by W. L. Dyson
Richie ignored the command. “I'm going to find that sweet little girl of yours, bounty hunter. And I'm going to hurt her real bad. You want me to tell you how?”
The police officer, a friend of Nick's from his days on the force, smacked Richie's head against the top of the vehicle. “I said, shut up!” He shoved Richie into the squad car before Richie could finish his threat.
Rafe held out his hand to Conner. “Got the keys? I'll take the SUV and follow them back to lockup. Make sure we get credit for his capture.”
Nick glanced up at his two best employees. Matt Conner was a former bouncer, former professional wrestler, and Nick's right-hand man. Conn was sharp, dedicated, as tough as duct tape, and knew the business inside out. When a takedown went sour, there was no one he'd rather have at his back than Conner.
Then there was Rafe. Half the size of Conner, Rafael Constanza was a thirty-nine-year-old former police officer who Nick lured over to fugitive recovery after a shootout where Rafe had taken a bullet to the face. Even with a jagged scar across his face, he was the kind of guy who could charm any woman of any age at any time.
And once again, they were getting the job done, oblivious to the fact that Nick was fully aware they were trying to give him some time to process what had just happened inside that house. Process and deal. How many times had he done the same for them? And something in Conn's face told him that the news wasn't good.
Conner tossed Rafe the keys. “Meet you back at the office.” Then he turned to Nick, who was sitting on the hood of his vehicle, wiping the blood from his hands. “You okay?”
Nick took in a deep breath and held it for a second, gearing up for what he already suspected but had to ask. “How is she?”
Conner shook his head. “I'm sorry. She's gone.”
“You drive.” Nick slid off the hood as the fatigue dragged at him.
Conner nodded and opened the driver's door. “You should have waited for me, Boss.”
“No. I should have gone in sooner. Maybe if I had…”
“But you didn't know about the kids before you went in.” Conner started up the engine and snapped his seat belt. “You always tell us—”
“Never go in alone. Always wait for backup. I know.” Nick turned and looked out the window. He didn't want to be reminded that things could have come out differently. It would haunt him anyway. His father had warned him a thousand times about his rash, impulsive behavior. He always ignored the warning, and now it had come back to smack him in the face. How was he supposed to look his daughter in the eyes tonight and explain to her that her best friend was dead and that it was his fault?
1
Eight months later
Monday, 1:00 p.m.
Sinai Hospital, Baltimore, Maryland
She was dying. It haunted her like a specter, dogging her every step, her every thought. Okay, everyone was dying, but she could actually see the ticking clock and the sand running through the hourglass. How long do I have to live?
For weeks Annie McNamara had been watching the people all around her, thinking how unfair it was that the only thing they were worried about was what to order for lunch. She wondered if she would ever be able to stroll down a street or visit the Inner Harbor with little more on her mind than a casual lunch with friends or a new pair of shoes.
Today, walking through the lobby of the hospital, she looked into the faces of those coming and going and realized that she wasn't the only one suffering in the world. She wasn't the only one who was thinking about death.
Yet even though she was surrounded by others just like her, she was still alone. They were all too wrapped up in their own misery, their own pain, and their own verdicts to see the pain in anyone else. Annie knew that they were just like her, wondering why it was happening to them and feeling as if they had a losing ticket in life's lottery.
“Hi, Annie.” Helene was seventy-two and a widow. She volunteered at the hospital and served faithfully behind that reception desk every day, five and sometimes six days a week.
Annie slowed down as she passed the desk, letting one hand trail across the cool surface. “Good morning, Helene. How are you today?”
“Blessed, as always.” Helene's smile was as wide as the white wig she wore and as firmly in place. “You have a wonderful day.”
“You too.” Annie replied as she headed for the elevators.
“Annie! How are you doing?” One of the two nurses bustling by stopped for a second. “We miss not seeing you in here all the time, but we're glad you don't have to be. A final checkup with Dr. Burdine today?”
“Something like that,” she replied and punched the Up button even though it was already lit. “How's your little boy?”
“Doing much better, thanks. He finally made a friend at the new school and never asks about the old school at all.”
Annie fought to give the nurse a little smile. “That's great. I knew he'd settle in quick enough. He's such a good kid.”
“Well, you take care.” The nurses moved off.
“You too.” Annie stared up at the panel and watched the elevator's progress to the lobby. What did it say when you knew more people at your local hospital than you did in your own apartment building?
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. Annie waited for everyone to exit and then stepped in and pushed the button for the fifth floor. Oncology.
For three years she had been battling to stay alive. She'd quit her job at the catering business to do data entry at her dad's company just so she could come and go to doctors’ appointments, stay on his hospitalization plan, and have the freedom to be as sick as she needed to be without worrying about losing her job.
She had lost weight along with her long red hair. Then came the remission. The family had celebrated. Little by little, she'd regained her strength, her hair, and her hope. She had been about to call the catering company to see if she could get her job back when she started feeling bad again. Another series of tests. Another round of doctors’ visits. Another block of sleepless nights.
She stepped up to the counter and waited while the nurse finished her phone call. “Hi, Annie. Dr. Burdine will be back from his rounds in just a few minutes. You can wait in his office.”
She wandered around his office for nearly ten minutes before settling in front of his window and staring out at the street below. There was nothing in his office that she hadn't seen more times than she'd wanted to. The degrees on the wall framed in oak to match the desk and file cabinet. The pictures on the floating shelves of his kids, his dog, his boat, his wife, his golfing buddies at some tournament. She knew this office as well as she knew her own bedroom. Maybe even better.
The door finally opened, and Dr. Burdine stepped in, his glasses perched on top of his head, his eyes on the chart in his hands. He was a small man, barely five foot seven, with a thick shock of gray hair and twinkling blue eyes. It was those blue eyes that compelled her to trust him time and time again. When she wanted to give up, he would pin her with those eyes and dare her to make all his efforts a waste of time.
But his eyes weren't twinkling today. They were bright with concern, but heavy with the bad news she knew was coming.
“Hi, Doctor. What's the scoop?”
Dr. Burdine pulled out the chair behind his desk and sat down, setting the chart aside. He folded his hands on top of the desk and nodded toward the visitor chair across from him. “Why don't you have a seat?”
“I'd rather stand, if you don't mind. I have a feeling I won't be doing much standing in the future.”
“I'm not going to lie to you, Ann.”
Annie. Please call me Annie. Nothing bad ever happens when they call me Annie.
“Tell me.”
He reached up and lifted his glasses off his head and folded them gently. “No donor match.”
“I see.” She turned and stared out the window again. Her worst fears were being realized. It surprised her that she could feel as numb as she did. She was still standing up
. Still breathing. Still thinking. Death was knocking at her door, and she was still capable of talking. She would have thought she'd melt into a puddle on the floor.
“Ann, I'm sorry. I was really optimistic this time, but we've checked both your parents and your cousins, and it didn't work out. I've got you on the nationwide donor list, but I've already explained how crucial time is now. We can't count on that. We can pray for it, but we can't count on it.”
“I know.” There was one last chance for her. Just one. And it was far from a sure thing. Finally she walked away from the window to stand behind the visitor's chair, resting her hands on the back. “What if I had a sister?”
He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach and giving her that little half smile that she'd seen so many times over the years. A little bit of amusement, a whole lot of patience. “That would change things dramatically, but I think your parents are a little old to think about having another child this late in life. And honestly, I don't think we have nine months.”
“What if she were a twin sister?”
As he stared at her for a long moment, she saw the frown forming, dragging at the corners of his lips. “Ann—”
“Her name is Barbara. She was born three minutes after I was.”
He jerked forward, his hands gripping the front of the desk. “What? Why didn't you tell me this?”
“Because I don't exactly know where Barbara is.” Annie stepped around and slowly eased down into the chair.
“You have to find her.”
Annie reached up and combed her fingers through her hair, fighting back the tears, but they escaped her efforts and slid down her cheeks. Her mind argued vehemently. It's all a huge mistake! I'm in remission! The cancer is gone. This is all a big misunderstanding. I can't find Barbara. She doesn't want to have anything to do with any of us. It's all too hard. Tell me I'm okay. Please tell me I can go back to my life now.
“The last time we heard from her, she had been arrested for prostitution and wanted Dad to bail her out of jail. He refused. Told her she had to live with the consequences of her choices.”
“But that's your father. We're talking about you, here.” He picked up a box of tissues and held them out to her. She pulled a couple out and wiped at her tears.
“Barb called me too. I didn't have the money to help her. I was still in culinary school and working full time and barely had enough to keep my car running. I don't think she believed me.” She took a deep, cleansing breath. “But if she's my last hope, I'll try to find her.”
Dr. Burdine sat quietly for a few moments before finally reaching for a tissue. Then he started wiping his glasses. “I wish you'd told me this sooner.”
“Meaning?”
He slipped his glasses on and tossed the tissue into the wastebasket. “We're down to a matter of a month, Ann. Maybe two. Maybe not even that long. You need to find her fast.”
Monday, 3:15 p.m.
Annapolis, Maryland, suburb
“Come on out, Alan. You can't escape.” Nick Shepherd eased down to look into the little door that led to a crawlspace under the house, ignoring the protest from his knees. Nothing worked as well at forty-two as it had when he was twenty. Or even thirty. “You can't run anymore, Alan. Why make this any harder than it has to be?”
Alan Allerton had been arrested for assault with a deadly weapon, possession with intent to sell, and possession of stolen guns. He'd bailed out with Kline Bail Bonds and then proceeded to run. So Harvey Kline had called Nick and his team in to track down Alan and bring him in.
At the top of a small set of concrete steps with an aluminum overhang, which led to the house above the crawlspace, a screen door opened and a tiny woman in her seventies stuck her head out. “What are you doing in my yard? Scat! Go on! Get out before I call the police!”
Nick held up the badge hanging around his neck. “It's okay, ma'am. There's a fugitive hiding beneath your house. Just go on back in and lock the door.”
“Oh, dear.” She disappeared, the door slamming.
Conner knelt down in front of the crawlspace door, opposite Nick. “Alan, listen up. If you make me come in there, I will Taser you and then haul you out by your heels, letting you eat that dirt the whole way.”
“I don't want to go to jail!”
“Well then, you should have shown up for court.” Conner looked up at Nick and shook his head.
“I didn't know about a court date, I swear.”
Nick holstered his gun. “Then come on out. We'll call Harvey, and he can see about getting this straightened out with the courts and get you bailed out again.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
A few seconds later, Alan crawled out from under the house, covered in dirt and grime. He was thin and wiry, and while the top of his head barely reached Conner's chin, there was a high-octane energy humming through him strong enough to make him appear larger.
Conner stood up and stepped back, giving Alan room to get all the way out and stand up.
As soon as Alan was on his feet, he took off running again.
“I'm going to hurt this guy,” Conner muttered as he headed off in pursuit.
Nick stayed right behind Conner, trying to see how best to cut their fugitive off before he ran them all into the ground. But luck was one step ahead of him. As Alan went to jump another fence, a Doberman came lunging out of his doghouse, barking with that one-more-step-and-I'll-eat-you show of teeth that had Alan flailing backward off the fence and landing on his backside.
Scrambling to his feet, he glanced over his shoulder at them and then sprinted off to the right. He made it about six feet. Nick aimed his Taser and shot. Alan jumped in place, danced sideways, and then hit the ground.
Alan screamed as he curled up on the ground. “You hurt me!”
Conner, breathing hard from the chase, flipped him on his stomach and handcuffed him. “You'll get over it.”
Nick holstered the Taser gun and leaned over Alan. “Now why did you have to go and do that? I thought we had this settled all nice and gentlemanlike.”
“That hurts! That hurts!”
“Not as bad as it would have had I used the Glock instead,” Nick reminded him as he keyed his mike. “Rafe, where are you?”
The third member of the Prodigal team tapped Nick on the shoulder. “Right behind you.”
Rafe stepped up and helped Conner haul Alan to his feet. Alan let his knees buckle, crumbling to the ground to keep from having to walk. With Conner hauling him from under one arm and Rafe under the other, they half-carried, half-walked him back to the truck.
“Thought he was going to run me into the ground,” Conner muttered as he finished strapping Alan into their vehicle. “I'm getting too old for this.”
Nick just laughed as he slapped Conner on the back. “You love it and you know it.”
After processing Alan at the station, Nick dropped Rafe and Conner off and headed home. Knowing there wouldn't be a thing at the house to eat, he swung by Panda Delights and picked up some General Tso's chicken and a couple of egg rolls. After paying for his food, he was on his way back out to his SUV when his cell phone rang. He flipped it open. “Shepherd.”
“Mr. Shepherd. This is Paul Overton again. I was just wondering if you had reconsidered my client's offer.”
Every once in a while, Nick got calls from a lawyer named Overton offering the same deal: bury the paperwork on a bond recovery and get paid big. All he had to do was comply. End of story. Everyone happy. Money in the bank and all that. Paul Overton's client had been persistently offering Nick a retainer of $125,000 to look the other way.
Nick opened his door and slid in behind the wheel, setting his food on the passenger seat. “I'm going to tell you the same thing I tell you every time you call. No. I don't operate that way.”
“You sure? I know that your business is about to go under. Is that what you want? All you have to do is look the other way on a couple of skips and you stay in busines
s. Don't you think it would be worth it?”
“Not to me. Why don't you tell me who your client is?” As if he didn't know. Whenever any of Jon Robinson Carver's people got into trouble, Jon sent in his lawyer, Paul Overton, to handle the legalities. What Nick was more curious about was who Jon wanted to protect. Richie had been sentenced twenty-five to life for murder and was safely behind bars. Sure, Lester and one of Jon's hookers was on Nick's radar, but this was way too much for that. It had to be someone farther up in his operation. But who?
“I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to do that.”
Of course not. “Well, I'm not at liberty to accept your offer. You have a nice day, and by the way…lose my phone number.”
“But—”
Nick hung up, but Jon Carver's increased pressure to comply continued to nag at him. Something was up. Nick just had to figure out what it was.
Monday, 8:40 p.m.
Baltimore City Correctional Center
The prison's visitor area was as dismal and depressing as the rest of the building. Gray walls, gray floors, gray and black plastic tables, and gray-clad guards with watchful glances. Even the children, on the rare visit to see Daddy, were subdued and nervous.
Cutter Thorne looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was close enough to overhear, then leaned forward, his voice little more than a harsh whisper. “I want it to go down perfect, you understand? No mistakes. Make sure you're in place long before we get there. Just in case they decide to move me any earlier.”
The woman reached back and swept her hair up into a ponytail and then let it fall again. “I got it, lover. You don't have to keep going over this a million times.”
He frowned, glaring at her. “Don't get cute. I've been planning this for a very long time. I just don't want anything to go wrong. We won't get a second chance at this.”
She tilted her head and gave him a long stare. “I got it. We got it. Everything is going to go perfect. Trust me.”
A guard walked over, his hand on his club. “Time's up, Cutter. Let's go.”
