by Rachel Grant
PRAISE FOR RACHEL GRANT
“Rachel Grant’s smart, edgy, high-energy romantic thrillers deliver a real rush. The suspense is intense and so is the romance. Fascinating heroines, cool heroes, and intelligent plots. Grant sets a new gold standard for romantic suspense.”
—New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz
PRAISE FOR TINDERBOX
Named to Kirkus Reviews’ Best Books of 2017
“Unexpected and intense from the get-go. With irresistible characters, a rare setting, and an inventive, high-powered plot, it’s a smartly crafted gem of a story.”
—USA Today
“This first novel in Grant’s Flashpoint series offers a multilayered, suspenseful plot that’s strengthened by its appealing characters, strong attention to detail, and a healthy dose of romance . . . An exciting tale that offers an entertaining mix of action and romance.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
PRAISE FOR CATALYST
Named to Kirkus Reviews’ Best Books of 2018
“The second novel in Grant’s Flashpoint series offers intelligent romantic suspense that moves with the urgency of a thriller.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“From ravaged South Sudan to opulent Morocco, Rachel Grant’s Catalyst reveals both a sophisticated thriller and a sizzling romance.”
—New York Times bestselling author Toni Anderson
PRAISE FOR FIRESTORM
Named to Kirkus Reviews’ Best Books of 2018
“Grant expertly braids together action and romance in a propulsive, page-turning suspense thriller.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Romantic suspense done right and to the max. Don’t miss it.”
—All About Romance
“An enthralling, heart-pounding masterpiece!”
—New York Times bestselling author Annika Martin
DISCOVER OTHER TITLES BY RACHEL GRANT
FLASHPOINT SERIES
Tinderbox
Catalyst
Firestorm
Inferno
EVIDENCE SERIES
Concrete Evidence
Body of Evidence
Withholding Evidence
Night Owl
Incriminating Evidence
Covert Evidence
Cold Evidence
Poison Evidence
Silent Evidence
Winter Hawk
Tainted Evidence
Broken Falcon
ROMANTIC MYSTERY
Grave Danger
PARANORMAL ROMANCE
Midnight Sun
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.
Text copyright © 2021 by Rachel Grant
All rights reserved.
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 Montlake, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542029285
ISBN-10: 1542029287
Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson
This one is for Elizabeth Winick Rubinstein.
It was a longer journey than either of us expected, but you never gave up. Thank you for always pushing my work to the next level and for believing in me.
CONTENTS
A NOTE TO THE READER
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CONNECT WITH RACHEL ONLINE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A NOTE TO THE READER
Chiksook Island and all the cultural, historical, and geological features described in this book are fictional; however, the setting is based on several real Aleutian Islands that have ruins and debris left behind by US and Japanese soldiers after World War II in addition to extant prehistoric sites and modern villages occupied by the Unangax̂ people.
ONE
Whidbey Island, Washington
September
Dean had done some risky and dangerous things in his ten years as a wildlife photographer, but nothing that could send him to federal prison. But then, this wasn’t an assignment from National Geographic. He wasn’t going to remote, frigid Alaska to photograph polar bears under the aurora borealis. And while he would certainly be expected to take photos of birds, his role on this expedition wasn’t that of a photographer at all.
He wasn’t even going as himself.
He’d cleared the first major hurdle and now approached the group of scientists and engineers on the tarmac waiting to board the plane. He was just minutes from takeoff, which was the point of no return.
Federal prison might await him at the end of this flight or expedition, but he’d worry about that after he found his brother.
Two women and three men stood in a cluster, watching uniformed marines load supplies into the back of the cargo plane. Dean joined the group and was about to introduce himself when the engines of a small fighter jet on the runway fired up.
He ripped open the pack of disposable earplugs he’d been handed before being permitted onto the restricted tarmac and quickly inserted them. Everyone waiting for the flight watched the fighter jet prepare to take off, so Dean used the opportunity to check out the five people also heading to Chiksook Island.
It was easy to guess which of the two women was the archaeologist. Dylan had said she was tall and beautiful. Both women were attractive, but the one with lighter-brown hair had a good six inches on the other.
Until yesterday, when Pollux Engineering had given him the list of scientists and engineers slated for this trip, he’d known only her first name, making reaching out to her impossible. Now, standing just feet from her at long last, he couldn’t tell her his real name if he wanted to avoid prison. Avoiding prison might not be his top priority, but it was high on the list.
Fiona Carver’s shoulder-length honey-brown hair had gold and red highlights that he could believe were natural. While human subjects were not his specialty, he’d donated his skills over the years to photograph models and actresses on location with various animals to raise money for habitat preservation and protection. He’d since become friends with many in the film and fashion industries, and he knew enough about both to recognize that Fiona had either been blessed by the hair gods or she had a really excellent stylist.
There wasn’t a speck of makeup on her lightly freckled, pale-cream sk
in, but then this military flight to a remote island in the Aleutian chain for government-contracted fieldwork wasn’t a makeup-wearing sort of trip for most people.
The fighter jet hurtled down the runway just as the military ground crew signaled for Dean and the other civilians to board the waiting aircraft.
This was it. Stepping onto the plane meant no turning back. If he was caught, he could kiss his perfect life and career goodbye.
So be it. He’d risk anything for his brother. Dylan would do nothing less for him.
Finding Dylan was Dean’s number one priority.
He followed the archaeologist up the ramp of the small turboprop transport. She settled into a seat in the middle of the inward-facing row that lined the port side. Dean passed her, going deeper into the jet, closer to the cockpit, and took a seat, leaving one spot open between them. There were a dozen seats total—six on each side of the fuselage—for just six passengers. Only a total dick would choose the empty seat between them.
Thankfully, no one on this team proved to be a dick. All six passengers spaced themselves on both sides, with open seats between one another.
In the center of the compartment, field equipment and supplies were strapped down. There was a month’s worth of food and gear for the fourteen-day expedition to Chiksook Island—more than enough in case a storm caused delays for their return flight.
The no-frills seating inside a plane heavy with supplies wasn’t much different from some of the flights he’d taken on assignment for National Geographic or Smithsonian, except this wasn’t an expedition to stalk and photograph big cats or the elusive pangolin.
He wasn’t even sure how he was going to search for Dylan. If he was safe and sound in the field camp or in the tiny Aleut—or as the locals preferred to be called in their own language, Unangax̂—village, he’d have emailed Dean and postponed the LA visit instead of being a no-show.
The last correspondence Dean had received that was unequivocally from Dylan had been sent from Chiksook Island nearly six weeks ago. The email had come from Dylan’s personal email account and described the project and Fiona, in addition to listing restaurants he looked forward to frequenting during his upcoming trip to LA. Remote fieldwork always made Dylan long for fine cuisine.
A few days later, Dean received another email, supposedly from Dylan but which could have been sent by anyone with access to his work email account.
When Dean was unable to get in touch with Dylan, he’d wasted no time in contacting Pollux Engineering for an explanation of that last email, which stated that Dylan was going off the grid for a few months. Pollux informed Dean that his brother had flown home to Seattle and promptly taken a leave of absence, and they had no information on how to reach him.
The military wouldn’t provide Dean with a manifest of the flight—which had been a transport like this one—because it violated operational security. He’d had to rely on Pollux Engineering’s account.
Had Fiona Carver been on the boat that evacuated Chiksook and the transport flight that followed? Could she confirm Dylan had flown home?
The only way to get to Chiksook Island and its heavily restricted US Navy property was to be a member of the Aleutian Pribilof Islands Association, which was the federally recognized tribal organization of the Unangas, or to be hired as a contractor working on the Environmental Impact Statement for the proposed submarine base project.
Given that Dean couldn’t claim Unangax̂ affiliation, he’d instead “borrowed” the name of an ornithologist he’d worked with years ago and applied for Pollux Engineering’s last-minute call for an ornithologist. A mated pair of rare birds might be nesting on Chiksook, and Dean had no qualms about taking advantage of that situation. He had a wildlife biology degree and knew enough about birds to bluff his way through. But given his fake identity, he couldn’t reveal his real reason for being here to the others on the team. Not without risking federal prison.
He pulled out the disposable earplugs and tucked them in his pocket. As he settled in, he studied the other passengers. He would question each in turn, but his first order of business was to question the woman his brother had been dating in the months prior to his disappearance.
He reached out a hand to her and flashed a smile that never failed to please. “Bill Lowell, ornithologist.”
She shook his hand, her smile polite. “Fiona Carver, archaeologist. Pollux Engineering hired you to find the gray buntings?”
He nodded. “I take it you don’t work for Pollux?”
She shook her head. “Civilian navy employee, not a contractor.”
He glanced toward the open end of the aircraft and the tarmac of Naval Air Station Whidbey Island. “Is this your base?”
“No. I’m on the Kitsap Peninsula. Near the shipyard.”
That checked out. Dylan had said she lived a ferry ride away from Seattle. But Dean had discovered Washington had a lot of ferry runs, several of which terminated in the Seattle area, so instead of narrowing Dean’s search for Dylan’s girlfriend, that piece of info only made it broader.
“Is this your first time going to Chiksook?” he asked.
“No. Fourth trip in six months. Between the historic World War II site and prehistoric sites all over the island, I’ve been busy.”
He grinned. “Excellent. You can show me the ropes, then.”
Her pale-green eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “I’m sure I’ll be too busy with my fieldwork.”
“I can start my search for the gray bunting anywhere.” He shrugged. “Might as well start wherever you’re working. It gets lonely in the field.”
She kept her expression mild, even though he was being pushy and presumptuous. Her eyes gave her away, however, sparking with a not entirely unpleasant heat. He guessed his persistence both irritated and amused her.
This didn’t exactly endear. Dylan had been missing for weeks, and his girlfriend had yet to show any sign of caring.
Had she already moved on?
Faint freckles dotted her nose and cheeks, and his eyes were drawn to a darker freckle just to the right of center on her full, pink bottom lip. His camera would love that freckle, and he itched to pull it out and start taking photos with her backlit by the open ramp. What else would his camera reveal?
“Are you afraid of bears or something, Mr. Lowell? Hoping I’ll protect you from the dangerous beasts?”
He laughed at that. “Bill, please. And no, I’m not afraid of bears.” That was true. He’d spent enough time photographing them to have the utmost respect for their power and beauty, and he knew how to stay out of their way. “Especially given that there aren’t any bears on Chiksook or any of the Aleutians west of Unimak Island. In fact, on Chiksook, foxes and caribou were introduced in the fifties for hunting excursions, but otherwise, the only fauna you’ll find are rodents and birds.”
She smiled and tilted her head in acknowledgment. “Then why are you so eager to join me in the field?”
He shrugged. “I’m just a fan of the buddy system when it comes to fieldwork.”
“For your bird search, you’ll have to stick to the roads to cover the most ground, so you’ll be fine alone. While the environment is rough, it’s easy to get a bearing even without a compass. It’s all green tundra and grasses. Trees can’t survive due to the low temperatures. Easy to find your way around when it’s not foggy, and utterly beautiful with or without rain, snow, and fog.
“I’m afraid accompanying me in the field would hinder your search. I’ll be working in one place for days at a time, and you’ll need to keep moving if you’re going to search the entire island.”
She’d been deliberately patronizing with the bear comment, but he had it coming, given how pushy he was being. He respected that. Plus, he felt his first rush of actual like for Dylan’s new girlfriend as she described a place that was also known for being one of the foggiest, rainiest, windiest, and basically most miserable places in the United States. She didn’t speak of the negatives as others might. She l
iked Chiksook Island. It showed in her sharp green eyes.
“Anyone could twist an ankle at any time,” he said with a wink.
She rolled her eyes even as she gave him a genuine smile, and his gaze fixed on the lip freckle. It was a perfect focal point for the composition of her features, which, as Dylan had described when he’d first told Dean about Fiona on the phone two months ago, were stunning not for their perfection but for the lack of it. Her eyes were a bit wide, her chin a bit sharp. Together, they were a thing of beauty.
“Tell you what—you can radio me if you trip and bust your ankle.”
“Deal,” he said, transfixed by that perfect stray freckle. Her mouth was another bit of charming imperfection, with the bottom lip fuller than the top. He’d photographed—and, truth be told, slept with—models who’d paid good money to have their lips puffed to perfection, and this wasn’t it. But on Fiona, it was deeply alluring.
Which was the kind of thought he absolutely shouldn’t be having about his brother’s girlfriend.
Her eyes narrowed at his unwavering stare, and she pulled her lip between her teeth, hiding the spot . . . and telling him she was aware of the power of the freckle.
She turned and faced forward, toward the scientists on the other side of the fuselage, ending their conversation.
He had to find a way to pull her back in. He needed information, and she might be the only one who could provide it. “Sorry. It’s just . . . I dabble in photography, and the way you’re backlit with the tail open right now, you’d make a stunning subject.”
She gave him a side-eye, letting him know he’d just made things worse. She was a scientist heading to the field, and he’d reduced her to a pretty face.
So different from the models he’d dated, whose livelihoods depended on them being seen as nothing but a pretty face. In that world, if he wanted to get a woman’s attention, all he had to do was pull out his camera and use a little flattery to coax her into letting him take her picture.
In those situations, he could always tell if he was going to get laid simply by looking at the photos he’d snapped on the camera’s digital screen. If he photographed Fiona Carver now, the image would reveal a decided no. Which, he reminded himself, was a good thing.
