Draycott Eternal: What Dreams May ComeSeason of Wishes

by Christina Skye

  “Listen to me, Largo. Get the girl out now, or a team will be in with dogs and infrared tracers. If that happens, there won’t be enough of you left to enjoy a single bloody pound.”

  “Threats, Baker? I thought smooth negotiating was your style.”

  “My style just changed. Something tells me you’ve lost control over your comrades in there. If you’re not careful, you’re going to end up a splotch on a wall.” Ian lowered his voice. “You might be interested to know that the Italian has done this before. Both times, he pulled the trigger on his victim minutes after the ransom was paid. Then he vanished with the money. Do you catch my drift, Largo?”

  The kidnapper made a low, crude sound. “How do you know that?”

  “We’re in touch with Interpol, of course. The Italian’s M.O. was clear from week one. The only one who didn’t know his style was you. Obviously, he’s setting you up for the same trick.”

  A string of curses filled the wire.

  Ian flipped off the transmit button and sat back. Sweat glistened green over his brow in the light of the shifting diodes.

  “What happens now?” Rolland asked anxiously.

  “Now we pray. The next move is up to Largo.” Ian studied a video screen to his left. “Still no movement at the site, dammit.”

  “You did everything you could, McCall. It looks like you were right on target about that bloody fellow Alberto. Let’s hope Largo gets to the girl first.”

  Ian swung off his headset and motioned to the officer at his left, who immediately took his place. “It’s finished, Rolland. I can feel it. They’ve got most of their damned money and now they’ll start tidying up.” Suddenly he bent over the video screen. “Wait a minute…”

  A moment later, the air crackled with the urgent voice of one of Security International’s support team. “Baker, are you there? The door is opening. Someone’s coming out. Hold fire until my order, understood? Baker, do you read me?”

  Ian shoved his headphones back in place, responding to his code name. “I’m here, Able. We can see the field. Any ID on who’s coming out?”

  “It looks like the girl. It’s—She’s out! Baker, do you copy? She’s out!”

  Ian’s hands were not quite steady as he adjusted the grainy video image. “I read you, Able. Any sign of the Italian?”

  “Our people in the rear just picked up a body falling from the porch. Looks like he took a round in the head.”

  Ian murmured something soft in Gaelic. “What about the girl? Any sign of pursuit?”

  “Not yet. She’s almost to the front steps. You can see her red hat.”

  Ian frowned. “Red hat?”

  “That’s it. As soon as she’s beyond the porch, we can rush her. My men will run cover while they get her to safety. Two teams are standing by to close in as soon as she is clear.”

  Ian’s fingers moved restlessly over the console. He studied each window and door of the dilapidated cottage on the edge of the lonely Essex marshes. “Not yet, Able, do you copy? Don’t panic these people. They’re jittery and tired, running on pure adrenaline. Largo has followed through so far, so let’s give him a little more time.”

  A taut silence followed. “Rover, are you in agreement?”

  Sir George Rolland spoke into his handheld receiver. “Agent Baker is right. He knows these people. I suggest you do what he says and give them some space.”

  “But—”

  “Now,” Rolland said curtly.

  “Very well, Rover. They have one more minute.”

  Time crawled by. The four men in the cramped communications van watched the eight-year-old heiress to a chain of grocery stores wander dazedly across the yard, a toy bear clutched to her chest.

  “God, she’s so bloody young,” Rolland said softly.

  “She’s almost to the gate,” McCall whispered. “Two more feet. Come on, Terri. Get clear.”

  As she skirted a row of withered cornstalks, black figures exploded out of nowhere, surrounding the freed victim and covering her with their Kevlar-protected bodies. Up the hill two mobile assault teams crept toward the isolated farmhouse.

  Rolland gripped his receiver anxiously. “Konrad’s men have her.”

  McCall’s breath rasped free. He sank back against the padded chair, his eyes closed. His part of the operation was over. The ransom had been negotiated and the victim was free and unharmed.

  “Good work.” Rolland pressed his shoulder. “Now you can take some time off and—”

  “Baker?” The field officer’s voice broke in urgently.

  “Right here.”

  “Terri wants to see you. She’s—she’s pretty broken up, and she keeps asking to see the man on the radio who told her about the teddy bear’s picnic.” The officer’s usually unemotional voice was unsteady.

  “Where are her parents?”

  “In a car down the hill. But she wants to see you first, Baker. She’s…bloody insistent. A real fighter, that one.”

  “That’s what kept her alive,” Ian said flatly. He pushed out of his chair and rubbed the fatigue from his eyes. “Tell Terri I’m on my way.”

  THEY MADE AN ODD PAIR, the man with the hard face and the little girl clutching his callused hand. Though the uniformed troops were too far away to pick up the discussion, they saw the girl rub her eyes and sway. A moment later Ian crouched beside her and smoothed her tangled braids. The bear dangled perilously when she gripped his neck.

  Two dozen pairs of eyes softened at the sight of a child’s bravery and the tenderness of a man whose ruthless determination had kept her safe. Ian took the threadbare toy of antique chenille and shook hands with exaggerated formality. When the little girl curtsied with equal formality, her uncertain laugh drifted on the wind, and more than one brawny military officer cleared a suddenly raw throat.

  Ian McCall pulled the girl into his arms and walked slowly over the field, the wind ruffling his dark hair. At his back, a trail of smoke rose from the burning farmhouse. Four kidnappers stumbled out onto the front porch swarming with military snipers.

  But Terri St. James didn’t notice. Her small hands clutched Ian McCall’s neck and her beloved bear at the same time. Snowflakes danced down from the sky, dusting the battered old toy and glistening on the little girl’s cheeks and eyelashes.

  She was smiling tentatively as her parents broke from their waiting car, with the first soft snowfall of the year eddying around them.

  CHAPTER ONE

  November

  Draycott Abbey

  Southeastern England

  THE ROOM WAS WARM and the sherry excellent. Ian McCall, tenth laird of Glenlyle, savored both as he bent over the crackling flames in Draycott Abbey’s massive stone fireplace. He did not look up when the door opened behind him.

  “Brooding again, Ian?”

  “It’s what we Scots do best, don’t you know that, Nicholas?” Pushing to his feet, Ian studied the abbey’s owner, the twelfth viscount Draycott. He saw flecks of gray that had not been in his friend’s dark hair the last time they had met. Ian supposed his own hair looked much the same. Fast friends since they were six, the two men had met every year thereafter, and Nicholas had visited Scotland as often as he could manage.

  Ian studied Nicholas’s face intently and read the tension his old friend was at pains to conceal. The years had made him familiar enough to be blunt. “Why the urgent summons, Nicholas? You must have had something in mind besides my sampling the abbey’s vintage sherry.”

  Nicholas shook his hand firmly, then poured a generous glass of the sherry for himself. “You’re right as usual, Ian. I called you because I have someone I want you to meet.”

  Ian smiled crookedly. “Not another marriage-minded female, I hope. The last time I was here, you introduced me to a French actress and a German tennis star.”

  Nicholas shrugged sympathetically. “My wife’s doing, I’m afraid. She can’t stand to see any man she likes remain single. Matrimony is in her genetic makeup. And you, my friend, are
definitely on Kacey’s marriage list.”

  “And then there was the music reviewer with purple hair who assured me she was the very latest thing on MTV.” Ian rubbed his neck ruefully. “What’s MTV, by the way?”

  “It would take too long to explain, old man. She wasn’t your type anyway.”

  Ian studied his sherry. “The black lipstick was a bit extreme, as I recall.” His eyes narrowed. “I trust you and Kacey don’t plan on any more matchmaking. I’m seriously not in the mood.”

  Nicholas emptied his glass and frowned. “No matchmaking. Not this time.”

  “So it’s business.”

  “I’m afraid so. Of course, you are free to say no.”

  Ian chuckled dryly. “No one ever says no to you, Nicholas. It’s all those centuries of English arrogance and impeccable bloodlines. You’re far too well-bred to be heavy-handed, of course.” Ian sank into a comfortably worn chintz wing chair angled toward the fire and waited for the offer that would follow.

  The offer he was already steeling himself to refuse.

  Nicholas held out a package. “I just got back from London. I saw Terri St. James and her parents. They’re old friends, Ian, and I can’t thank you enough for what you did.”

  “I only did my job, Nicholas.”

  “And then some. I know something’s been distracting you lately.”

  Ian didn’t answer.

  “Terri sent you this. She said it would help you remember her.”

  “As if I could forget. That child has more courage than most adults.” He tugged open the cardboard box and pulled out a worn chenille bear with a crimson ribbon around its neck.

  Ian swallowed, feeling pressure build in his throat. “Rupert, she called him. This little fellow helped her get through hell in Essex, Nicholas. She shouldn’t part with him.”

  “It was her choice. She said the ribbon was because you got your colors mixed up.”

  Ian frowned at the worn toy.

  “May I ask you a question, Ian?”

  “You will anyway,” Ian muttered.

  “Too true. So why are you really leaving Security International? You’ve got at least ten good years left in the business.”

  Ian’s gaze moved restlessly to the fire. He squinted, watching the shifting flames. “Personal reasons.”

  “Care to be more specific?”

  The laird of Glenlyle shook his head.

  Nicholas Draycott sighed. “Then I’ll get right to the point. A young woman with a great deal of wealth has been targeted for kidnapping. As you always point out, preventing a kidnapping is a hell of a lot easier than trying to negotiate a release later. This is your chance.”

  “Friend of yours? Or is she family?”

  “Both. She’s an acquaintance of Kacey’s and a distant relative of my uncle.”

  Ian sighed. “I’m sorry to hear it, Nicholas. But the fact is, I’m no good in the field. My reflexes aren’t what they were.”

  Nicholas Draycott made a hard, impatient sound. “You’re still class-A rated in marksmanship and your evasive driving skills are second to none. You’ve handled six kidnappings in the last year, and every one of them resulted in a clean victim turnover.”

  Ian swirled his sherry. “Luck.”

  “Rubbish. You’re the best, Ian. You know how these people think. You know when to calm them down and when to shake them up. That makes you better than any muscle boy.”

  “The answer’s still no, Nicky,” Ian said, shaking his head. “For you I wish it could be otherwise. But…no.” His soft Scottish accent grew more pronounced. “There comes a time when every man has to step down, and my time has come.”

  “Hear me out, please.” Nicholas produced a pair of small, half-moon reading glasses. “Bloody things. If it weren’t for Kacey, I’d toss them in the nearest waste bin.” He sifted through a pile of papers on his desk and retrieved a thick file. A photo was clipped to the outside cover. He studied the photo, then tossed it onto the table next to Ian. “That’s your client. She’s American, twenty-four, very smart and very independent. She’s also a well-known textile designer. You may have seen some of her pieces at the National Gallery.”

  Ian raised one dark brow. “Not a place I’ve visited lately.”

  “Nor have I. I’ll sum up by saying the lady is very, very good. According to Kacey, her designs fetch enormous prices when they become available, which isn’t often. Jamee—as she’s known to her friends—has been traveling through Asia for the past month. While she’s been gone, inquiries have been made into her personal assets. Nothing obtrusive, all very smooth and very professional.” Nicholas pulled out a page from the file and his eyes narrowed. “If her brother hadn’t had a corporate security team keeping permanent tabs on Jamee the whole matter might have been overlooked. But someone is interested in her, all right. One of her friends even received a call from a company claiming to be validating a credit application for her. They wanted to know the names and ages of her friends, her business associates, what her usual workday consisted of. Hardly routine questions. Especially since Jamee Night had never made an application to that or any other company.”

  Ian made an impatient gesture with his hand. Nicholas Draycott could be relentless when an idea took hold of him. Ian hated to disappoint him, but this time he had no choice. “Security International has a dozen other men experienced in close protection. Your friend Dominic Montserrat could recommend even more. Why do you want me?”

  Nicholas paced back and forth before the fire. “Because Jamee’s family asked for the best man, and that’s you. They’re offering quite a bit of money for this job, by the way.”

  Ian laughed darkly. “Money isn’t the answer most people think it is, Nicholas. This involves nasty work, weeks of running on adrenaline and raw nerves until you begin to suspect everyone. Even yourself by the end.” He set his glass down firmly. “The answer is no. I’m sorry to bow out on you, but I’d be no help.”

  “You won’t be operating alone.”

  “The answer’s still no.”

  “If you sense any threat at all, a backup team will be sent in immediately,” Nicholas continued relentlessly.

  “Out in the field ‘immediately’ is one second too late,” Ian said dryly. “You should know that.”

  Nicholas braced one hand on the heavily carved sill of a window overlooking the abbey’s sunlit moat. “Everything is prepared. You’ll have complete autonomy in all decisions. No one will second-guess you, and there will be no expense spared to see this thing through. Jamee’s brother has already set up a team of investigators and equipped them with the very latest information-gathering systems.”

  “He’ll need more than computer analysts and surveillance reports if he wants to keep his sister safe.”

  “That’s exactly what I told him. You’re the missing piece he needs.”

  “He’ll have to find someone else.”

  Nicholas stared at Ian. “While Adam Night’s people are doing computer searches on probable suspects and running down the source of those questionable inquiries, Security International has handpicked a backup team to protect Jamee until she returns from Asia. Adam felt his own team might not be up to this new threat. You see, you have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

  “Except that whenever I hear that particular phrase, things generally start going downhill fast.”

  Nicholas pulled off his reading glasses and shoved them into his pocket. “You’re truly set on refusing this job?”

  Ian nodded, his eyes hard.

  “I see.” Nicholas sighed. “I’m sorry to hear it. The Night family has been through too much pain already.”

  “Night?” A frown worked along Ian’s forehead. “You mean, Gareth and Alice Night? The founders of Nightingale Electronics?”

  “That’s right. You knew them?”

  “Not well. I met Gareth only once. He was doing feasibility tests on a new shortwave communications system I was training with. He was a brilliant man.” Ian
smiled faintly. “Almost as brilliant as his wife, I gathered from what he told me about her.”

  Nicholas nodded. “They were very much in love.”

  “So I guessed. We were huddled on an oil rig in the North Sea during a nasty midwinter gale. I remember he told me how much his family had sacrificed while he built Nightingale Electronics. All the traveling and long hours at work took a toll. He said he’d missed most of the important events in his children’s lives, but he was planning to slow down and spend more time with them. Then he and his wife died in that car crash in Nova Scotia.” Ian frowned down at his empty glass. “How long has it been?”

  “Six years next month.”

  Ian made a flat, angry sound. “And his daughter is the target you mentioned?”

  “Jamesina. Her friends call her Jamee.”

  Ian looked down at the photo on the desk. Four men and a laughing young woman with long red hair were tangled in a frantic game of touch football. Water glinted in the distance beyond a hill covered with wildflowers. “Jamee Night?”

  Nicholas nodded. “They love to play touch football—even her brother, Bennett. Though he plays with a cane and ten pounds of steel pins and surgical plastic in his leg. Amazing family,” he said softly.

  Ian tapped a figure whose high cheekbones were eloquent testimony to a Native-American heritage. “Another brother?”

  “Adam is adopted, just like Jamee’s other brother.” Nicholas pointed to a crouched figure whose Eurasian features were creased in a broad grin. “William was found at the age of six begging for food in a back alley in Hong Kong’s Wanchai district. Mother—Chinese. Father could be any number of things. Today William Wu Night is probably one of the most brilliant software designers in the world.”

  “And then there’s Jamee,” Ian said tightly. “Kidnapped when she was seventeen and locked in a closet for five days. It was a bloody business, bungled at every stage. After the ransom was paid, the kidnappers nearly escaped. It took the police two days to corner the men after they went to ground in an isolated cabin in northern Idaho.”

  “You’ve got a good memory for a crime that happened seven years ago,” Nicholas murmured.