Colleen took the turn too sharply. The tires squealed in protest. A gravel path led to the barn. The car bounced over the rough terrain.
She glanced at the road they had just traveled. Trey’s car hadn’t crested the hill. Relieved, Colleen drove into the barn. Before the engine died, she leaped from the car and pulled the doors closed, casting them in semidarkness.
Outside, wind howled. Rain pounded against the wooden structure.
“Help me.” Vivian’s voice.
Colleen raced around the car and opened the passenger door. The woman’s face was pale as death. Blood soaked her clothing. For the first time, Colleen saw the gaping hole in Vivian’s side.
Removing her own coat, Colleen rolled it into a ball and pressed it onto the wound to stem the flow of blood. Holding it tight with her left hand, she reached for her cell and tapped in 9-1-1.
Before the call could go through, a ferocious roar, both powerful and insistent, gathered momentum, like a freight train on a collision course with the barn. Even without seeing the funnel cloud, Colleen knew a tornado was headed straight for them.
The barn shook. Hay fell from the overhead loft. The noise grew louder. Colleen’s ears popped.
Swirling wind enveloped them. Clods of Georgia clay and shards of splintered wood sprayed through the air like shrapnel.
She threw herself over Vivian, protecting her. God help us, Colleen prayed as the tornado hit, and the barn crashed down around them.
*
“Frank,” Evelyn screamed from the kitchen. “There’s a tornado.”
Startled by the tremor in his sister’s voice, Frank Gallagher pulled back the living room curtain. His heart slammed against his chest at what he saw. A huge, swirling funnel cloud was headed straight for her house.
“Get to the basement, Evie.”
Her sluggish footsteps sounded from the kitchen as she threw open the cellar door and cautiously descended into the darkness below. Injured in a car accident some years earlier, Evelyn’s gait was slow and labored, like a person older than her 42 years.
“Duke?” Frank called. The German shepherd, a retired military working dog, appeared at his side.
“Heel.” Together, they followed Evelyn down the steep steps.
An antique oak desk sat in the corner and offered additional protection. Frank hurried her forward.
“Get under the desk, Evie.”
A deafening roar enveloped them. Frank glanced through the small basement window. His gut tightened.
Debris sailed through the air ahead of the mass of swirling wind bearing down on them.
His heart stalled, and for one long moment, he was back in Afghanistan. The explosion. The flying debris. The building shattering around him.
Trapped under the rubble, he had gasped for air. The smell of death returned to fill his nostrils. Only he had lived.
Duke whined.
“Frank,” Evelyn screamed over the incessant roar. She grabbed his arm and jerked him down next to her.
Frank motioned for Duke to lie beside them. The thunderous wail drowned out his sister’s frantic prayers. All he heard was the howling wind, like a madman gone berserk, as chilling as incoming mortar rounds.
He tensed, anticipating the hit, and choked on the acrid bile that clogged his throat. Tightening his grip on his sister’s outstretched hand, Frank opened his heart, ever so slightly, to the Lord.
Save Evie. The prayer came from deep inside, from a place he’d sealed off since the IED explosion had changed his life forever. Just that quickly the raging wind died, and the roar subsided.
Frank expelled the breath he’d been holding.
Evelyn moaned with relief. “Thank you, God.”
Crawling from under the desk, he helped his sister to her feet and then glanced through the window. Mounds of tree limbs, twisted like matchsticks, littered the yard. At least the house had been spared.
He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. No bars. No coverage.
Evelyn reached for the older landline phone on the desk. “I’ve got a dial tone.”
“Call 911. Let them know the area along Amish Road was hit and to send everything available. Then phone the Criminal Investigation Division on post. Talk to Colby Voss. Tell him the Amish need help.”
“Colby would tell you to stay put, Frank. You’re still on convalescent leave.”
Ignoring her concern for his well-being, Frank patted his leg for Duke to follow him upstairs.
Another close call. Was God trying to get his attention? A verse from scripture floated through his mind, Come back to me.
In the kitchen, Frank yanked his CID jacket from the closet and grabbed leather work gloves he kept nearby. Pushing through the back door, he stopped short and pulled in a sharp breath at what he saw—a different kind of war zone from what he’d experienced in Afghanistan, but equally as devastating.
The tornado had left a trail of destruction that had narrowly missed his sister’s house. He searched for the Amish farmhouses that stretched along the horizon. Few had been spared. Most were broken piles of rubble, as if a giant had crushed them underfoot.
A sickening dread spread over him. The noise earlier had been deafening. Now an eerie quiet filled the late Georgia afternoon. No time to lament. People could be trapped in the wreckage.
“Come on, boy.” Frank quickly picked his way among the broken branches and headed for the path that led through the woods. He ignored the ache in his hip, a reminder of the IED explosion and the building that had collapsed on top of him. Thankfully, a team of orthopedic surgeons had gotten him back on his feet. A fractured pelvis, broken ribs and a cracked femur had been insignificant compared with those who hadn’t made it out alive.
Still weak from the infection that had been a life-threatening complication following surgery, Frank pushed forward, knowing others needed help. Skirting areas where the tornado had twisted giant trees like pickup sticks, he checked his cell en route and shook his head with regret at the lack of coverage.
At the foot of the hill, he donned his leather work gloves and raced toward the Amish Craft Shoppe. A brother and sister in their teens usually manned the store.
“Call out if you can hear me,” he shouted as he threw aside boards scattered across the walkway leading to the front porch. “Where are you?” he demanded. “Answer me.”
Duke sniffed at his side.
“Can you hear me?” he called again and again. The lack of response made him fear the worst and drove him to dig through the fallen timbers even more frantically.
An Amish man and woman tumbled from a farmhouse across the street. Their home had lost its roof and a supporting side wall.
The bearded man wore a blue shirt and dark trousers, held up with suspenders. Dirt smudged his face and his cheek was scraped.
“The store was closed today,” he shouted, waving his hands to get Frank’s attention. “The youth are at a neighboring farm.”
“You’re sure?” Frank was unwilling to give up the search if anyone was still inside.
The man glanced at the woman wearing a typical Amish dress and apron.
“Jah, that is right,” she said, nodding in agreement.
“What about your family?” Frank called. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Thanks to God, we are unharmed, but our neighbors are in need.” The man pointed to the next farmhouse and the gaping hole where the wall and roof had been. He and his wife ran to offer aid.
Before Frank could follow, he glanced at the nearby barn. The corner of one wall remained standing, precariously poised over a pile of rubble. At that moment, the cloud cover broke, and the sun’s reflection bounced off a piece of metal buried in the wreckage.
Something chrome, like the bumper of a car. The Amish didn’t drive automobiles, but a traveler passing by could have been seeking shelter from the storm.
He raced to the barn and dug through the debris. “Shout if you can hear me.”
A woman moaned.
; “Where are you?” Frank strained to hear more.
All too well, he knew the terror of being buried. His heart lodged in his throat as the memories of Afghanistan played through his mind.
Duke pawed at a pile of timber, his nose sniffing the broken beams and fractured wood.
He barked.
“Help.”
Working like a madman, Frank tossed aside boards piled one upon the other until he uncovered a portion of the car. The passenger door hung open. Shoving fallen beams aside, he leaned into the vehicle’s interior.
A woman stared up at him.
“Are you hurt?”
She didn’t respond.
Hematoma on her left temple. Cuts and abrasions. She was probably in shock.
“Can you move your hands and feet?”
She nodded.
“Stay put, ma’am, until the EMTs arrive. You could have internal injuries.”
She reached for his hand and struggled to untangle herself from the wreckage.
“You shouldn’t move, ma’am.”
“I need help.” She was determined to crawl from the car.
“Take it slow.” Frank had no choice but to assist her to her feet. She was tall and slender with untamed hair the color of autumn leaves. She teetered for a moment and then stepped into his arms.
He clutched her close and warmed to her embrace. “You’re okay,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
“But—”
She glanced over her shoulder. He followed her gaze, his eyes focusing on a second woman.
Black hair. Ashen face. A bloodstained jacket lay wadded in a ball at her waist.
Pulling back the covering, Frank groaned. Her injury hadn’t been caused by the storm.
She’d taken a bullet to the gut.
Copyright © 2015 by Deborah W. Giusti
ISBN-13: 9781460378922
Protection Detail
Copyright © 2015 by Harlequin Books S.A.
Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Shirlee McCoy for her contribution to the Capitol K-9 Unit miniseries
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com
TO CATCH A KILLER
Trusting the wrong person had gotten his father killed. CIA agent Ed Carter isn’t about to repeat the mistake. Pulling a gun on nurse Bailey Williams may not have been the smartest idea, but the beautiful caretaker is Ed’s only suspect in the murder. Problem is, her vulnerable brown eyes claim innocence and set off his protective instincts. The spark between them is undeniable, but Bailey could never trust her life—or her heart—to a man who thinks her guilty. But when the real killer returns and threatens not just her but her family, Bailey must place her faith in the only man who can keep them from being silenced forever…
“What aren’t you saying, Bailey?”
Ed stepped closer so he could see the truth in her eyes.
Something flashed there again. Fear? Defiance?
“We’re not in this together, you know,” she finally muttered. “I was doing just fine here before you showed up.”
He stepped closer. “Were you?”
“I’ve always done things on my own. I just decided to take matters into my own hands and see if the intruder was still here.”
He didn’t buy her story for a second. “And was he?”
She swallowed so hard that her throat muscles visibly tightened. “You didn’t see him. Did you?”
He shifted, his hands going to his hips. “You need to tell me what kind of game you’re playing. Otherwise, we might both end up dead.”
Wrinkles appeared at the corner of her eyes. “Look, I’m sorry. I won’t wander away again. I had a moment of bad judgment.”
That little excuse wasn’t going to settle with him. But she wasn’t saying anything else right now.
He’d keep an eye on her. He didn’t trust her.
But for now, they had to work together.
Christy Barritt’s books have won a Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Suspense and Mystery and have been twice nominated for the RT Reviewers’ Choice Award. She’s married to her Prince Charming, a man who thinks she’s hilarious—but only when she’s not trying to be. Christy’s a self-proclaimed klutz, an avid music lover and a road trip aficionado. For more information, visit her website at christybarritt.com.
Books by Christy Barritt
Love Inspired Suspense
Keeping Guard
The Last Target
Race Against Time
Ricochet
Desperate Measures
Hidden Agenda
The Security Experts Series
Key Witness
Lifeline
High-Stakes Holiday Reunion
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com
Hidden Agenda
By Christy Barritt
Do not conform to the pattern of this world,
but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.
Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—
his good, pleasing and perfect will.
—Romans 12:2
This book is dedicated to the unseen and unrecognized defenders of freedom.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
DEAR READER
EXCERPT
ONE
Bailey Williams froze, the page from her novel half-turned and candlelight dancing across the words. The book slipped from her hands. Instead of retrieving it, she pulled the blanket tighter across her shoulders.
What was that sound?
The raging storm outside had already toppled some large tree branches into the yard. Power had gone out more than three hours ago, and the nighttime—deep and blinding—had fallen in the blink of an eye.
She was supposed to leave today, but there’d been no boats coming or going from Smuggler’s Cove. So she was stuck here, in this huge old house, on a creepy island in the middle of a subtropical storm.
Could things get any worse?
She squeezed her eyes shut as she remembered the events of the past several days. Events that included losing one of the best employers she’d ever had. That involved losing the job she’d held for the past eight months. That comprised the prospect of starting over ag
ain. Going somewhere new. Finding another job.
Mr. Carter had died a week ago today. She’d stuck around, trying to get his affairs in order. She’d planned his funeral, cleaned his house and prepared food for guests who’d come into town.
She felt like the only family the man had, yet she wasn’t family. She was simply Mr. Carter’s nurse, someone who helped on occasion with meals and housework and offered a listening ear. She mourned the man as if she’d been his daughter. In a way, the man had come to feel like a second father.
Another crash sounded, and her lungs tightened. What was that? Had the wind sent something toppling into the house? Had one of the shutters come loose?
She tugged the blanket even tighter around her shoulders. The October day had already been frigid before the power had gone out, the heat along with it. She’d tried to start a fire but had been unsuccessful.
Reaching into the drawer of the table beside the padded chair in her bedroom, she grabbed a flashlight. She flicked the switch to the on position. The light waned, blinked, flickered, but finally shone brightly.
Thank goodness. At least that was working in her favor.
As soon as the thought entered her mind, the flashlight went black, the room along with it. A draft must have whispered extinction orders across the candle that burned on the table beside her chair. Two lights in two seconds—it was a double whammy of darkness.
Bailey hit the flashlight against her palm. Tapped the top of the light. Shook the batteries back and forth.
The sweet beacon of illumination wouldn’t come back on.
Perfect. She frowned.
She was going to have to check out the sound, whether she wanted to or not. She couldn’t simply stay in her old bedroom, huddled on the big, comfy chair until the storm passed. For more than one reason. Buckets of rain could be flooding into the house. The bay could have climbed the shores, reaching the porch, in which case she’d need to evacuate. For all she knew, this whole island could be in danger of washing away. The place seemed like little more than a sandbar anyway. Or what if lightning struck nearby, started a fire even? There were so many things that could go wrong, so many reasons not to stay in her room hiding.
Love Inspired Suspense March 2015 - Box Set 1 of 2: Protection DetailHidden AgendaBroken Silence Page 19
