attention. Maybe you’d learn something. Get something once in a while. It would improve that constantly fucked mood—”
“You are such a prick. Under any other circumstances, I’d tell you to go screw yourself.” Luke cut off the casual banter he and Mitch typically exchanged. “But I need you to track a cell transmission. And I need you to do it fast.”
“Wait. Did you just tell me to go screw myself and then ask me for something?” Mitch let out a superior chuckle. The no-harm, no-foul ribbing usually entertained Luke. Not today. “And I’m supposed to care? Why aren’t you turning to your fellow boys in blue to handle this?”
“Because I can’t . . .” Trust anyone.
Mitch hesitated. “Are you still in Nevada?”
“Yes.”
“Whose phone?”
“Keira’s.”
“Oh, my God.” Mitch drew out the words in disbelief. “You are stupid, Ransom. You get the chance to pull your head out of your ass and you screw it up. What idiotic stunt did you pull to send her running this time?”
The fact that Mitch knew every detail of Luke and Keira’s history without ever having known them as a couple was a testament to how their pseudo-family operated. Everyone got into everyone else’s business. And they all told each other how they felt about said business, whether any of them wanted to hear it or not. The only thing that kept the whole group from a bloody brawl was that each one of them knew the opinion was imparted in his or her own best interest.
“She’s not running from me, asshole.” Luke’s teeth ground as he searched for patience. “Someone abducted her.”
“Fucking A.” Mitch’s voice lost all joviality. “This better not be a joke, Luke, or I’ll pull your teeth out with a pair of rusty pliers.”
“Colorful. You’ve been practicing criminal law too long.”
The sound of paper crackled over the line. “Give me the number.”
Luke recited it. “She said she’s been heading east of the incident on back roads for about an hour. Her cell is still on and connected to mine.”
“Why’d she call you? It sure as hell wasn’t for a dose of your lousy charm. Why didn’t she call the cops?”
“Do you really have to ask?”
“Goddammit,” he muttered. “I’ll have a location for you in twenty minutes.”
“Make it ten, and, Mitch, I need one more thing.”
“You’re a demanding SOB, Ransom. What?”
“A plane and a pilot.”
“That’s two things, you stupid cop.”
Jocelyn Dargan paced the wall of windows in her office at the Department of Defense, arms crossed as she stared through the glass toward the lights of Arlington glittering against the night. Behind her, the wall-mounted flat screen continued to spit out the latest CNN news on the firestorm still raging out of control at Rostov’s compound.
“What a mess,” she grumbled, her mind formulating damage control strategies. “Stupid, stupid people.”
The cell clutched in her hand rang. She looked at the caller ID, held her breath, and hit the RECEIVE button. “Tony, do you have him?”
“Yes, ma’am, I have him.”
The confidence in his words reassured her that not only did he have the kid, but that Tony was in charge of the situation. Jocelyn let her eyes close and her shoulders sag.
The army already had control of the scene. The other agencies had been debriefed with perfectly orchestrated lies. The press had been fed a load of horseshit. Senator Schaeffer would never know how close they’d come to discovery. To disaster.
She shook her hair back. “Very good. Nice work, Tony. Where are you?”
“About thirty minutes from the exchange point.” Jocelyn opened her mouth to praise him again; then Tony said, “I have someone else, too. I have O’Shay.”
Jocelyn’s shoulders tightened. The only O’Shay that came to mind—Cash O’Shay—was imprisoned at the Castle, on the verge of a developmental breakthrough, promising to catapult the United States military into the next century as the leader in warfare. One that would have Jocelyn’s name all over the credits.
“Which O’Shay?”
“Keira O’Shay.”
Confusion crisscrossed her brain. “Exactly what do you mean you have her?”
“I mean . . .” Tony hesitated. “I took her . . . when I took the boy.”
“How in the hell . . . ?” She stopped herself from exposing any more ignorance. Besides, the how didn’t matter at this point. “Why would you do that?”
“Ma’am, didn’t you read my briefing on the heredity aspect of Rostov’s work?” He sounded like a ten-year-old asking to stay up ten minutes past his bedtime. “I sent it to your office by special delivery four months ago.”
Oh. My. God. He was one of those. She would never have suspected.
Anger built, heating her base temperature ten degrees. “This mission does not in any way, shape, or form include Keira O’Shay. You have seriously jeopardized our role in this investigation, and you have dangerously overstepped your authority.”
“I had to take her.” His voice turned cold and professional. “I couldn’t take the boy without taking her. He would have drawn attention. It was a command decision.”
Jocelyn’s office door opened and Owen Young stepped in, looking as tall and fit as he had back in their military years together, two decades before in Iraq. A few white papers dangled from his hand, and as he read her expression, a questioning furrow creased his brow. She didn’t need any more aggravation at the moment, but she did need information, so she waved him in.
“You had strict orders, Tony,” she said into the phone. “Do you realize the ramifications of your actions? Do you realize the shit storm that will explode when the rest of her team realizes she’s MIA?”
“I can get rid of her if you want,” Tony said, bitterness creeping in now, “but you should at least see them together first. Read my report. Rostov was onto something. This could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
Okay, he wasn’t just one of those. He was a raving lunatic. Worse than Rostov. And he had custody of Mateo and Keira O’Shay. Beautiful. Just beautiful. She was going to strangle Tony’s handler. Personally.
“That is exactly why we want to get him back to the Castle with his father.” The lie gave Jocelyn an idea. She drew in a slow, furious breath, searching for patience—not her strongest trait. “Take a picture of them together and e-mail it to me. Go ahead with the drop already planned for the boy, but just hold on to O’Shay for now. I’ll call you back with orders. And, Tony. If you screw this up any wor
se than you have, don’t expect to make your next annual review.”
“Yes, ma—”
She hung up, jammed both hands to her hips, and turned toward Owen. He’d settled his large frame on the loveseat across the room. One ankle rested on the opposite knee, one arm stretched easily on the back of the sofa, tapping the papers against the leather cushion.
His dark hair, just now threading with gray at fifty-five, needed a cut, but she liked it that way. She’d spent too many years looking at him nearly bald when they’d served together. And the sight of any shaved head now brought back memories of that village in Iraq and all those soldiers with similar crew cuts, strewn out across the dirt, dead. All because the Iraqi army had been one step ahead of the U.S. Better weapons. Better intel.
Owen had been with her that day, and the experience had created a unique bond. Nothing less would have been strong enough to hold their professional relationship together after the painful end to their personal one. Owen had been handsome back then as well. Maybe even more so, but in an entirely different way. More savage. More primal.
And he’d been good in bed. An amazing, tireless, demanding, sex maniac. Not a lover. He’d never been a lover. If he had been, she wouldn’t have kicked him out of her bed. Out of her heart. Would never have turned to Jason, another unit member and friend. She’d stayed with Jason off and on for nearly twenty years, but never loved him the way she’d loved Owen in their few short months together.
“I came in here to tell you that O’Shay was at the incident.” He shrugged, his wide shoulders challenging the fabric of his sage dress shirt, still pressed and tucked into gray slacks, even at the end of a long day. The only testament to his frustration was the tie pulled loose at his neck and the deeper-than-usual crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “But it looks like you’re one step ahead of me. Like always.”
“At the . . .” She squeezed the bridge of her nose and shifted through facts in her mind. “My God, the incompetence boggles my mind.” She threw her arm to the side and let it drop, then leaned against the desk. To avoid watching Owen’s gaze roam down her narrow skirt and over her legs, Jocelyn scrolled through the contacts on her phone until she reached the number for Tony’s handler. “No. I didn’t know she was at the incident.”
