She assessed the area with a fearful sweep of her eyes. “Get in, quick!” she decided unexpectedly.
In a flash, he leapt into the car, tamping down his guilt as Skyler swung into traffic, driving them swiftly toward the Islands Expressway. Yes, he was taking advantage of her misery, but he was desperate to get her to himself. She might know nothing of her father’s crimes. The only way to know for certain was to ask her.
Tiffany Hughes balanced her rolling suitcase on one hip as she stuck her key into the lock of her condo door. The damn thing didn’t want to go in. With a mutter of annoyance, she tried again, unlocking the door this time, and reached in to flick on a light.
She’d been swinging golf sticks for four days, then staying up late partying with the champions last night. She was sore. She was tired. She wanted nothing more than a hot shower and a long night’s rest.
Locking the door behind her, she dragged her suitcase down the tiled hallway to the master suite. She left it right inside the door to unpack tomorrow, stripped in the adjoining bathroom, then got in the shower. Standing under a hot stream, she reveled in the glide of warm water over her aching muscles, her tight scalp.
With the lyrics of a drinking song playing over and over in her head, she stepped from the shower and toweled dry. The open door showed a bedroom standing in darkness. How ’bout that? She’d been so beat, she hadn’t even turned on the light.
With a shrug, she turned to the sink to brush her teeth. As she dragged a comb through her damp, dark hair, she softly sang a line from the ditty in her head.
The sight of a middle-aged man stepping out of the shadows changed her song to a startled scream. She whirled, thrusting the comb out to ward him off.
He hushed her with a finger to his mouth. Seeing the latex gloves on his hands, she dragged in a breath to scream again, only he lunged at her. Rough and powerful hands closed over her mouth and nose, closing off her airways. He pulled her by the head into the darkened bedroom.
“We have a potential problem,” the Culprit admitted to Owen Dulay.
Coming on the heels of nine rounds of golf with his buddy Ashton Jameson, the news cast a shadow over Owen’s sunny mood. “What now?” he growled, jamming his golf club into the bag on the back of the cart and stalking to a distance where his cell-phone conversation could not be overheard.
“The Navy SEAL is putting the pieces together,” the Culprit explained. “He identified Grimes as one of the kidnappers, and he insists the Centurions were responsible for the kidnapping. As of yet, he’s only mentioned this to the FBI investigator, but if he takes his suspicions beyond the circle, it could spark an inquiry.”
“Damn it,” Owen swore, reining in his annoyance with a deep breath. “You should never have allowed him to come down here.”
“Evidently.” The Culprit smirked. “Who knew your man Grimes would be so careless as to show his face in public.”
“Enough,” Owen cut him off. “I’ll have the SEAL brought in. He won’t get the chance to talk.”
“Are you certain your people can handle him?”
“Don’t deign to condescend to me,” Owen thundered quietly, turning his back on Ashton’s curious scrutiny. “You forget to whom you pledged your service.”
“And you forget,” countered the Culprit with a dark smile in his voice, “who protects you.”
Owen simmered with private rage. “Then do your job,” he charged harshly. “With the Navy SEAL out of the way, it shouldn’t be all that difficult.”
“Consider it done,” said the Culprit with disdain.
Stabbing the end button with his thumb, Owen willed his blood pressure to subside. He paid the Culprit phenomenal sums to cover his trail; still, here he was, having to step in and handle matters himself.
Perhaps it was time to cultivate a new ally at the bureau. Power, unchecked, had gone to the Culprit’s head. It was time he was reminded who was really in charge.
With a superior smirk, the Culprit slipped his private phone into the lining of his jacket. He leaned back into his creaking leather seat and gazed with relish at the file marked top secret lying open before him.
The file had been one of many included in a briefing packet from the Undercover Division. While skimming its contents, the Culprit had stumbled onto something that had his blood thrumming with possibility.
The Undercover Division had placed an investigator within Dulay’s sphere of operation. It was just a matter of time before they had sufficient evidence to arrest the Centurion.
The Culprit, thanks to the steps he’d taken to remain anonymous, stood in no danger of being implicated in the process. Nor was he sufficiently loyal to warn Dulay of the FBI’s scrutiny. The man had condescended to him one too many times.
The Elite, direct descendants of the original one hundred, would reel. Dulay’s arrest would be a crippling blow to their unity. It would leave them terrified of government persecution. With just the right timing, the Culprit would approach each one, offering them protection. They would turn to him in gratitude. They would look to him for leadership!
He could feel the power rising up within him.
With a cold, grim smile, he signed the briefing packet, signifying that he’d reviewed it. Owen Dulay was on his way out. There was a new sheriff in town.
Chapter Ten
The sky was a spectrum of violet, indigo, and cobalt melting into black on the elusive horizon. Drake had strolled along the beach next to Skyler for miles, just listening to her voice, admiring the dainty imprints of her feet in the sand, the way her gold ringlets swung about her slender neck. Enchanted, he let her talk, his personal agenda forgotten.
This afternoon, this evening, was for Skyler, who, given the memories and personal musings tumbling from her lips, had craved a listening ear for some time.
Her voice grew husky when she talked of special times with her mother. He realized her childhood had been much like his own. His father, busy and aloof, was a man he’d feared; his mother, friendly and concerned, had been his ally. The same had been true for Skyler, who confessed to wanting to emulate her mother’s gracious spirit. “She was so beautiful,” she sighed, “inside and out.”
So are you, Drake thought, wishing this evening would last forever.
“I know she’s still with me, but . . .” She wiped the tear streaking down her cheek, catching the last suggestion of sunlight. “I miss her so much.”
It was not the time to ask if Matilda had kept daily memoirs as well as a garden journal. Skyler needed comforting. He reached for her hand. Startled, she glanced at him with wide eyes but kept her hand nestled in his.
Their fingers folded harmoniously together. Drake’s breath shortened; desire tugged at him.
If he wasn’t careful, he’d spill out his heart to her and jeopardize everything. He kept his questions focused on Skyler, careful not to mention the parallels in their lives. “Did your mother know your father planned to marry you to Ashton Jameson?”
She came to a startled stop. “You remember his name?” she asked with amazement.
“Yeah, of course.” He played it off. “He’s the luckiest guy on earth. How could I forget it?”
She looked down and away from him. “You think so?” she asked him sadly.
He pulled her around to face him. “I know so. Skyler, you’re incredible. You’re beautiful, kind, intelligent—”
“You don’t know me,” she protested, tugging her hand free to hug herself in misery.
“I do,” he insisted.
“No. You want to know why I’m marrying Ashton?” she asked him unexpectedly.
“Why?”
“Because I killed someone.”
“What?” He thought he must have heard her wrong.
“It’s true.” She nodded, her voice fraying with shame. “When I was a freshman in college, I got drunk one night and tried to drive home. Suddenly this man stepped in front of my car, and I hit him. I got out to look, and I realized I’d killed him,” sh
e breathed in recollected horror.
Oh, honey. “What did you do?” he asked, picturing her distress.
“I called my father, who called the police,” she said with a helpless shrug. “Only, they never arrested me. They said the man was homeless, anyway; no one would miss him. I never even went to court; my father made it all disappear. For the rest of my life, I will owe him for that.”
Fucking bastard. “You don’t owe him shit,” Drake growled.
She shook her head, dismissing his objection as irrelevant. “See, I’m not wonderful. And I won’t blame you if you hate me now,” she added, the tears in her eyes sparkling in the dark.
“Hate you?” With a groan of self-discovery, Drake realized he was actually perilously close to falling in love with her. “I could never hate you, Skyler.” It saddened him that she was still punishing herself. “That’s why you work at the shelter,” he realized out loud. “You’re trying to make up for what you did.”
Her face crumpled suddenly, and with an exclamation of dismay, he put his arms around her, delighting in the feel of her smaller frame pressed close to his. They fit perfectly together. The urge to protect her, to whisk her away from her evil father, had him adding gruffly in her ear, “Your father’s been blackmailing you, hasn’t he? He’s fed on your guilt and shame to make you do what he wants. Am I right?”
She nodded, hiccupping back a sob.
“Listen to me,” he added, catching her wet face between his hands. “You don’t have to marry Jameson. There’s got to be another way.”
“What way?” she demanded helplessly. “I’m not as brave as you, Drake. I can’t just run away. Who would look after my mother?”
The need to tell her who he really was, to promise her shelter under witness protection, trembled on the tip of his tongue. Only, he couldn’t be sure whether Skyler’s fear of her father outweighed her desire to be free of him. “I don’t know,” he answered gruffly. “But I’ll find out.”
She hugged him with what was clearly gratitude. “You’re so kind,” she breathed, giving him a searching look. “I never knew a man could be so kind.”
He knew the exact moment she recollected that he was just an eighteen-year-old runaway with a history of drug abuse. Pulling away from him stiffly, she shook her head, as if to tell herself it wasn’t right for her to like him this way. “We’d better head back,” she suggested with an awkward smile.
He wished bitterly that he could tell her everything. But it was too soon. “Yeah,” he agreed, turning with a grimace toward her car.
To his gratification, she caught his arm up in a friendly manner, a compromise to the hand-holding they had done before.
Perhaps one day soon, he could tell her everything. Right now his priority was to get the gardening position at Dulay’s mansion. A job like that would give him access to Dulay’s files, allow him to put a tracer on his vehicle, to bug his office, even splice into his private phone line. He couldn’t let his impulse to rescue Skyler stand in the way.
“ ‘The Centurion symbol is that of the griffin, part lion, part eagle,’ ” Sean read from the handbook as Ellie lay next to him on her stomach, following along. “ ‘The lion, which represents Centurion strength, forms its base. The eagle’s head and wings, a symbol of our nation, sits atop the lion’s shoulders, signifying the glorious day when government is ruled by Centurion might.’ ”
Ellie gave a snort of disbelief.
“It says here, ‘Centurions may identify each other by wearing a signet ring stamped with the symbol of the griffin,” Sean added.
A memory pierced Ellie’s consciousness. “Peyton,” she breathed, a chill sweeping over her.
“What?” Sean prompted.
“Sergeant Peyton,” she repeated. “He had a ring like that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, it caught my eye more than once. Oh, Sean,” she cried, grasping his muscled forearm to steady herself, her heart beating unevenly. Until that moment, she hadn’t fully believed that the Centurions had masterminded the kidnapping. “No wonder Peyton wanted to frame me.”
“Who else is a Centurion?” Sean muttered darkly.
Every muscle in Ellie’s body tensed. “What if there are Centurions working for the FBI?” she whispered, thinking of their photos and the WANTED message on the FBI Web site.
Sean’s cell phone vibrated, preventing him from answering. He glanced at it and grimaced. “Butler’s finally calling back,” he announced.
Ellie released him with trepidation. Surely Butler wasn’t a Centurion, not when he’d expressed sincere sympathy for her loss. He’d even given them permission to snoop around the city of Savannah looking for Carl.
“Harlan,” Sean answered. “It’s about time you called back.”
“You’re not at the Hyatt,” Butler accused, ignoring Sean’s jibe.
So, the man had finally traced his credit card. “Are you worried?” he needled. “You think we’re headed for the Mexican border?”
Butler sighed. “No, Mr. Harlan. I’m concerned for your safety. I’ve been reading up on these Centurions,” he added gravely.
“Well, that makes two of us. Are we both still wanted for questioning or do you believe me now?”
“Look, I’m not responsible for the Web site,” Butler retorted. “I apologize if it offends your sensibilities.”
Fuck you. Being wanted by the FBI offended his honor, his integrity, everything that went into being a Navy SEAL. “Are you going to arrest Grimes or not?” he countered.
“I’m waiting for warrants.”
“Are you aware that Centurions hold meetings every Wednesday evening at the homeless shelter?” Sean inquired.
“No. How’d you find that out?” asked Butler, scratching himself a note.
“I asked around,” he lied. In fact, Drake had mentioned it during their little tête-à-tête last night. “It occurred to me that if you get down here tomorrow, maybe you could arrest Grimes, assuming he attends the meeting.”
“This is a complex investigation, Mr. Harlan. If we arrest just one man, it’ll tip off the others. We wouldn’t want the boys being moved to a new location because we acted too rashly. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”
“Yes, sir,” Sean muttered, tamping down his impatience.
“I’ll be down there tomorrow at noon. We’ll talk specifics then. Now, where would be a good place to meet?”
With the hopes of still drawing Grimes and his buddies out into the open, Sean picked a public location. “City Market,” he decided, naming the bustling art center four blocks from the waterfront. Butler didn’t seem like the type to make a public spectacle. If he wanted to arrest Sean, he’d do it later, not that Sean expected it to come to that.
“City Market at one p.m., then,” Butler agreed. “I take it you enjoy playing cat and mouse, Chief,” he observed dryly.
“I’m not the one playing games,” Sean pointed out. “Take my picture off the Web site, and you’ll find me more amenable.”
“I’ll see what I can do. How’s Mrs. Stuart holding up?” asked the agent.
Sean glanced at Ellie, who watched him with a worried crease on her brow. “She’s all right,” Sean answered, admiration creeping into his voice. “She’s anxious for you to nab the bad guys and find her boys,” he added meaningfully.
“Tell her I’m doing my best,” said Butler. To Sean’s keen ears, he sounded stressed and regretful.
“I’ll tell her,” he promised. “See you tomorrow.” Ending the call, he laid the phone on the bureau.
“What’d he say?” Ellie asked, eyeing him hopefully.
“He says he’s gonna come down here and kick some Centurion ass,” Sean lied, hoping to boost her spirits.
Her grateful semismile told him she could see straight through him. Only with Ellie did he feel that transparent.
The need to hold her and be held in turn had him crawling back onto the bed. He shoved the blasted handbook off the bed, sending it tu
mbling to the floor, and gathered her in his embrace.
Heaving a long sigh, she laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes.
That’s better, thought Sean. But he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in his gut that things were going to get a lot worse before they got better.
Braiding her hair an hour later in preparation for bed, Ellie regarded her pale, drawn face in the mirror and pondered the likelihood that the boys were here, in Savannah, perhaps dreaming of their mother as they slept.
Passages from the Centurion handbook wafted through her mind, stirring up feelings of disquiet. The secret society had been founded nearly a hundred and fifty years ago. Could it have grown so large that agencies within the government were now controlled by them? If Sergeant Peyton was a Centurion, didn’t it stand to follow that there were also lawyers and doctors and lawmakers who owned signet rings and met in halls across the country, preaching sovereignty through unity?
How had Carl, who was lazy and not the least bit politically minded, become part of such an ambitious group? And why would Centurions be willing to break the law for one paltry member, to risk FBI investigation, simply to return Carl’s legacy to him? It made no sense.
Clearly there were pieces to this puzzle still missing.
Laying her brush on the marble counter, Ellie heaved a weary sigh. Unanswered questions would probably keep her wide awake the rest of the night.
In the middle of the night, Skyler awoke with a start, her heart thudding. Moonlight pierced the chiffon canopy draped over her bed. Kicking off the sticky sheets, she padded across the carpet to the window that offered a view of the dark, deserted street.
Memories of the evening before filled her with bittersweet longing. Before that precious escape, she had never fully realized how much she stood to lose by marrying Ashton. Not once had she felt desire when holding Ashton’s hand. She took no delight in his company, had never stood in awe of his kindness. Yet, a runaway teen had inspired all of those feelings, and having felt such strong attraction, how could she deprive herself of feeling that way ever again?
Too Far Gone Page 15
