by Irene Hannon
Besides, he’d heard her screaming in the middle of the night. He knew there was trauma in her past.
She shifted on the seat, setting the boat into a gentle rock, wishing now he’d left his sunglasses on. Those penetrating, perceptive eyes were difficult to avoid.
“Yes, there was . . . and it was one of those events that forces a person to step back and take inventory.” Perhaps if she emphasized the aftereffects rather than the incident, he wouldn’t push for details. “I realized that much as I loved my work, I didn’t love big-city life with its smog and congestion, or living in a cramped one-bedroom apartment with exorbitant rent and no green space, or big-company politics that favored a chosen few and required a lot of game playing. I started thinking about my summers here, about how happy I’d been in this cottage, and decided this would be a perfect place to regroup.”
He studied her, and she held her breath. She wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened in New York—but she was closer to sharing her trauma than she’d ever been . . . thanks to the man sitting across from her. One day soon, if he continued to come around, she had a feeling the story would come out.
But not today.
As if he’d read her mind, Finn set the oars back into position. “Shall we head for dry land? I don’t want to be the one responsible for keeping you up till all hours tonight trying to meet your deadline.”
She exhaled. “Yes. I think I’ve played hooky long enough.”
He rowed them toward the cottage with strong, solid pulls on the oars, his muscles bunching and releasing with each stroke.
Once back at the dock, he secured the boat, then extended a hand back down to her. His grasp was firm and sure as he drew her up beside him.
When he loosened his grip, however, she held fast—startling both of them, based on the flicker of surprise that darted across his face and short-circuited her lungs.
Yet she couldn’t let him walk away without acknowledging how profoundly moved she was by his willingness to share his painful history with her.
“I want to thank you for telling me your story.” She removed her glasses too. “I work with words every day, but none come close to expressing how honored . . . and touched . . . I am.” Her voice quivered, and she swallowed.
He held her gaze, his eyes warm and serene. “Thank you. I thought it would be hard, but you made it as easy as possible.” Thunder rumbled again. Closer now. “Looks like we could be in for a storm.”
Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.
With one final squeeze of her fingers, he released them. “I’ll stop by again in a day or two, if that’s okay.”
“Please.”
“Count on it—and don’t work too late.” With that, he strode up the hill and around the cabin. Less than three minutes later, she heard the SUV engine come to life. Gravel crunched, the sound receding as he drove away.
Dana let out a slow sigh and wandered toward the house. Working late tonight was a given—but her book deadline wasn’t what would keep her awake until the wee hours.
The blame for that rested squarely on the shoulders of an ex–Army Ranger who was fast making himself at home in her life . . . and her heart.
8
Know your enemy.
As Roger adjusted his black balaclava and shifted into a more comfortable position behind a clump of brush on Dana Lewis’s property, the admonition from The Art of War flashed through his mind. Sun Tzu might have written the tome hundreds of years before Christ, but it had been studied by military strategists ever since. And the ancient general was right. To most effectively fight, you had to know your opponent.
A spurt of irritation surged through him as he trained his night-vision binoculars on the meth lab in the distance. The quiet, moon-washed Friday night was perfect for diving—the very thing he’d be doing if the scumbag who ran this illegal operation wasn’t blackmailing him. But he needed to deal with this complication first.
On the plus side, IDing the guy shouldn’t delay his diving plans too long. The size of the lab suggested the cooker was making and selling meth for profit, not just feeding his own habit. Otherwise, the one-pot shake-and-bake method would have sufficed—and required far less equipment and risk. This lab was a business. The guy no doubt employed smurfers to collect the raw material, and possibly a dealer to sell the product. There would be regular customers to satisfy and—
A rustle sounded, and Roger froze. An animal on the prowl—or his target?
More rustling.
Something . . . or someone . . . was on the prowl.
He swung his binoculars toward the disturbance. Detected movement. Picked up a shadowy figure.
It was human.
Pulse accelerating, he exchanged his binoculars for the police department’s sophisticated digital camera and zoomed in. The images would be grainy, but with a little tinkering, they should contain sufficient detail to allow him to make an ID.
He located the backpack-toting hooded figure again. Followed his progress, willing him to step out of the shadows. Even a few moments in brighter light would produce shots with better clarity.
Fifteen seconds later, the figure separated from the trees fifty feet away and strode toward the lab.
Roger began snapping.
Before ducking inside, the cooker stopped, turned, and surveyed his surroundings. Then he unlocked the door and disappeared.
Roger lowered the camera, hoping his hands hadn’t been shaking as badly while he’d been shooting as they were now. He needed to get home, download these photos, see if he knew his blackmailer.
And if he did, this guy wouldn’t be the only one with pictures—and leverage.
“So am I off your call list or what? And how come you answered? Mac said you don’t have cell service.”
As Lance gave him an earful through the cell, Finn pulled into a parking space at the Walleye and set the brake. “You caught me on a trip to town—but I was going to call you today or tomorrow.”
“Right.”
“True.”
“Whatever. All I know is every scrap of intel I’ve gotten up to this point is secondhand from Mac. I want to hear your version.”
“Of what?” Finn grabbed his laptop off the seat beside him and opened his door.
“Your wilderness experience.”
“I’m not in the wilderness.”
“Is there a Starbucks anywhere close?”
“No.”
“I rest my case. So how goes it?”
Finn slid out from behind the wheel and set the locks. “It’s been . . . worthwhile.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Mac said you’re socializing with the neighbors.”
“Neighbor. Singular. I only have one. Since I can get cell reception at the lake over there, I’m trying to maintain cordial relations. It’s a lot faster to run next door for phone calls than to drive into town.”
“In that case, why make the trip to town at all?”
“The café here’s not half bad, and it has Wi-Fi. I thought I’d catch up on email. How are things at the FBI?”
“Busy.”
“How’s Christy?”
“Busy.”
“That must be why you’re calling me on a Saturday. New wife unavailable?”
“She’s at the rink with two skating students this morning—but you were on my call list in any case. So . . . everything else okay? You’re not wigging out down there, are you?”
Lips twitching, Finn leaned back against the SUV and lifted his face to the blue sky, letting the spring sun warm his skin. “And to think they passed you by for the Most Tactful award senior year in high school. Go figure.”
Silence.
“You’re joking.” Lance sounded surprised.
“No. I’m serious. You don’t remember? Some kid named—”
“That’s not what I meant. I meant, you’re joking around. Mac said you sounded more like your old wisecracking self, but I didn’t believ
e him.”
“Mac never lies.”
“He’s been known to stretch the truth if it keeps someone he cares about from worrying. I’m glad this was on the level. You staying down there the full month?”
“That’s the plan.” No sense telling him he’d seriously considered bailing after the first couple of days. That was ancient history now.
“Well . . . whatever works. You talked to Mom and Dad since you been down there?”
“Yes. I’m going to touch base with them again before I head back to the cabin.”
“Good. Maybe they’ll stop calling us for updates—like we hear from you any more often than they do. What do you do with yourself every day, anyway?”
“I’ve got my PT routine, and there’s always wood to chop. I brought books too.”
Lance snorted. “Since when have you been a reader?”
“People can change.”
“Uh-huh. You sure you’re not bored?”
With Dana next door? No way.
“Nope.”
“And you have everything you need? I could always do a supply run.”
“I’m fine, Lance.” He pushed off from the SUV. “I’ll call you or Mac again in a few days—and thanks for checking in.”
“Sure. Can’t let the runt get himself into trouble now that he’s back on home turf. Stay cool.”
“Will do.” Finn broke the connection, slid the phone onto his belt, and crossed the crushed-stone parking lot to the café. Lance didn’t exactly wear his emotions on his sleeve, but he knew his brother well enough to pick up the concern in his voice. And while he didn’t want his family worrying about him, he had to admit—as he’d told Dana—that having them in his corner had made all the difference during his recovery.
The instant he stepped through the door, Hazel wiggled her fingers at him from across the room and wove through the tables. “Well, look who’s back.” She craned her neck to see past him. “Is Dana with you?”
“Not today.”
The woman’s face fell. “Next time, I hope. You here for breakfast?”
“Yes. Any recommendations?”
“Chuck makes Belgian waffles on Saturday. Light as a feather. Today’s flavor is pecan—but he can do a plain one if you prefer. Some people think nuts are too fattening.”
“I’ll risk the calories and go with the pecans.”
“I like a man who lives on the edge.” She chuckled and gave him a nudge with her elbow. “Pick yourself out a table while I get you some coffee. The Saturday early birds get the best choice. In another hour, this place will be packed to the gills. Pardon the pun—but it’s hard to resist when you work at a place called the Walleye.” She grinned and hustled toward the coffee station.
Finn skimmed the diner and zeroed in on a private booth in the far corner, tucked in a small alcove away from the hustle and bustle of the main room. Once he claimed it, he booted up his laptop.
“Business or pleasure?” Hazel dipped her head toward the laptop as she deposited a mug of java on the table—black, just the way he liked it.
“A little of both.”
“What’s your line of work?”
“Security.” Close enough. He’d done plenty of that in the military, and it was likely he’d end up doing it as a civilian too, if he joined his father’s firm.
“Oh.” She lowered her voice and cast a furtive glance over her shoulder. “Hush-hush stuff, huh?”
“A lot of it.”
“Then I won’t ask another question. You want me to order that waffle for you now, or wait a bit? It’ll come up fast.”
“Why don’t you give me fifteen minutes to knock out a few emails and enjoy my coffee?”
“You got it. I’ll catch your eye about then and you can wave at me if you’re ready.”
She moved off to greet some new arrivals, and Finn went to work on his email—not that many had come in over the past week. Three from his dad, all dangling interesting cases as bait to sway his decision to join the firm; two chatty ones from his mom, both ending with the assurance they wanted him to make his own career decision but reminding him how blessed they’d feel if he settled down in Atlanta; and a couple from military buddies.
Lucky the Walleye was an easy drive. It wouldn’t have been worth the trip to Potosi to find Wi-Fi for these.
In less than the fifteen minutes he’d requested from Hazel, he was done and ready to order. But by then, the waitress was deep in conversation with two older women who’d claimed the booth he and Dana had occupied on their last visit.
Finn leaned back. Stretched. No hurry on his end. What else did he have to do—except maybe pay a visit to his neighbor later this afternoon?
As he waited to catch Hazel’s eye, he took a sip of coffee and opened his browser. Dana hadn’t said a lot about her publishing career in New York, but that senior editor title had been impressive. It sounded like a responsible, higher-level position. A quick search of the net might turn up a few details about her job. An old news release announcing a promotion, perhaps.
He typed in her name—and a bunch of hits popped up. One, from two years ago, was an item in Publishers Weekly about her advancement to the senior editor position.
But that wasn’t the first hit . . . or the second . . . or the third.
The top hits were on a different subject altogether.
He skimmed the first headline, from a New York Times article dated three months ago.
Bank Robbery Foiled, Armed Thieves Take Hostage
It was the first two paragraphs of the news item, however, that kept him riveted to the screen.
A dramatic daylight robbery attempt yesterday at Smithfield Bank in Manhattan left one NYPD SWAT team member dead after two armed men took a hostage and tried to make off with twenty-five thousand dollars in cash. Both of the perpetrators were also killed.
Police officer Carlos Perez, a fifteen-year veteran of the force, was fatally shot during the attempt to free hostage Dana Lewis, a publishing professional. Lewis was also injured during the rescue.
Finn sucked in a sharp breath.
Someone had taken Dana hostage.
At gunpoint.
No wonder she woke up screaming in the middle of the night—and slept with all the lights on.
Finn read the rest of the article. It described the robbery and rescue, provided background on the two thieves and the slain police officer, quoted bank and police officials—but offered no additional information about Dana.
He moved on to the other articles about the robbery. No more mentions of Dana.
“Can I interrupt?”
At Hazel’s question, Finn quickly lowered his laptop screen. “Sure.”
“I’ve been waiting for your high sign, but I thought I better come over. We passed the fifteen-minute mark a while back. You sure were caught up in whatever you were doing.”
“Just email—and some research.”
“Security business, I bet.” She reduced her volume. “I noticed how you picked this out-of-the-way booth . . . and you closed that up real fast when I walked over.” She dipped her chin toward the laptop. “You don’t work for the government, do you?”
“Not anymore.”
“Ah. One of those private contractors with a high-level security clearance, I bet. I’ve seen TV shows about stuff like that. Well, my lips are sealed. Your secret is safe with me.”
Finn let that pass. If the woman wanted to make assumptions, why correct her? This way she wouldn’t ask too many personal questions. “I think I’m ready for that waffle now.”
“Coming right up.” She scribbled on the order pad and stuck the pen into her beehive hairdo in the vicinity of her ear. “Now I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing.” With a conspiratorial wink, she took off for the kitchen.
Finn lifted the screen of his laptop again. Tapped a finger against the edge of the keyboard. Powered down.
Dana would not appreciate him snooping into her business—but how could he have k
nown a simple search for career information would lead to this?
And what was he supposed to do now that he’d stumbled onto a minefield?
Tell her you know, McGregor. It’s the honest thing to do.
True. Coming clean would be the honorable course.
But what if she accused him of prying and told him to get lost?
His stomach bottomed out at that very real possibility. Everything he’d read might be public information . . . but if she’d wanted to share all that stuff with him, she would have. It was going to look like he’d been sneaking around behind her back.
Sighing, Finn shoved his laptop aside, making space for the breakfast he no longer wanted.
Why did life always have to be complicated?
Rhetorical question aside, before this day was over he was going to have to decide on a plan of action with Dana . . . and pray that if he took the high road and spilled what he’d learned, she’d cut him some slack instead of cutting him off.
Wayne Phelps?!
Roger leaned closer to the screen and squinted at the photo. Only three of the shots he’d taken last night were clear enough without sophisticated enhancement to discern the shadowed features under the man’s hood, and this grainy image was the best of the bunch.
Yet there was no question about the identity of his blackmailer.
Slumping back in his chair, he kneaded the knot at the back of his neck.
Why on earth would Wayne Phelps be involved in a dirty business like this? His family had lived in Beaumont for generations, and all of his relations had been upstanding folks. Sure, Wayne had faced some setbacks a few years ago when the smelter closed and he lost his job, but he’d done okay. Better than most of the other folks who’d found themselves out of work. That market garden of his brought in top dollar at those hoity-toity gourmet food stores in the city, where people were willing to pay an arm and a leg for organic, natural stuff.
What had possessed him to go over to the dark side?
And now that he had a name, what was he going to do about it?
Stomach twisting, Roger pushed himself to his feet and grasped his middle. Maybe some food would help . . . though nothing much coaxed the pain to go away these days. Not even the antacids he chugged. Chronic stress could tear a man’s insides to pieces.
