Rescue Me: A Novel

by Christy Reece

  No, there was no one else responsible but herself.

  Eden pushed herself out of bed. She couldn't sleep, might as well get in some training. Having Noah almost beat the crap out of her earlier should have been enough to exhaust her, but she was too wired to sleep. She rarely drank, never took drugs, so no getting help from that end.

  Pulling on her workout clothes, she forced herself into her gym. If she beat the hell out of the boxing bag, maybe she'd sleep for a few hours. Noah had called her in for a consult on another case. She needed at least three hours sleep to function. The case sounded a little more unusual than their normal rescue. Even as tired as she was, she couldn't help but be intrigued. This was what she lived for, what she'd worked for. This was her calling, her passion, her life.

  five

  “I miss you. When will you be home?”

  His head pressed against the cushion of the chair, Jordan closed his gritty eyes, fighting the urge to growl at the woman on the other end of the phone. She'd done nothing to deserve his irritation. “Couple of weeks, maybe less.”

  “I know you've only been gone a few days, but I feel as though it's been forever.”

  Familiar guilt hit him. He didn't feel the same. He wished he could love her, as she deserved to be loved. Samara Lyons was exactly the kind of woman a sane man dreams to settle down with. Beautiful, talented, gentle, and spirited. She was perfect. In his way, he loved her as much as he'd ever been able to love another living being. But he wasn't in love with her, had grave doubts he was even capable of such a nebulous emotion.

  They'd been talking about marriage the past few weeks. Mostly in generalities, but he'd seen the knowledge in her eyes. She knew he was considering proposing. And when he did, they both knew her answer would be yes. Marrying Samara just made sense.

  “Jordan … you there?

  “Yeah … sorry. How was your day?”

  As her soft voice flowed over him, he saw her beautiful face and kind eyes, and was again reminded of the reasons he'd existed in the shadows for so many years. Innocence and goodness still existed and he'd worked long and hard at his chosen occupation to preserve it.

  Several months back, he'd come to the realization he needed a change. He'd taken enough bad guys down to fill a few prisons. Didn't he deserve a rest? He'd be thirty-seven his next birthday. What once he'd sworn never to consider, a wife and a family, he now longed for with a need he found surprising.

  He wanted the fairy tale, after all. Or at least a reasonable facsimile.

  Not long after coming to that astonishing realization, he'd met Samara and a whole new world opened up for him. From a large family, Samara didn't know the meaning of secrecy. Oh, she had plenty of confidential information she kept with her job as a social worker, but emotional secrecy just wasn't part of her makeup. She was an open book, honest, sweet, and giving. How had he gotten so lucky and why the hell didn't he appreciate it more?

  “Jordan, you still there?”

  Well, so much for changing his ways. She'd been talking a full five minutes and he had no idea what she said. “Sorry. Had a difficult day. I saw a woman today, thought she was Devon.”

  “Oh my gosh, Jordan. What happened?”

  Jordan had kept nothing from Samara. He figured if she was going to get mixed up with the likes of him, she needed to know how badly he'd screwed up. And in his opinion, he'd never screwed up anything as badly as he had with Devon.

  “She had a hummingbird tattoo on her shoulder. Before I knew it, I was on my feet, asking her if she was Devon. The instant I saw her face, I knew it wasn't her.”

  “I know that must have been difficult. Are you going to contact those people you told me about?”

  “Hell, what's the point? They couldn't help me years ago, when she first disappeared. Devon's been gone seven years now. The trail's even colder. She's either dead or doesn't want to be found. Is there any reason to go looking for her … another wild goose chase?”

  Though thousands of miles away, the compassion in her voice reached through to him. “Finding Devon for her sake might be pointless. Finding her for your sake isn't. If you don't exhaust this one last avenue, will you ever be able to let it go?”

  He rubbed the knot of nerves at the back of his neck. She was right. He'd never be able to let this go without exhausting every opportunity, no matter how remote. “After my business is complete, I'll make the contact. If it looks like this Noah McCall might be able to help, I'll go from there.”

  “I'm glad. Jordan?”

  “Yes?”

  “You're sure there's nothing dangerous about this job?”

  Though he could tell her almost nothing about this assignment and little of his career, he could reassure her. “The most dangerous thing I'll be doing is eating too many pastries and having to run extra miles to work off the calories. Everything else is a piece of cake.”

  She laughed, as he knew she would. Laughter came easy to Samara.

  “I'd better get off here. I've got an early case-file meeting and I still need to read over my new cases.”

  “Sleep well, Samara.”

  He stared at the phone in his hand long after he heard the click of her hanging up. A part of him wished she was there with him, another part was glad she wasn't. If he went to LCR for one more opportunity to find Devon and they told him there was no chance, he expected the gremlins to come out of the closet and play with his guts for a while. Samara didn't need to see that no matter what happened, no matter what anyone said, he'd never get over not finding Devon.

  Standing, Jordan pulled his clothes off, dropped them on the floor, and fell across the bed. Tired, weary eyes stared sightlessly at the stark white ceiling of the hotel room. Seeing the woman with the tattoo today brought back memories he'd successfully shut out for years. Now they flooded through his mind like a torrential rain of fire … Devon's beauty and innocence, his monumental error in judgment, and then his supreme cruelty. Jordan closed his eyes as images both sweet and bitter danced inside his head. For the first time in years, he gave in and allowed himself to remember the magic and then the misery.

  “I understand this will be your last assignment.”

  Clicking the briefcase shut, Jordan jerked his head in a curt nod. Starting up a friendly conversation with a man who brokered terror information as if he were a shoe salesman wasn't something he felt obligated to do. Get the information, dump the money, and get out. Playing pretty wasn't in his job description.

  The man crossed his lanky legs and settled more comfortably onto the leather sofa, as if he had all day. “You're leaving the team?” An almost fatherly smile twisted his thin lips.

  Though on edge at the unusual path this transaction had taken, Jordan had trouble holding back a humorless laugh. Team? Amazing how the agency called itself a team when each assignment was always an individual effort. And if that individual suddenly found himself in trouble? The team didn't exist. No white knights would come riding to the rescue.

  He'd lived with that knowledge for years. Accepted it as a risk worth taking. The work he did too important not to take. Having met few of his team members, he'd never really concerned himself about them. They knew the risk, just as he did, and accepted it as such.

  Years ago, Henry Stevens had warned him of the risks of becoming an undercover operative. Though Jordan had heard his advice, the excitement and danger had been too tempting to pass up. How incredibly naïve he'd been, but had doggedly stuck to his commitment.

  One day last year, his tolerance of that risk punched him in the gut and left a gaping hole. One of the few team members he'd met found herself in deep shit.

  On assignment in Austria, Jordan only learned of it later, after it was over.

  A female operative—and, from what he remembered, intelligent and talented—had been betrayed by her in formant. Unable to explain her presence and reasons for being in the extremely anti-American country, the radical and soulless government decided to make an example of her. Though havi
ng her rescued would have caused only a slight diplomatic problem, if that, their team leader chose to let her go. Jordan's sources informed him she'd been executed, after severe torture. And the team didn't give a fuck.

  Jordan decided then that his time with the team was at an end.

  “I'm sure your talents will be missed.”

  Yeah, right. Making the assessment that the creature across from him might be feeling somewhat sentimental since they'd worked together in the past, Jordan stood, wanting to end a conversation he hadn't wanted in the first place. He held out his hand and touched the elegant, somewhat effeminate hand, reflecting on how much scum of the earth he'd dealt with in his career as an operative for a non-ex is tent government agency. This would be his last. The information Bill Smith—a lame-ass fake name the guy had used for years—sold to the United States could very well stop a major terrorist attack against several embassies.

  These kinds of meetings usually held minimal threat but optimum benefit. Jordan didn't mind paying millions of dollars for what could possibly save thousands of lives. As long as he was certain the money wasn't going to fund any other terror group or event, he'd dole out money to scumbag moles all day long.

  He never questioned where the money came from, though he figured it was diverted money from special interest groups, dummy organizations, and Uncle Sam's contribution. If it saved lives, he didn't care if it was counterfeited in someone's basement. The results were what mattered and his results always delivered.

  He offered Bill a grim nod and walked out the door. This might be his last assignment but for some reason, he felt no relief. Long strides carried him through the lobby of one of Paris's finest hotels. Though always aware of his surroundings, he paid little attention to the subtle signs of wealth in the people he passed or the understated opulence of the hotel's interior. Before the doorman could reach him, Jordan pushed the door open, walked down the concrete steps and onto the narrow sidewalk.

  Inhaling deeply, he absorbed the sights and scents of one of the great, unique cities in the world. He caught a glimpse of the top of the Eiffel Tower through the trees and stopped abruptly, ignoring the cursing bicyclist who swerved around him.

  How long had it been since he'd played a tourist in Paris? This city had always been one of his favorites. A small part of him wanted to take a few days and just enjoy the flavor and unique quality he'd only ever found here, but he was just putting off the inevitable. He would arrange for the transfer of the information he'd just purchased, and tomorrow he'd make an appointment to see Noah McCall.

  Research had yielded little information on the powerful but shadowy organization and even less on its mysterious founder.

  He knew LCR had been in existence for at least ten years. Unofficial reports indicated they employed well over one hundred people, though some speculated it was much more.

  There were numerous rumors but none he could substantiate about McCall. Some said he came from a Mafia family and, having decided he'd had enough of his family's bad business, had chosen to do good instead. Other reports indicated he was a rogue former government agent who got tired of having to abide by the rules.

  Jordan did know that LCR's success rate of finding kidnap victims, runaways, and missing persons was nothing short of phenomenal. They were so successful that law enforcement officials and even some government agencies turned a blind eye when they went beyond legal means to accomplish their goals.

  LCR's goal wasn't to punish the wrongdoer but the perps rarely got away, and that was one of the many reasons the local law let them have their way. If the bad guy was caught, the law was called and given full credit for the arrest. Hard to resent that kind of assistance.

  Within months of Devon's disappearance, Jordan contacted the D.C. branch of LCR. After a few weeks, he'd been told the trail was too cold. They couldn't find her. Since Jordan used his considerable contacts and netted the same results, he'd been disappointed but not surprised.

  He'd never considered trying them again. Then, a few weeks ago, an acquaintance happened to mention that LCR's main headquarters was in Paris. That started him thinking. Even though Paris was thousands of miles from where Devon was last seen, and it had been seven years, what if he went directly to the head of LCR? Would that make a difference? Would McCall be willing to take on such an old case?

  Was one last chance even possible?

  “Ah Eden, glad you're here. I'd like you to meet Amelia Beard.”

  As Eden drew deeper into the hotel suite, her eyes were drawn immediately to the short, middle-aged woman standing between what looked like two giant oak trees, somber and solid. Whoever this woman was, she'd come with some impressive protection.

  Mrs. Beard's faded blue eyes held an unbelievable sadness; her double chin wobbled slightly as her mouth lifted in a small, twisted parody of a smile. “How do you do?”

  Eden shook the older woman's soft, wrinkled hand. Late forties, early fifties, privileged upbringing, but a demeanor of calm, kind dignity. The soft yellow pantsuit she wore was expensive, but not designer made.

  Without glancing at the giants beside her, Eden sensed their eyes were focused on the woman, ready to deter and deal with anything that threatened her.

  She raised a brow at Noah and he shrugged. “Mrs. Beard's bodyguards. They go where she goes.”

  Deciding to ignore their presence for the time being, she crossed over to one of the sofas and made herself comfortable.

  Mrs. Beard's face flickered with uncertainty at Noah, as if she weren't sure she should sit unless invited.

  Noah threw out his hand at a chair. “Please have a seat and we'll begin. Would you care for something to drink before we get started?”

  Mrs. Beard answered with a tight smile and a quick shake of her head, then settled herself on the edge of a chair across from Eden.

  Noah, always the one to put people at ease while Eden silently dissected them, sprawled into a chair beside Mrs. Beard and smiled his famous “you can trust me with your soul” smile. “Tell me, Mrs. Beard, what brings you to Last Chance Rescue?”

  Mrs. Beard drew herself up and Eden was impressed by the way she changed from a cowering, defeated woman into someone with purpose. Ah yes … amazing what purpose could do to transform a person's life.

  “We live in a small village, on the outskirts of Madrid. My daughter, Risa, was kidnapped from her school… She was gone for eight days.”

  Noah leaned forward slightly, his attention caught, as was Eden's, by the strange wording. “Since you said eight days, I'm assuming she's been found?”

  Mrs. Beard's lips and chin trembled slightly, the only indication of her emotions. “Yes, my husband, Marisa's father, was able to have her safely returned.”

  “When was she taken?”

  “Almost two months ago.”

  “And a ransom was paid?”

  “Yes.”

  “I'm a little confused. Your daughter was returned. You know LCR's mission is to rescue individuals, not go after the perpetrators of the crimes?”

  “Yes, I do know this.”

  Noah's normally smooth brow was slightly furrowed. “Then why …?”

  Mrs. Beard cast an anxious eye over to one of the shadows in the corner, as if looking for reassurance. By no movement or expression did the man in the shadows give out any signals, but for some reason the older woman seemed to relax. She released a heavy sigh and whispered, “There are others.”

  “Others?”

  As if unplugging a dam, information gushed forth. “My Risa was taken by men who do this for a living. They kidnap people, mostly children. Some are babies, others in their teens. There are two different parts of this organization. One takes these children and ransoms them. Often the families are not able to pay the ransom, so they go to the other area.”

  When she paused to catch her breath, Eden shot a quick glance at Noah. He was sitting on the edge of his chair, just as she was. Why had they never heard of this organization?

 
“What's the other area?” Noah asked softly.

  “It is strictly a sell to the highest bidder.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “My husband paid the ransom but only after being told”—her voice thickened—“my Risa would be sold.”

  “How do you know this wasn't just a threat to push you into paying?”

  “My daughter has been deaf since the age of five. People often talk in front of her, saying things they wouldn't normally say, because of her disability. But people fail to realize how easy it is for some people to read lips. Risa had learned this to perfection. This was how she learned other children are sold to individuals for all different reasons.”

  “Why are you just now coming to us?”

  “We were threatened. If we told anyone about the kidnapping, Risa would be taken again, and this time she would be immediately sold. We couldn't take the risk.”

  “What's changed?”

  Mrs. Beard looked down at her hands and shuddered violently. Again the shadow in the corner made no motion toward her, but for some reason, Eden could almost feel waves of support and sympathy coming from his direction.

  Finally gathering her composure, she whispered, “My Risa was killed in an automobile accident two days ago. I have no other children. They cannot hurt me any more than I've already been hurt.”

  “I'm sorry for your loss, but how can we know where—”

  “There are houses.”

  Noah stiffened. “Houses?”

  “Where they keep the children until they sell them.”

  “You know where the houses are located?”

  “I know where two are. I'm sure there are more.” Though her voice was soft, a new strength seemed to come from her. Amelia Beard was a determined woman.

  “Did you go to the authorities with this information?”

  Again she looked over at the shadow and this time, the shadow nodded. She looked back at Noah. “Yes, but they seemed uninterested.”

  Eden caught Noah's quick glance at her. When local authorities seemed uninterested in something like this, it usually meant one thing: They'd been bought off to ignore the criminal activities.