The Billionaire's Son

by Sharon Hartley

  Crouched behind an FBI vehicle, gun drawn, her heart racing, Kelly waited with dozens of FBI agents for a response to Ballard’s demand. Everyone focused on a one-story concrete block home with peeling paint and a blue tarp suspended over one section of the roof. A rusted truck sat in the front yard full of weeds growing higher than the truck’s bumper.

  Ballard raised the microphone to his mouth and repeated his instructions, his amplified voice sounding loud, yet thin and grainy, through the speakers.

  Still no response. Kelly shifted her weight. What was Chandler doing inside that house? Not taking her focus from the front door, she raised a shoulder and brushed sweat from her cheek. The early morning was cool, but she was beyond excited.

  Ballard raised his microphone again.

  A barrage of gunshots exploded out a front window before he could speak. Definitely an automatic weapon. Ballard cursed.

  “Anybody hit?” he yelled.

  Kelly held her breath, but everyone was okay. Now what? If this were her department’s op, they’d use a negotiator and try to talk Chandler down.

  “Make the call,” Ballard ordered a woman at his side.

  So the FBI followed the same protocol. Kelly exhaled roughly and lowered her weapon, as did the other agents. Likely they were in for a long morning.

  Two hours later, Ballard summoned Kelly and introduced her to Agent Alexa Nardi, a striking woman who looked to be of Indian descent, maybe forty years of age, the FBI negotiator.

  “Agent Nardi has initiated communication with a gentleman inside that structure who claims to be Caleb Chandler, Adam’s cousin,” Ballard said. “The morning you rescued the Wentworth kid, did you learn the name of Chandler’s associate?”

  “Yes,” Kelly said. “Caleb.”

  “Caleb insists Adam isn’t in the house, that he left in the middle of the night,” Ballard said.

  “Could they have gotten a warning?” Kelly asked.

  “Good question,” Ballard said.

  “If so, why didn’t Caleb flee, as well?” Nardi asked.

  “I’m surprised Caleb doesn’t surrender,” Kelly said. “He was definitely not on board with violence that morning. He fled the scene, which really pissed off Adam.”

  “He’s high on something,” Nardi said. “Not thinking clearly.”

  Kelly nodded. “My initial impression was that they were both users.”

  “And I think he’s getting higher,” Nardi added. “He’s not coming down anytime soon.”

  “Great.” Eyes narrowed, Ballard glanced toward the house, obviously considering his options.

  So what would he do now? Stage an assault on the residence? That could result in people injured or dead, including law enforcement. The FBI needed Caleb alive so they could pump him for information about Adam’s possible locations. So would they wait Caleb out? Wait until he crashed? He could possibly OD and they’d never get any intel.

  She was an observer, nothing more, a rookie cop without the experience to offer any tactical solutions. But, man, was she ever enjoying herself.

  The phone in Nardi’s hand buzzed, the one dedicated to communication with Caleb. Kelly stared at Nardi as she answered.

  “Yeah, Caleb. Okay. I’m glad to hear that. Yeah, keep your hands in the air. No sudden moves.”

  She disconnected. “He’s coming out.”

  “Heads up,” someone shouted. “The door is opening.”

  Kelly and everyone else looked toward the residence. Caleb, now sporting a ragged beard, looking even more emaciated than he had in the park, exited the front door. She tensed. His arms were over his head, but a rifle of some sort was suspended in his hands.

  Did this fool have a death wish?

  She went for her weapon and bent her knees to make herself a smaller target.

  “Take cover,” Ballard shouted.

  Caleb lowered the rifle and began firing.

  * * *

  TREY SLAMMED HIS most recent letter from Wentworth Industries’ comptroller onto his desk, pushed back in his chair and scrubbed his palms over his face. He glanced at the time on his computer monitor again. After 11:00 a.m., and he hadn’t heard word one from the FBI.

  Or from Kelly.

  An hour ago his anger at the lack of communication had grown to fury. Now he was ready to explode.

  He’d intended to spend the morning plotting his return to WI. But it had been hours since the FBI’s operation to take down Adam Chandler had begun, so instead he left his desk every twenty minutes to wander around his home, check on Jason, trying not to give in to his worry.

  Until he knew what occurred this morning in Homestead, he couldn’t concentrate on anything, much less the questionable decisions his father had been making.

  He moved to a window and glanced outside at his pool deck where Jason played, watched over by two bodyguards. Trey smiled at the sight of his son’s antics, grateful his son was happy, safe and secure.

  He understood the Bureau’s negligence, but Kelly knew how anxious he was to learn if Jason’s kidnappers had been apprehended. She definitely should have phoned him by now. Or at least sent an impersonal text. She knew he was worried about her.

  True, he hadn’t asked her to keep him informed, but he didn’t think he needed to. This silence wasn’t like her.

  Something was wrong.

  He grabbed his phone. No voice mail. No text. He’d already left half a dozen messages on her voice mail. No point in leaving another.

  What if something had gone wrong, dangerously, life-threateningly wrong?

  He had to know. But once again he was powerless. As he’d been when Jason was abducted. As he was to help his mother.

  If an FBI sting had turned violently sour, there might be something on the noon news. He looked at the pool where Jason still played. He’d probably stay there awhile.

  Trey picked up the remote and activated a door concealing a huge flat-screen inside a bookcase. After the door slid open, he turned on the television, found a local channel that featured noon news and sat on the edge of his desk to watch.

  He stared at the screen not listening or seeing anything until loud, familiar music filled the room and a voice blared, “Stay tuned for Action News.”

  After the station’s graphics ran, an image appeared of an active police scene, obviously shot from a helicopter. Dozens of marked police cars, unmarked cars, uniformed and plain-clothed officers swarmed the area.

  Trey rose and moved closer to the screen, confirming the uniform was the same one Kelly wore. Where was she?

  “Breaking news,” the female voiceover announced. “Shots fired during a violent FBI operation. One shooter and two law enforcement officers are down.”

  His gut clenched. Trey swore harshly, searching for her in the confused video, which the station claimed was live. Would he even recognize her? It was impossible to make out facial features.

  Or was Kelly one of the injured officers? No ambulance appeared on the screen, so whoever had been wounded had already been rushed to a hospital. Could he call and get a name? No way. Only family.

  He wasn’t family. Not even close.

  As the live feed continued to play, the voiceover reported the shooting was in connection with the kidnapping of the heir to the fortune of Wentworth Industries. The station’s sources maintained a suspect exited the structure approximately two hours ago and opened fire on law enforcement with no provocation. There was no further information because the scene was still active.

  He paced the room. What could he do? Storm the hospital and make demands? Embarrass the hell out of Kelly? Tough. If she were alive, he’d deal with...

  The ring tone he’d programmed for Kelly sounded. He grabbed his phone. “Kelly?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

 
He closed his eyes in relief and collapsed into his chair, sending a prayer heavenward. She was alive. Thank God she was alive. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, wondering at the force of his reaction.

  And realized he was in love with her.

  “Are you all right?” he demanded, muting the TV. “I’m watching the television coverage live.”

  “I’m fine. My phone was off. This is the first second I’ve had to call you.”

  “But you’re all right?”

  “I’m good. Just so you know, Adam wasn’t here. Caleb is critical.”

  “What do you mean Adam wasn’t there?”

  “He either got advance warning of the op or lucky. We’ve searched the residence. This is definitely where he’d holed up, but he fled.”

  “So he’s still out there?”

  “Yeah, but likely no longer in the area. Ballard thinks he’s on the run. The FBI will apprehend him eventually.”

  “But you weren’t shot? You’re okay?”

  “I said I’m fine,” she said, sounding annoyed. “Listen, I’ve got to go. I just wanted to fill you in.”

  “Kelly, I—”

  But the phone went dead. She was gone, to a place where he didn’t belong, where he couldn’t reach her.

  By some sick twist of fate he’d fallen in love with Kelly Jenkins, a woman totally unlike any other woman he’d known, a woman who worked with a bull’s-eye on her back. Even if the FBI caught Adam Chandler, there were plenty of other sickos in this world gunning for cops these days.

  His son had already lost one mother. It wouldn’t be fair to let him get attached to another woman and lose her, too. Jase had been through too much in his short life. He might never recover from that loss.

  Better to make this break with Kelly complete and permanent.

  Jason was young. He’d forget her in time.

  Trey turned away from the television, a sense of cold emptiness creeping into his limbs.

  His son might forget Kelly Jenkins, but he never would.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THE MORNING AFTER the shoot-out in Homestead, Kelly stood at attention before the desk of Detective Monroe DiSilva for her interview with Internal Affairs. She wasn’t worried. She’d never patrolled the district where the alleged payoffs took place. They had no evidence against her.

  This interview was just a formality, something to satisfy the brass. Or the media.

  Although, interestingly, the paparazzi hadn’t followed her today.

  DiSilva, a dark-haired man of maybe thirty-five, shuffled through papers on his desk. He glanced up at her with a steely glare.

  “As you were, Officer Jenkins,” DiSilva barked.

  Kelly stood at ease, eyes focused on the wall over his head.

  “Is it true you were with the FBI in Homestead yesterday?” he demanded.

  She cut him a quick glance. Uh-oh. DiSilva didn’t sound happy. “Yes, sir.”

  “Why? You were placed on restricted duty.”

  “The Bureau cleared it with my lieutenant,” Kelly protested.

  “No one cleared it with Internal Affairs.”

  She raised her chin. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Brass wanted you out of the field.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  DiSilva shook his head. “I’ve been ordered to suspend you, Officer Jenkins.”

  No way. Kelly stared at the grim-faced IA detective. He wasn’t kidding.

  She swallowed hard. “I’m suspended?”

  “Please surrender your weapon and badge.”

  * * *

  THAT AFTERNOON, KELLY moved restlessly around her apartment.

  DiSilva had suspended her. He’d taken her weapon and badge.

  Nothing she said could dissuade the IA detective. Not the fact that she had permission from her lieutenant, not even the fact that there was zero proof that she’d taken kickbacks. At least the suspension was with pay.

  She’d already completed a long run and a brutal strength workout, one she’d pay for later with sore muscles. Out of desperation, she’d even attended a yoga class, which Lana claimed would quiet her thoughts. She was willing to try anything to help her stop thinking about what a disaster her life had become.

  Suspended. Unbelievable.

  She hadn’t heard from Trey since she’d called him from the scene in Homestead. She hadn’t tried to contact him, either, but why should she? She still needed his car, and what else was left for them to say to each other?

  Apparently nothing.

  She’d thought he’d want to know about the investigation, if the FBI had managed to interview Caleb, if they’d developed any leads on the whereabouts of Adam. But maybe Ballard had kept Trey informed. There was nothing new to report anyway.

  Caleb was still breathing, but barely. The doctors had him sedated and wouldn’t let the FBI near him. Without good intel from Caleb to aid in the search, Adam remained a ghost. The Bureau had checked every location Maria had given them, but so far the kidnapper remained in the wind. Convinced he’d fled the area, they’d suspended surveillance on her apartment.

  Her stomached grumbled, so she took that as a clue and walked into the kitchen, jerked open the refrigerator and wrinkled her nose at the odor. Any produce or dairy had gone bad in the two weeks she’d been gone. Now, there was a fun project—she’d dispose of all the rotten food.

  She looked under the sink for plastic gloves, but before she could finish snapping them on, her phone sounded. Caller ID revealed Patrice was checking on her again. News of her suspension had spread through the ranks like wildfire.

  “Hey, Trice,” Kelly said. “Are you on break?”

  “At the Coral Bagel with Sean.”

  “Anything going on? God, I miss patrol.”

  “It’s pretty quiet today. How long will you be suspended?”

  “No way to know.”

  “At least the paparazzi should leave you alone. You’re old news since Wentworth issued the denial.”

  “What denial?” Kelly asked.

  “The Wentworth PR machine issued a release denying any truth to the rumors of a relationship between you and Trey Wentworth. You didn’t know about that?”

  “No, I did not.” Kelly slid her back down a lower kitchen cabinet and plopped her butt onto the floor.

  “Yeah. Sorry, kiddo.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “It was on all the television entertainment shows last night. They even dredged up old photos of him with his ex and reported he was still in mourning, not yet ready to date.”

  “Well, the release is absolutely factual. There is no relationship whatsoever. There never was.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  “Okay, then.”

  Kelly disconnected and, still on the floor, stared across the kitchen without seeing anything. She lowered her head and wondered why it felt like her heart was collapsing in on itself. Why was she so disappointed by the press release? There’d never been any chance of a continued connection between her and Trey once Jason regained his memory. She’d known that all along.

  Still, a little heads-up from Trey would have been nice.

  He obviously didn’t think a warning was necessary, that they’d said all they needed to say to each other.

  So the thing—whatever it had been—between her and the billionaire was over. Really and truly over.

  They came from different worlds, worlds that had nothing to do with each other. He was one of the beautiful people, while she’d had a big fat L for loser tattooed on her forehead most of her life.

  But not anymore.

  Get over yourself, rookie. Get your ass off the floor.

  Kelly pulled
herself to her feet. She might be suspended, but she was still a cop.

  And she had an idea.

  Ballard had already sent agents to the rehab facility where Adam and Maria had met in their support group. Of course the feds got nothing useful. Federal agents always wore suits, and in certain situations, that tended to put people on edge. She, however, was her mother’s daughter. She could rock a pair of ragged jeans and a faded T-shirt. She could walk the walk, and talk the talk.

  And nothing slammed the difference between her and Trey into her face more clearly.

  * * *

  KELLY PARKED TREY’S SUV across the street from a rambling concrete block structure. Signage featuring a huge yellow sunburst read: Sunshine Center.

  She checked her surroundings. Adam was still out there somewhere. She wouldn’t drop her guard until he was in custody.

  Trice had been right about the paparazzi losing interest in her. No one had followed her when she drove away from her apartment. She was now last week’s news.

  Telling herself she was relieved by this development, Kelly released a breath and exited the SUV. But she still couldn’t return to patrol. Not until IA was done with her. God, was it really possible she could lose the only career she’d ever wanted?

  She heard shouts indicating a soccer game in progress and headed toward an athletic field on one side of the two-story building. No bleachers or scoreboard, but maybe fifty people of all ages stood on the sidelines encouraging the young teenagers on the field, both boys and girls.

  Not exactly the depressing scene of downtrodden addicts she’d expected to encounter, but the relaxed atmosphere of an amateur athletic competition might be a great place to pump onlookers for information.

  Or not. When she arrived, spectators were so intent on the game that no one took notice of her. She waited for a time-out and turned to the dark-haired woman beside her who had been a vocal critic of the goalie.

  “Who’s winning?” Kelly asked casually, keeping her gaze on the field.

  Still focused on the field, the woman cursed and in a Hispanic accent said, “Sunshine can’t do squat today.”

  Kelly nodded. These players looked too young and healthy to be recovering addicts.