by Debra Webb
He closed his eyes and let the memories come…
Memories of last night’s lovemaking. For most of his life he’d focused on his career. Women came and went with the job and the location. No one had ever managed to keep a piece of his heart.
The idea rattled him hard, but it was the truth, the one ideal he’d always clung to. Truth, honor, courage. Those words meant a great deal to him. Honestly, three years ago Melissa hadn’t needed a man like him, nor did she now.
Jonathan had sworn that he would never commit emotionally to anyone after that mission five years ago. He completed his assignments and went home—wherever home was. He made no attachments.
Then he’d met Melissa. Bit by tiny bit, she’d taken a part of him. She’d given of herself completely…and he hadn’t been able to cut it.
He didn’t deserve her forgiveness and he damn sure hadn’t deserved her trust the way she’d given it last night. Hurting her again was the last thing he wanted to do. Maybe, just maybe, if he brought her niece back home safely, he’d earn all that Melissa had given him.
Finding Polly alive might just be impossible. But he had to try. For the child and for Melissa.
DEBRA WEBB
MISSING
This story is dedicated to the real Melissa and Jonathan.
As you take each other’s hand in marriage, I wish you
the most wonderful storybook ending of all!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Debra Webb wrote her first story at age nine and her first romance at thirteen. It wasn’t until she spent three years working for the military behind the Iron Curtain and within the confining political walls of Berlin, Germany, that she realized her true calling. A five-year stint with NASA on the space shuttle program reinforced her love of the endless possibilities within her grasp as a storyteller. A collision course between suspense and romance was set. Debra has been writing romantic suspense and action-packed romantic thrillers since. Visit her at www.DebraWebb.com or write to her at P.O. Box 4889, Huntsville, AL 35815.
Books by Debra Webb
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
934—THE HIDDEN HEIR*
951—A COLBY CHRISTMAS*
983—A SOLDIER’S OATH^
989—HOSTAGE SITUATION^
995—COLBY VS. COLBY^
1023—COLBY REBUILT*
1042—GUARDIAN ANGEL*
1071—IDENTITY UNKNOWN*
1092—MOTIVE: SECRET BABY
1108—SECRETS IN FOUR CORNERS
1145—SMALL-TOWN SECRETS ‡
1151—THE BRIDE’S SECRETS ‡
1157—HIS SECRET LIFE ‡
1173—FIRST NIGHT*
1188—COLBY LOCKDOWN**
1194—COLBY JUSTICE**
1216—COLBY CONTROL #
1222—COLBY VELOCITY #
1241—COLBY BRASS##
1247—COLBY CORE##
1270—MISSING+
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Jonathan Foley—As one of the new Equalizers, Jonathan must help Melissa find her missing niece—but can he do it without losing his wounded heart?
Melissa Shepherd—As a nurse, Melissa attends to the sick and injured every day of her life. But she can’t seem to heal her own heart…the one Jonathan Foley shattered three years ago.
Polly Shepherd—This little girl is missing.
William Shepherd—His child is missing. But did he have anything to do with it?
Harry Shepherd—William and Melissa’s uncle. He will do anything to keep William home from Afghanistan.
Presley Shepherd—She swears she was at home when her daughter was abducted in the middle of the night.
Reed Talbot—He’s the chief of police. It’s his job to find this missing child, not some hotshots from out of town.
Carol Talbot—She lost her only child. Can she survive watching her husband investigate this too-similar tragedy?
Johnny Ray Bruce—He is in competition with William for Presley. He intends to win…even if he has to do it with the nastiest kind of blackmail.
Stevie Price—He went missing the same day as the child. Is he a harmless mentally challenged man or something far more sinister?
Floyd Harper—He is the only witness to Stevie’s alibi.
Scott Rayburn—He’s the town’s rich-boy lawyer. He knows everyone’s secrets.
Slade Keaton—Slade isn’t his real name, but he now owns the Equalizers. But his primary agenda isn’t about the Equalizers at all…he has plans for the Colby Agency.
Victoria Colby-Camp—She has no idea that her world is about to be turned upside down.
Lucas Camp—He will do anything to protect his family.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter One
Chicago
Thursday, May 27th, 10:30 pm
There were better ways to die.
But never a good time.
Jonathan Foley wouldn’t have chosen to die in a vacant warehouse with the river lapping at its crumbling foundation. Definitely not while shackled to a cast-off swivel chair beneath the glare of a single bare bulb.
But life stunk that way sometimes.
“Amp it up another notch,” the punk gripping the defibrillator paddles ordered. Then he smiled at his prisoner. “Last chance, tough guy.”
Evidently the trigger-happy lackey was through playing. Foley braced for the electrical charge that would throttle through his chest the instant the paddles touched his naked skin. Nope, there was never a good time to die. But then he had accomplished his mission. This was likely as good a time as any. He lifted his gaze to the nimrod currently holding the power. “We both know I’m not going to talk.”
The jerk laughed, his pale blue eyes glittering with anticipation. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
The one manning the controls gave the appropriate knob a violent twist then checked the readout. “Ready,” he announced.
Jonathan’s jaw clenched and his fingers tightened on the arms of the chair, but he refused to close his eyes. He stared straight at the SOB with the paddles. Refused to allow even a glimmer of fear or defeat. This waste of DNA might kill him but he couldn’t make him cooperate. Better men had tried.
“Stand down.”
The sharply issued order echoed in the stale air of the long-abandoned warehouse, wiped the smile right off the paddle punk’s face.
Foley should have relaxed. After all, he was just a few volts from dead. This unexpected interruption provided a momentary reprieve. He shifted his attention in the direction of the footsteps coming nearer. Not that he needed visual confirmation. He knew the voice.
Victor Lennox.
Tall, distinguished, with just enough gray at the temples to lend an air of wisdom. Even at a time like this—in a place like this—the man sported a three thousand dollar black silk suit. No doubt the leather shoes he wore were handcrafted. Nothing was too good for a Lennox. A similarly dressed underling, briefcase in hand, rushed after him.
Well, well, Foley mused. Would wonders never cease? He’d thought Lennox was long gone by now. Yet, here he was, in the flesh, assistant in tow.
“Sir,” the underling urged, “the Learjet is waiting. There’s no time.”
Lennox held up a hand, cutting off his much younger colleague. “Before you die,” Lennox said to Foley, his gaze narrowed with disdain and fury, “I have one question.”
>
Foley licked his cracked lips, noted the taste of blood and sweat. “For the past two hours I’ve been beaten—” his ribs ached with each indrawn breath “—shocked with ever increasing amperage and—” he jerked his head toward the punk with the paddles “—I still didn’t talk. What makes you think I have anything to say to you?”
“Let me give it another go,” paddle punk pleaded. “He’ll talk.” He smirked at Foley. “They always do.”
Lennox shook his head firmly from side to side. “Not this one.”
“Sir.” The assistant dared to intrude into the exchange yet again. “You must hurry.”
Lennox ignored him. “I did my research, Foley. I know all about you.” He made a disparaging sound deep in his throat. “And you’re right, you won’t talk.” He crossed his arms over his chest then reached up and tapped his chin with a finger as if mulling over the situation. “I have friends in places you can’t even fathom. I’m aware of your military career, Major Foley.”
One corner of Foley’s mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile. “Then you know it was over a long time ago.” Bits and pieces of images flickered through his brain. He banished the memories.
“You endured days of torture,” Lennox went on as if recalling documents he’d only just recently read. “Never uttered a single word while every member of your reconnaissance team was executed right in front of you.” A hint of respect flashed in the man’s eyes. “Still you remained strong. Loyal to the bitter end. Didn’t let your country down.” He gave another shake of that distinguished head. “No, no. You didn’t talk then. You won’t talk now.”
“Then what’s your point?” Foley looked him dead in the eye. He would have a point. A man who’d just been nailed for treason wasn’t going to hang around for anything without a compelling reason.
“After a few years of doing nothing significant, you joined a firm called the Equalizers,” Lennox explained, as if he had all night and wasn’t the slightest bit worried about the feds who no doubt had already turned Chicago upside down to find him. “Your most recent assignment was to do what no one else had been able to do.”
“That’s right.” Foley had gotten Lennox. Gotten him good. No one else had been able to penetrate the perfect shield he’d built around himself. No one had had a clue that it was the esteemed Victor Lennox who was selling out his own company, his own country. Now his crimes were bared to all. He could run, but he would never again possess the power he had flaunted. Checkmate.
Lennox leaned down, stuck his face in Foley’s. “Who sent you?”
“The head of the Equalizers.”
Rage tightened the features of the man’s face better than the Botox he likely used on a regular basis. “Three people were involved in that aspect of my business,” Lennox hissed. “Only three. Not one of them sold me out.”
Foley shrugged. “I guess you’ll never know for sure.”
“Oh, I already know. You see, every man has his breaking point. Each of the three broke eventually. Like you, they remained loyal until the end. Though I suspect they were motivated by fear rather than anything else. You,” he accused, “already knew coming in what you were after. All you had to do was find concrete evidence.”
Foley stared at him. He wasn’t denying or confirming that assertion.
“It’s not necessary for you to corroborate the statement,” Lennox assured him. “I know.”
“Mr. Lennox,” the well-dressed assistant interrupted again, “we must go. Now.”
Continuing to discount the warning, Lennox demanded, “Tell me who sent you.”
That ghost of a smile materialized fully on Foley’s lips. “I told you. My employer—the head of the Equalizers.”
“A name, Foley,” Lennox pressed. “I want a name.”
Foley could tell him that he didn’t know, because he didn’t. No one did. The man behind the Equalizers was a complete unknown. So Foley did what he did best. He said nothing.
“You’ve won,” Lennox fairly shouted. “I’ve been exposed. I’m on the run. Even I know that it’s only a matter of time before they catch up with me. What difference does it make now? I simply want to know the identity of the man who discovered what no one else could.”
Foley wondered if Lennox had any idea just how much satisfaction his sheer desperation prompted.
“Cut him loose,” Lennox ordered.
“What?” the paddle punk demanded.
“Sir!” the assistant declared, his panic clearly mounting.
“He’s going with us,” Lennox announced. “I will know who sent him.” He stared directly at Foley once more. “Every man has his breaking point. All I need is time to find yours.”
While the assistant argued with Lennox, the punk tossed aside the paddles and reached for the knife lying on the cart next to the controls. He grumbled curses under his breath but followed the order. His cohort passed a handgun to Lennox.
Lennox waved the weapon toward the rear door through which he’d entered. “Let’s go.”
Foley pushed to his feet, the pain radiating through his muscles and settling deep into his bones.
Lennox nudged him in the side with the weapon. “Move,” he commanded.
Foley had taken two steps when a cell phone blasted a familiar tune. He glanced over his shoulder at the phone lying on the table next to the portable defibrillator. His phone. He’d been relieved of his weapon, his wallet and his phone hours ago.
“Check the screen,” Lennox directed.
Foley resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Wouldn’t matter if it was his employer, the name and number would reveal nothing. A trace on the call would divulge the same.
“No name,” paddle punk reported as he scrutinized the screen. “Out of area call.”
A frown attempted to stretch across Foley’s brow but he schooled the expression. His employer’s number usually showed up as a local call. A different number every time.
“Accept the call,” Lennox instructed his torture technician, “and put it on speaker.” He glanced around the room. “Not a word from anyone.”
The creep holding Foley’s cell punched the necessary buttons.
Another waste of time. Foley’s employer wouldn’t leave a voice mail or speak into dead air. Maybe if Lennox wasted enough time, the feds would be waiting for him at whatever airfield where his Learjet waited on standby.
“Hello, Jonathan…”
Emotion exploded in Foley’s chest. Three years…three long years of sleepless nights and pent-up frustration leached into his blood. Haunting snippets of whispered words, the brushing of lips and the hot, smooth feel of bare skin against bare skin rushed into his brain.
It couldn’t be…
“I hope this is your voice mail…” A shaky release of breath sighed across the silence. “Call me, please.” She stumbled through a number. “I…I need your help. Please. It’s a matter of life and death.”
Silence reigned for three beats, then Lennox smiled. “Ah. Perhaps we’ve found the missing piece we need.” Certainty glinted in his eyes.
Foley’s mind churned with emotions. Why would she call him now?
Didn’t matter. He knew her inside and out.
Something was very wrong.
Lennox nudged Foley in the spleen with the weapon. “That sounded exactly like the sort of leverage I need to obtain the answer to my question.”
Ice formed in Foley’s gut. No way was he letting this ruthless monster learn her identity and use her.
“Bring me that cell phone,” Lennox ordered his underling. He reached out in anticipation of having it placed in his palm.
Foley whipped around and in one second had Lennox in a chokehold, the weapon he still gripped aimed at his proud brow. “Don’t ever let yourself be distracted when you’ve got a gun to a man’s back.”
Paddle punk’s cohort dared to reach for his weapon.
“Nobody moves,” Foley warned. He bored the barrel of the nine millimeter into Lennox’s temple.
“Do as he says!” Lennox squeaked around the pressure on his throat.
Smart man. “You,” Foley said to the underling who’d followed Lennox into the warehouse, “call 911 and give our location. Then give me my cell.”
Weapons clattered to the floor as the two thugs who’d tortured Foley raised their hands in surrender. “You got what you want,” the one who’d brandished the paddles said. “You don’t need us.” The two started backing away, most likely toward an exit somewhere beyond the scope of the single bare bulb’s illumination.
“You’re right.” Foley studied the two men. “But you’re walking away from your best chance at cutting a deal,” he warned. “Your prints are all over the place.” He nodded to the tools of the torture trade. “Chances are the police will find you eventually.”
Paddle punk’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of deal?”
Now that was loyalty. “I’m sure the DA will be very interested in any details the two of you can give regarding his—” he tightened his hold on Lennox “—activities. Your cooperation could earn you a very sweet deal.”
Lennox attempted to blubber his own warning. Foley clamped his arm tighter around the bastard’s throat and shot a look at the man who’d trailed in here after him like a puppy. “Make the call,” Foley repeated.
