ALSO BY CHRISTY BARRITT
Standalone Books
Disillusioned
Dubiosity
Imperfect
The Good Girl
Home Before Dark
Gone by Dark
Wait Until Dark
Mystery Series
Squeaky Clean Mysteries
Holly Anna Paladin Mysteries
The Sierra Files
Suburban Sleuth Mysteries
The Worst Detective Ever Mysteries
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Christy Barritt
All rights reserved.
Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.TM Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.TM
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Waterfall Press, Grand Haven, MI
www.brilliancepublishing.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Waterfall Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503942868
ISBN-10: 1503942864
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
CONTENTS
START READING
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Distorted: To give a misleading or false account or impression of.
PROLOGUE
Tennyson Walker’s mission was clear: find Dante Torres, take him down by whatever means necessary, capture the insurgents, and get out.
“You have eyes on Torres yet, Ten Man?” Kade Wheaton, his commanding officer, said into his earpiece. The former Texas boy still had a touch of twang to his voice.
Tennyson scanned the dark corridor in front of him and held his assault rifle at the ready. He had a 9 mm submachine gun slung over his shoulder, just in case things turned really ugly. “Not yet.”
He crept down the hallway of the elaborate estate nestled on the island mountainside. It looked like a war had broken out here. Probably because it had. Furniture was overturned, bullet holes riddled the walls, smoke lingered in the air.
He took another step, glass crunching on the tile beneath his boots. His training had prepared him for raids like this, but his instincts would keep him alive. His motivation remained over his heart: Claire’s picture. He’d never let himself forget what had been taken from him.
“Is thermal imaging back up yet?”
“Almost,” Wheaton said.
Tennyson ground his teeth together. He needed those heat signatures to help him pinpoint Torres’s location. The system had gone down fifteen minutes ago, and techs were working to get it running again.
For now, Tennyson would have to find Torres the old-school way—on foot, using only his five senses.
The stillness of the house made Tennyson catch his breath. The whole complex felt eerie, like a trap that had been set and now waited to snap on its prey. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly what made him think this. It was just a gut feeling.
Either way, he didn’t plan on being a victim today.
He kept his gun close, watching each step. The smoky, metallic smell of spent ammo filled the air. Shouts sounded in the distance. But here in this wing, it was quiet. Somewhere in the vast depths of this place, Torres was hiding like a snake under a rock.
Torres was his. Not the other SEAL team members’. He was Tennyson’s.
He took another step, his boots crunching more glass, as well as broken tile and splintered plaster from the walls. The men who’d hunkered down in this wing had obviously been alerted that the raid was going to happen. There’d already been a struggle here. Most of the insurgents had been captured.
But not Torres.
If Torres was here, Tennyson would find him. He wouldn’t leave until he did.
He searched room after room but found no one.
His pulse raced as his options disappeared.
“The thermal is back up,” Wheaton said.
“What do you see?”
“There are two possible heat signatures. You’re right beside one of them.”
Tennyson’s breath caught. He looked over his left shoulder. His right. An open expanse of hallway stared back. No one was here. He’d already checked both of the rooms on either side of him.
“It’s clear,” Tennyson said.
“Look for any doors. Any hidden spaces. I’m telling you: someone’s there.”
Tension grew between his shoulder blades. The element of surprise could take down the toughest of soldiers. “I’ll check.”
“Be careful.”
“Always,” Tennyson said. Except he knew he wasn’t always careful. If he were always careful, Claire would still be alive. At his side. They’d be married now. Maybe even have a baby or two.
“Go to the left,” Wheaton said.
Staying close to the wall, Tennyson slipped into the room. He sucked in a breath. This space had somehow been spared from the damage in all the other rooms. Why?
The room was empty and strangely out of place in the otherwise Caribbean-styled home. It almost looked Victorian with a lacy spread over an ornate bed, complete with four tall wooden posts. There were flowers. Lots of flowers. An odd smell permeated the air, some sort of perfume, pungent but expensive.
Something about this room turned Tennyson’s stomach and haunted his conscience. But he pushed aside those feelings.
Wheaton was sure someone was here. Thermal imaging had confirmed it. Tennyson had to figure out where.
He studied the wall. A built-in bookshelf, filled with literature that indicated someone who was well-read stayed here, took up the majority of the space. There were also pictures of the beach. Of . . . a couple on the beach. The man in the photo was older and graying, and the woman younger and vibrant. But they were clearly a couple based on the way their arms were wrapped around each other.
Strange.
Was there a safe room behind this bookshelf? It seemed cli
ché, but it was worth a shot.
If there was a hidden room located behind this built-in, how did he access it?
On a whim, he began pulling out various books. As he moved a particularly thick set, he saw something unexpected behind it.
A switch.
His throat tightened. This was it. This was the moment.
“I think I’ve found him,” Tennyson whispered.
“Wait for backup before engaging.”
“How far away are our guys?”
“They’re rounding up Torres’s men. Ten minutes.”
Tennyson’s heart pounded in his ear with every second that passed. Time was of the essence here. He couldn’t lose Torres. Not when he was this close.
“We don’t have ten minutes. For all we know, there’s a tunnel below this. He could be getting away.”
“You need backup.”
Fire burned in his veins. This was the moment he’d dreamed about for three years. Three years.
“I need to catch Torres.”
“Ten Man . . .” Wheaton’s voice held a warning.
“I’m going in, Wheaton.”
“I’m not losing one of my men.”
“You won’t,” he muttered. With that, he flipped the switch. The door slowly swung open.
A man stood on the other side. His features, though shadowed, were unmistakable as he faced Tennyson.
Dante Torres.
Satisfaction filled Tennyson as he raised his gun. But the emotion was short-lived. No sooner had he spotted the man than a strange odor filled the room.
Gas.
Tennyson started to yell. But before he could, Torres pressed something in his hands.
A lighter.
Flames burst through the air. Consumed everything in their path. Consumed Torres until he was only an outline of a burning man.
The explosion blasted Tennyson across the room. He slammed into the wall.
This wasn’t the way it was supposed to end. Not with Torres still calling the shots. No, Tennyson needed to see justice.
He started to push himself to his feet, ready to move toward the burning figure. But before he could, Torres collapsed onto his knees and fell facedown.
It was too late. Torres was dead. He hadn’t survived the blast, and that was precisely the way he’d planned it.
Tennyson let out his breath and quickly examined himself. He appeared to be unscathed. There were no embers on his shirt or pants.
Thank you, Jesus.
“Ten Man—are you okay?” Wheaton shouted in his earpiece. “Talk to me!”
“I’m here.” Tennyson’s throat was dry and raspy with smoke, and his ears rang. “Torres is dead.”
“Hallowell is coming now. Help is on the way.”
Vengeance would have felt good—for a moment, at least. But then he’d have to deal with his conscience. He’d have to come before God and eventually admit to what he’d done and where his heart had been.
Maybe it was better this way.
Please God, let that be the case.
Just then, Hallowell appeared in the doorway. Hallowell rushed toward him and knelt at his side. Flames still licked the walls. Smoke filled the room and choked his lungs.
“Tennyson, check out that other heat signature,” Wheaton said. “Now!”
“Where?”
“On the wall behind you.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Could there be another secret room? Was this one of Torres’s right-hand men?
Hallowell helped him to his feet, and they both turned. An extravagant wooden screen stood behind them. Tennyson and Hallowell moved it to the side. The outline of a door greeted them. It was obviously created to blend in with the wall, all the way down to the handle, which looked like a piece of molding.
Tennyson’s throat tightened. Did the person behind this door have another surprise just waiting to explode?
He nodded toward Hallowell before throwing the door open. They both breached the space, guns raised. Tennyson braced himself, preparing for gunfire. For resistance. For a fight for his life.
Instead of a fight, row after row of fancy dresses greeted them. A walk-in closet. Seemingly empty other than clothes.
Carefully, he flicked on the light atop his gun and stepped into the space. Though it was a closet, the room was bigger than his childhood bedroom.
Was there a deadly surprise waiting behind one of these outfits? He wouldn’t put it past Torres.
Using his gun, he shoved some aside. Hallowell did the same on the other side. Slowly, they worked their way down, toward the back of the closet.
As he reached the last set of clothes and shoved them aside, he saw something that stopped him in his tracks.
A woman. A blonde. Curled into a ball. Her knees pulled to her chest.
He shined his light on her. She ducked her head behind her knees, shielding her eyes from the light.
When she drew her head up, the look in her eyes clutched Tennyson’s heart. Fear glimmered there. The worst kind of fear: the kind that chained a person in silence, in speechlessness. That froze each muscle and took captive every thought.
The woman’s eyes widened as she stared at him. And kept staring. And kept waiting.
Tennyson’s mind paused in a moment of recognition.
Recognition? That was crazy. Why would he recognize her?
She certainly didn’t appear to be a local. She was too pale. Too blonde. Too scared.
Was this one of Torres’s concubines? One of the girlfriends he hired? They’d heard a few months ago that Torres had a girl here with him, but Tennyson knew nothing about her personally.
He observed her clothing. White silk pants. An expensive-looking beige tank top. Her nails were done. Her hair looked untouched. Her makeup perfect.
She wore jewelry. A lot of jewelry. Gold bangles and bracelets. Dangling earrings. Multiple rings with sparkling jewels.
Concubine? He wasn’t so sure about that. This woman was well taken care of.
The truth fought to emerge from the depths of his thoughts and memories.
He lowered his weapon as he approached her. “Ma’am?”
“Please don’t hurt me,” she whispered.
Her eyes were wide and almost childlike, though Tennyson guessed her to be in her midtwenties. Her accent . . . it wasn’t tinged with the Caribbean dialect that others around here had. No, it sounded American. Mid-Atlantic maybe.
He sucked in a breath as her features came into clearer focus.
He remembered where he’d seen her face before.
She was Mallory Baldwin. A socialite from Washington, DC.
Her family had been killed at the hands of terrorists a year ago. Her parents’ bodies had been found at sea a month later. Investigators had assumed Mallory’s body had been washed out into the ocean also.
But it hadn’t been. Torres had kept Mallory here this whole time.
His heart stammered in his ears as he knelt in front of her. “It’s going to be okay. We’re here, and we’re going to help.”
“No one can help me.”
He shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. No one’s beyond hope. No one.”
He believed those words for other people. Now if he could only believe them for himself as well.
CHAPTER 1
Two Years Later
“You’re going to do great, Mallory.” Grant Donovan squeezed her shoulders like a coach prepping a boxer before the big match.
Mallory Baldwin drew in a deep breath and stared at herself in the bedroom mirror. Her first stop on her thirty-city tour was a shelter for abused and trafficked women called Hope House on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. It was the perfect location to kick off her new initiative.
She stared at her reflection. Did her gaze hold the strength she’d been told she possessed? Or would people see beyond her best efforts and know that inside she was a quivering mess? Still the scared, broken woman who’d been rescued?
Two years. It had
been two years since she’d been freed from the home of Dante Torres. Sometimes it felt like just yesterday. Other times it seemed like another lifetime.
She’d since been through counseling and therapy and drug rehab. She’d had solitude. She’d even tried chocolate and shopping therapy. Anything to try to mend the broken pieces of her soul.
Everyone said it was amazing how she bounced back. She wasn’t sure she believed it yet. Anyone who really got to know her had to think she was fragile.
Maybe that’s because she was.
And she’d always been.
And she always would be.
“Mallory?” Grant said, his hands still on her shoulders.
He stared at her reflection also, his gaze studious. Assessment was what Grant did best. He was her manager, but in the years since her rescue, she had turned to him for advice. She had come to depend on those bright blue eyes to see what needed to be seen.
But she desperately wished he would move his hands from her shoulders. He was touchy-feely, and Mallory was the opposite. Unwelcomed contact made her want to hurl. Sucked her back in time. Made her remember things she didn’t want to remember.
“What are you thinking about, doll?” Grant seemed to sense how she’d prickled at his touch and removed his hands.
Did Mallory dare tell him what she was thinking about? She knew the pep talk she’d get in return. Did she even want to go there? To hear his platitudes?
No, she didn’t.
She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and stood, drawing on every ounce of her inner strength. “Let’s do this.”
He led her into a living room lined with chairs. Everyone quieted as she walked in. Reporters were here today, as well as local city council members, a representative from a government task force, and a local sheriff’s deputy. But she hardly saw any of them.
No, her heart lurched at the sight of the women—the residents of Hope House—who were seated in the room. At the haunted look in their eyes. Because she understood it. She’d lived it.
Why had she been the one plucked out of obscurity to do this? Why had she been rescued, while so many others perished? Perhaps she was suffering survivor’s guilt. She didn’t know.
Grant insisted that Mallory was the perfect person for this role. Most people thought of human trafficking victims as being unlike them, he’d said. They thought of runaways. Girls overseas without family to miss them. Impoverished women, desperate to survive by whatever means necessary. Women who weren’t relatable to the average American.
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