by Janie Crouch
“It’s a newspaper clipping about a restaurant in Chicago that burnt down a few years ago named Wales and Gill,” Jon said.
“Did Omega have anything to do with that? Did we investigate or make arrests?” Ashton didn’t remember anything of the sort. He wanted to beat his head against the wall.
“No.” Jon shook his head, then turned and brought up something on one of the laptops sitting on the table. He spun it around so Ashton and Lillian could see it. “I worked a case eighteen months ago in Corpus Christi. A serial rapist. The local detective who worked the case with me is Zane Wales. The rapist’s last victim before he was killed was one of my fiancée’s best friends. Her name is Caroline Gill.”
Wales and Gill.
“We need to warn them that a madman might have them in his sights. At the very least make them aware that it looks like Freihof is back in the picture and possibly targeting people with ties to Omega,” Brandon agreed.
“They’re both coming to the wedding in two weeks but that might be too late,” Jon said. He had his phone in his hands and was walking out into the hallway.
“Zane, it’s Jon Hatton,” Ashton heard the man say as he walked down the hall. “Got a minute? I’ve got some bad news.”
It sounded like Jon’s friends had been through enough. Ashton hoped this could stop more potential pain for them.
He turned back to the board. “Okay, that’s one. We know there has to be more. Let’s find a way of beating this bastard at his own game.”
* * *
MANY OF ASHTON’S days as a SWAT member were physically exhausting. Today had been mentally exhausting.
And honestly, he hadn’t even been the one figuring out Freihof’s pattern. Just watching Jon and Brandon weave their brains through that psycho’s “planning wall” had been exhausting enough for Ashton. Besides Jon’s friends, Zane Wales and Caroline Gill, they’d found another possible clue connected to Brandon. His fiancée Andrea’s good friend Keira Spencer had been mentioned.
Unlike Zane Wales, Keira wasn’t law enforcement. She was an exotic dancer in New Mexico like Andrea once had been. Local law enforcement would be keeping an eye on her.
One thing was for sure. Like Jon had said, Freihof was a master composer and his symphony was just beginning. Exactly how long, how loud or what the next measure would be was anybody’s guess.
But Omega would battle Freihof the way they battled every terrorist who threatened the safety of the people and country they loved: together.
Right now, though, the only people Ashton was interested in being together with waited inside the door of Summer’s newly renovated condo where he was pulling up. Over the last few days, more and more of his stuff kept getting moved in there. She’d even given him a key. He’d been there with his girls every moment he wasn’t at Omega.
Because there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.
Eventually they’d have to talk about the fact that they were basically starting to live together. Because that wasn’t going to work for Ashton.
Summer would have to marry him first.
She opened the door as he walked up, Chloe in her arms. “The munchkin saw you from the window.”
“Ah-ta!”
He grabbed Chloe with one arm and slipped the other around Summer’s waist. “I feel like I’m home.”
She reached up and touched him on the cheek. Chloe immediately imitated her mother on his other one. “You are home.”
“If that’s the case, we’re going to need a few rules.”
The slightest bit of worry fell over Summer’s features. “We are?”
“Well, one in particular.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re going to have to make an honest man out of me.”
All the worry vanished and a smile that stole his breath away covered her face. “Well, you know if we get married you’re stuck with both me and this rug rat for life.”
He pulled her closer. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Good, because I just hung a new honey-do list on the fridge. In case you haven’t heard, my condo lost its handyman.”
“Nope.” He stepped inside, bringing the girls in with him. “You didn’t lose one. You gained one permanently.”
* * * * *
THE OMEGA SECTOR: UNDER SIEGE
miniseries from Janie Crouch continues next month with PROTECTOR’S INSTINCT.
And don’t miss the books in
Janie Crouch’s previous miniseries,
OMEGA SECTOR: CRITICAL RESPONSE:
SPECIAL FORCES SAVIOR
FULLY COMMITTED
ARMORED ATTRACTION
MAN OF ACTION
OVERWHELMING FORCE
BATTLE TESTED
Available now from Harlequin Intrigue!
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Reluctant Hero
by Debra Webb & Regan Black
Chapter One
San Francisco
Thursday, October 14, 6:20 p.m.
Rebecca Wallace had an itch between her shoulder blades, warning her it was well past time to get out of the office. She’d turned off the three monitors on the wall, all of them muted, that were tuned to the television network she worked for and their top two competitors. She scrolled her mouse over to power down her computer when a new email icon popped up on her monitor.
She should ignore it. Needed to ignore it. She had a date tonight—the first in months—and she already knew she was going to be late. Late wasn’t a behavior she tolerated in others, so she did her best to be prompt as often as possible. Her career as a producer for an acclaimed investigative journalism show frequently put her at odds with her aim to be on time. While the weekly show was scheduled down to the second, when important stories broke, she felt an obligation to be available to support the stable of reporters the network had in the field.
Knowing the news cycle had wound down for the day, she exercised self-discipline and shut down the computer. She would read the email on her phone during the commute home and then delegate any response if necessary. With a longing glance at her laptop, she left it behind as well. Carving out a personal life had been one of her primary intentions for this year. Considering this was only her
tenth date for the year and it was October, she scolded herself for letting an important goal slide.
Deciding the email would wait until the morning, she set her phone to vibrate and dropped it into her purse. Her team had the next big story in the works already. Last week, she and her lead journalist, Bill Gatlin, had started digging into an anonymous tip that alleged an elite team of US Army soldiers serving in Iraq had stolen a fortune in gold.
She would have blown off the mysterious lead if not for the list of six names and the date of the purported theft. Having been in that same area of Iraq at the time on a humanitarian story, she and Bill were each making discreet inquiries about the men implicated and she had tech support looking for a lead on the sender. Although she didn’t care for anonymous tips, no matter how often they panned out, she knew people enjoyed the drama and adventure of being a faceless, nameless source blowing the whistle on some unpleasant situation.
What she’d die for about now was a tip for a juicy exposé on local spas. Surely she could find a way to pitch that idea. She’d happily volunteer as the guinea pig for any “undercover” research too. She could already hear the laughter from her team if she made such a suggestion. Her entire MO was leaving the fluff pieces and the half-baked ratings bait to the other guys. The guys who weren’t winning awards the way her team did year after year.
She reminded herself that she had left Hollywood for many reasons, not the least of which was to find a place where substance mattered more than the smoke and innuendo of the next dramatic scandal.
By the time she slid into the backseat of the commuter car waiting for her at the curb, her phone had vibrated with another three alerts. Her determination to remain accessible to her team often conflicted with her goal of developing a worthwhile personal life. With a sigh, she retrieved her phone from her purse and checked the various alerts of email and two voice mail messages forwarded from the office.
In the first voice mail, she was pleasantly surprised to hear her father’s voice. She’d called him days ago hoping he had a name or some insight on getting around the army bureaucracy she’d slammed up against as she tried to find confirmation on the names listed. Her dad, a legend in Hollywood, had produced and directed movies ranging from highbrow documentaries to summer blockbusters and seemed to have friends and contacts around the world in all branches of business. According to his brief message, he wasn’t ready to call in a favor for her. His best advice was to work the story from the ground up.
As if she hadn’t been doing that. Well, calling him had been a long shot.
The next voice message was from Parker Lawton, making yet another terse request to meet. She deleted it and shoved the phone back in her purse. Lawton was the last name on the list, and she wanted some solid facts and a better overall picture of the situation and the men involved before they had a conversation. She didn’t want a possible thief skewing the perspective on the story.
It infuriated her when the subjects of budding stories learned her team was poking around. Most likely the anonymous tipster had let something slip, unable to keep from making a not-so-veiled threat or suggestion. As a producer, she had to assess the value and impact of a story before they had the facts. After several years on the job, her instincts were spot-on, and the repeated messages from Lawton confirmed her hunch that he had either something to confess or something to hide.
She and Bill had divided the list of names and created a cover story about soldiers returning to civilian life to explain their interest in the six men named by the source. Cautiously checking into Lawton’s current situation had been Bill’s job. So why was Lawton fixating on her? Her mind stirred it around and around, refusing to let go of work, even as she paid the car service and entered her apartment building in the heart of Russian Hill.
Inside, she locked the door behind her. She kicked off her work heels and dropped her purse on the nearest chair, fishing out her phone and taking it with her to the bedroom. Using the voice commands, she called Bill while she changed clothes for the evening. Her date was taking her to some elite awards gala. He’d been dropping the names of San Francisco’s wealthiest and brightest innovators all week, to make sure she didn’t back out. She didn’t have the heart to tell him she’d already met the business rock stars on his list at one event or another.
“What are you doing calling me? You’re supposed to be off the clock,” Bill said in lieu of anything as mundane as hello. “You told me you were going on the date.”
Reporters, she’d learned from day one, were a habitually nosy lot. “I’m dressing while we speak.”
A low wolf whistle carried through the room. “Now, that’s an image.”
She laughed. He’d seen her at her best, her average and even her worst more than once when they traveled to remote locations in search of the story. Through it all, Bill had become a hybrid of friend and mentor with a side of big brother tossed in for good measure.
“You don’t scare me.” She laughed, knowing Bill was far more likely to be picturing her date. “What kind of dirt are you finding on Parker Lawton?”
“Why?” Bill asked, in a whisper. “What did he say?”
Interesting. Bill was a legend in the industry for maintaining his cool in every circumstance. Why was he nervous? “Nothing. The man has left messages for me all day that don’t say anything other than he wants to meet in person. His emails are the same. Shouldn’t he be calling you instead of me?”
Bill’s sigh filtered through the speaker.
“His assistant was a brick wall when I reached out as myself,” he said. “So I tried Lawton’s personal number. I left him a message as your assistant, saying we wanted to interview him for his perspective on the sudden rise of homegrown terrorism.”
Her hand stilled on the hanger supporting the little black dress she’d been pulling out of her closet. “That wasn’t the story we agreed to.”
“I know.” He sounded miserable. “Since he’s in the security business, it seemed more likely to get a response.”
Though she might not care for the changeup, she couldn’t fault his logic. “What else is going wrong with this story, Bill?” Warning bells were ringing in her mind, and that twitch between her shoulder blades was back. “I’m thinking we need to back off and reassess.”
“Not yet. I know we’re onto something important.”
“Where are you right now?” She swiveled around and checked the clock by her bed. Maybe they could meet and tweak the plan before her date arrived.
“Some hole-in-the-wall diner off Pier 80 waiting on Theo Manning.”
Pier 80 meant there was no chance she could get there and back, or convince her date to go by the area before the gala. “We confirmed he was the commanding officer of the team at the time, right?”
“Yes,” Bill answered.
“And he’s late?” Her intuition was humming. “That doesn’t fit my image of a CO.”
“He’s a civilian now,” Bill pointed out. “A crane operator. Late doesn’t mean he’s changed his mind about talking with me. A thousand things could have happened on the job.”
“True.” Propping her phone on the bathroom counter, she wriggled into the dress. “Tell me what you’ve found on Lawton while we wait.” Bill might be a capable grown man, but she wasn’t going to leave him sitting alone in a diner in a rough part of town until she absolutely had to end the call.
“Lawton’s finances and net worth were a big surprise.”
She unzipped her makeup bag and started adding shadow and eyeliner to go from office to gala-ready. “Is he destitute or filthy rich?”
“The latter,” Bill said. “If your definition includes newly minted billionaires,” he added in a low murmur.
Becca bobbled her mascara tube and it fell to the floor. “What?” Scrambling, she fished it out from under the counter with her toe as she kept tal
king. “Why did you hold on to that detail? Is private security that lucrative? Are the others rich too?”
“I didn’t lead with that tidbit because I hadn’t finished my due diligence. Security might be that lucrative. His client list is privileged.”
She snorted. “Not legally.”
“Possibly legally. At any rate, I’m still trying to find out where and when he made his fortune.”
Selling or hoarding Iraqi gold would certainly boost anyone’s bottom line, though a net worth of billions seemed unlikely when the gold had been split between six thieves. Or so the source said. Huh. Maybe the source wasn’t the victim as they’d inferred from the tip. Maybe their source was bitter about being cut out or shorted of his part of the fortune. “Send me what you have on Lawton right now and I’ll help you sort it out.”
“Your date won’t appreciate you canceling at the last minute,” he said.
“I’m not canceling,” she promised.
“Oh?” Bill chuckled. “Even better. He’ll love watching you google another man between bites of hors d’oeuvres.”
She laughed with him. Better that than letting him know how close to the mark his teasing struck. “A personal life is essential to true happiness,” she said. She’d written the reminder on a sticky note and kept it on her mirror where she could see it every morning. “Send it. I’ll sort it out after my date. We can go over everything in the morning.”
“Fine. I’ll give Mr. Former CO another fifteen minutes and then I’m bailing. I’d rather give the Lawton tree another shake anyway. Maybe money will fall on my head.”
“If he tries to bribe you, you’d better share.”
Bill laughed again. “Not a chance,” he said, and ended the call.
Bill was as effective and persistent as a bloodhound when he caught the scent of a story. Producing for him had taught her a great deal about how to piece together clues, unravel a background and identify the essential nature of what wasn’t said in an interview. She liked to believe he’d benefitted from working with her as well. She enjoyed making sure her reporters came across with compassion as well as reliable authority for the audience. Unlike many of their competitors, they never broadcast a story until they knew they had the facts, and she used her specific skills to create a show that kept viewers coming back week after week.
