Proof of Life: Super Agent Series, Book 3

by Misty Evans

  The entire school had been searched and everyone in attendance from teachers to janitors was being interviewed. All the families as well.

  Four hours later, there was still hope of finding her alive, but the odds decreased with every passing minute. The single call from the kidnapper had been made from a disposable cell phone sold by dozens of discount stores in the local area. With no traceable phone, no voice imprint from the caller and no ransom request, the investigation was stalled.

  Michael had little expertise with kidnappings, but he did know a few things about power and manipulation. At this point, the kidnapper was making a statement. He had the power and the skill to get what he wanted. All they could do was wait and try to figure it out.

  “Where’s Ruth?” Michael asked the female FBI agent.

  She raised a finger and pointed at the ceiling.

  Leaving the den, Michael made his way to the circular staircase at the end of the hall. His feet were ten-pound weights as he jogged up the carpeted stairs. Heading for the bedroom wing on the right, he pulled up short when he heard muffled crying from the left. Switching directions, he saw Ella’s bedroom door ajar. He stopped beside it and pushed it open with his hand.

  Little-girl pink saturated every wall and corner. Even if Ella’s favorite color had been black, the endless ruffles, rhinestones and feather boas would have tipped him off to her penchant for all things girly.

  Ruthie perched on Ella’s bed, her back to the door and her face buried in her hands. Her shoulders were set but her controlled sobs gave her away. Next to her, a woman sat rubbing Ruthie’s shoulder, her head bent next to his sister’s as she murmured soft words of support.

  Sensing Michael’s presence, the woman raised her head, her round gunmetal gray eyes locking on his. Stunning black eyelashes curved around the lids, calling attention to their striking color. With her fair skin and black curl of bangs, she resembled one of the dolls sitting on Ella’s bed.

  Except her eyes weren’t innocent like the dolls’. In their depths, they were hard, serious, cynical. Soldier’s eyes. As if she’d seen and lived her share of trouble.

  Her dark brows crashed together and she rose from the bed, keeping a protective hand on Ruth’s shoulder. “Yes?”

  She’d combed her hair into a tight ponytail, but several sections had broken free to frame her heart-shaped face. The severity of her hairstyle was in direct contrast to her clothes. A faded T-shirt sported a green four-leaf clover between the swell of her breasts, and brown camouflage pants hung from her hips as if she’d stolen them from her older, much larger brother. Her dusty, creased work boots looked like they belonged to an archeologist who’d just come in from a dig.

  Ruth dropped her hands and turned her head. “Michael!”

  His sister’s eyes, bloodshot from crying, flashed relief at the sight of him. She rushed into his outstretched arms and Michael embraced her, all the time keeping his focus on the stranger who continued to stare him down.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” she said into his chest. She was still wearing her heels, the top of her carefully coiffed blonde hair tickling his chin. As one of Virginia’s members of the House of Representatives, she was as much a Washington pundit as her husband. It was yet another motive for Ella’s kidnapping. “What are we going to do?”

  Michael patted her back and scanned the stranger for any kind of ID badge. He’d already ruled her out as a friend of the family. Anyone who knew Ruth knew better than to wear dusty boots into her house. Her choice of clothing also ruled out police officer. “The FBI has everything under control.”

  The stranger gave a quiet, derisive snort. Michael narrowed his eyes at her in warning as he shifted Ruthie under one arm and stuck out his hand. “Michael Stone. And you are?”

  Her gaze slid from his face to his protective arm around Ruth and back to his face. Her eyes softened and he saw a flash of emotion in them. Desire? No. The emotion in her eyes spoke of a yearning, a longing for something she wanted and couldn’t have.

  Ruth gave an exasperated huff, putting one hand to her cheek. “Where are my manners? Michael, this is Dr. Brigit Kent. Dr. Kent, my brother, Michael.”

  Dr. Kent shook his hand, her scrutiny of him as intense as his was of her. “The Michael Stone? Deputy Director of Central Intelligence?” The British accent was faint, the cadence of her voice so smooth it was almost lyrical. “You are…younger…than I expected.”

  She looked like she was all of twenty—far too young to have earned a doctorate in anything—but Michael kept the observation to himself. She wasn’t the first person to be surprised the man holding his position hadn’t hit forty yet.

  Still as she started to take her hand back, he held onto it. A subtle show of power. “You have me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid, Dr. Kent. Is there a reason you’re here in my niece’s bedroom during this delicate situation?”

  Ruth patted his arm. “Dr. Kent is a consultant for Homeland Security, and she lent me some of her studies for the early education initiative bill I proposed last year. She just stopped by to offer her support.”

  So she was smart as well as beautiful. Michael released Kent’s hand, but kept his arm around Ruthie as he smoothly maneuvered her to the side to clear a path. “Thad and Ruth appreciate your support. Now if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to talk to my sister alone.”

  Dr. Kent’s pause lingered half a second. “Of course.” She put a hand on Ruthie’s forearm as she stepped in front of her. “You have my mobile number. Call me if you need anything.”

  Ruth broke from Michael’s protective arm to hug her. The two exchanged goodbyes, and Dr. Kent held out her hand to him again. “Pleasure, Deputy Director.”

  As before, the way she enunciated each syllable made her words sound lilting. Michael accepted her handshake, noticing the expensive watch on her right wrist. Her hand snugged into his palm, and her skin was warm and soft.

  But her serious eyes challenged him and something very male and completely out of place kicked in his stomach. Her tiny hand gave his much larger one a firm squeeze and a tug.

  He tugged back without considering the consequences, his response not entirely a power play this time.

  ~ * ~

  Brigit stood in the shadows under the staircase, shivering under her coat. Michael Stone was formidable. Definitely not someone to mess with. He could have been her size, instead of his six feet plus, and he still would have oozed authority from every pore of his body. His massive shoulders looked like a linebacker’s. His handshake had gripped her like a vise. And his eyes…

  Shaking her head to clear the memory of his probing stare, Brigit took a deep breath, closed her eyes and thought of Eleanor Pennington.

  Four hours into the kidnapping. Where had she been at that point? What had she been feeling? Crawling through her memories, she brought up the fear, still vivid enough to raise goose bumps on her skin.

  I was still panicked, but the adrenaline was wearing off. Tory was already asleep, having cried herself out. Peter was lying low, waiting, I suppose, to make sure no one was on his trail. I couldn’t make sense of why he’d brought us to the bar and then upstairs. Why he’d locked us in the bathroom. I was hungry…

  Voices in the den brought her back to the present. Checking that the coast was clear, she followed the hallway to the rear of the Pennington house, slowing her pace as she noticed the walls lined with family portraits. In the midst of smiling faces, one stood out.

  Michael Stone, a younger version than the one upstairs but every bit as solemn in his smart Marine dress uniform, frowned down at her. The American flag in the background was as fitting a backdrop as Brigit could imagine for the Deputy Director of Central Intelligence.

  His reputation within the intelligence community pegged him as a quiet, rock-solid leader. While ambitious, he appeared to be so for the right reasons. Reasons missing from Washington for centuries. He actually wanted to protect and defend his country from all threats, rather than furthe
r his political career or line his own pockets.

  In the six months since he’d taken over as the second in command of the CIA, he’d brought a mole within his organization to justice, severed the Agency’s ties with a dozen different lobbyists and congressmen, and restructured a struggling spy group. All after surviving a hostage standoff and being shot. It would take time to erase the organization’s failing marks in the world of international espionage, but if anyone could do it, it was Michael Stone.

  He seemed as protective of his family as he was his country. She’d seen it in his eyes, in the way he kept his arm around his sister. Brigit’s heart pinched with envy. Never had Peter sought to protect his two younger half-sisters. Instead he had used her and Tory as weapons against their parents, against their government. If only I hadn’t killed Mum that night…

  Blinking away the tears that suddenly sprang to her eyes, Brigit clamped her jaw tight. If she was going to help Ella, she had to keep that part of the past in the past.

  She also had to avoid any further confrontations with Michael Stone.

  Ten minutes with Senator Pennington had given her a solid profile workup for SIS. Another fifteen with Ruth had filled in the few remaining holes. That job was done and there was no reason to seek the answers she wanted about the kidnapping from Thad or the FBI agents hovering around him. While the officials started at ground zero and systematically worked their way out, Brigit preferred to start on the fringes and work her way in. Parents and family members would give a glossier view of the little girl than folks who knew her but were outside the bond of love.

  Her first target to talk to was at the back of the house, out of the limelight and hopefully much easier to squeeze for accurate information. Swinging through the unlit kitchen, she found the back door.

  Outside, a stalwart Secret Service agent stood guard over the impressive grounds. A large patio, a pool—covered now because of the season—and an orchard surrounded the backside of the Pennington estate.

  The agent, a man the size and breadth of a black bear, looked her up and down under the faint light from the windows above. He’d left the outside light off, Brigit guessed, so as not to make himself an easy target in case the kidnapper or anyone else was planning another attack on the Pennington family. She didn’t blame him for being careful or edgy.

  Giving him the impression she was officially working the case, she flashed her DHS security badge. He nodded and resumed his predatory stance, sweeping the grounds with a critical, observant attentiveness. A walkie-talkie buzzed softly on his belt with normal activity.

  “How many Secret Service personnel does the senator and his wife use?” she asked.

  The man’s baritone voice answered in a reserved manner. “Five on a daily basis. An extra detail for speaking arrangements or fundraisers.”

  “Have you worked for them long?”

  The agent slewed his eyes to her, then back to the landscape. “Since Senator Pennington’s nomination.”

  “Did you know Ella?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Would she willingly go off with someone she didn’t know?”

  Again the eye slide. “The child is precocious but intelligent. She’s been schooled for years on personal-safety issues.”

  “So either she left the parking lot against her will or she knew the person who kidnapped her?”

  “She might have been drugged.”

  True enough. Ella probably trusted the kidnapper right up to the point he slipped her a piece of drugged candy and dumped her in his trunk.

  Just like I trusted Peter.

  Timing and opportunity were crucial to any kidnapper. The Pennington’s employed a housekeeper, a part-time nanny and various services for their lawn, landscaping and pool maintenance. No doubt the FBI would be interviewing everyone associated with the couple. Ella probably trusted all of them to some extent, but who had the motive and the expertise to kidnap her at a social function? And why?

  There were hundreds of motives because of the Pennington’s political careers and the FBI would focus on those. To Brigit, though, political motivation seemed too cliché. This feels personal, just like my favor for President Jeffries.

  Her BlackBerry rang and she dug it out of her pocket. Caller ID showed it was Truman.

  “Still up?” he asked, much too chipper for that time of night. “I figured you’d crashed in front of the TV already.”

  “Not yet. I’m working on a case.” Working on a case was her code words for can’t talk now.

  “I see. Well, our Arab friends are getting together later tonight for a gift exchange. Thought you’d want to know.”

  “Where?”

  The address he listed was unfamiliar to her, but as always, Truman was the perfect assistant. “I’ll send you directions. Want company?”

  Without warning, light from the kitchen windows showered her and the Secret Service agent. Someone was in the kitchen. Glancing through the closest window, she caught sight of a familiar blond head, massive build and sour scowl heading toward the back door. “No. I’ll just do a drive-by. If I need your help, I’ll call.”

  She disconnected and shoved the phone back in her pocket. “Must run,” she told the Secret Service agent. “Thanks a bunch for your help.”

  As she hurried off the back porch and into the shadows of the yard, she prayed a gun-happy FBI agent didn’t shoot her and a pissed-off Michael Stone didn’t catch her.

  Chapter Three

  Arlington, an hour later

  The bed jiggled and Conrad Flynn slit one eye open to watch the half-naked woman and love of his life slip out from under the sheets. In the pale moonlit room, he watched her long brown hair slide across the pale skin of her shoulders as she crept, silent as death, across the carpeting to the spot where the jeans he’d peeled off her earlier lay in a heap.

  Lying on his stomach, he kept his face partially buried in the pillow and feigned sleep as she tiptoed past his side of the bed on her way out of the room. Wherever Julia was going, he didn’t want to stop her. Nor did he want her to know he knew she was sneaking out again.

  Several times in the past week, his wife had risen in the early hours of the morning and left their apartment. For what purpose he didn’t know, but his gut tightened every time he thought about the possibilities. As an FBI agent, she worked many assignments. Was this an undercover job she couldn’t share details about? Was her life in danger?

  Even though she was experienced and more than capable of handling anything the FBI threw at her, he still worried about her every time she put on her navy blue jacket and went to work.

  Her training was impeccable. Under his tutelage, he’d taken her through the CIA’s Farm and then through his own brand of spy craft. As a rookie Feebie, she’d spent hundreds of hours at the gun range and in hand-to-hand combat. Add to that her calculating mind and quick reflexes and she was a priceless weapon no matter whom she worked for.

  But beyond all her training and experience in and out of the field, Julia’s gut instincts were spot on every time. Like she had a sixth sense about danger, she knew when to take one more risk or pull out of the game. If only she still called Langley home. What he wouldn’t do to have her under him in his group of super agents as well as in his bed.

  Conrad had been promoted—if you called leaving the field of operations behind for a desk job at CIA headquarters a promotion—when he’d faked his death to flush out a mole in the organization with his best friends, Smitty and Ace. Julia had been there too, working beside him but not fully trusting his actions or his words until the end. Riding the high of his success, however, he’d whisked her away to an island and proposed marriage. She’d accepted.

  What once he feared would be a living hell, marriage had actually been more like heaven. Because I married Julia. She made my dreams come true.

  He knew her like he knew the internal components of his gun, and just like the Beretta fit in his hand, Julia fit in his heart.

  But fo
r the past week, it felt like he’d married a stranger. She was hiding something. Something big. Her focus was off and she’d been riding a rollercoaster of moods. One minute she was laughing at Conrad’s teasing, the next she was slamming doors because he’d left the toilet seat up and changed the station settings on the kitchen radio.

  A soft rustle whispered from the kitchen. Julia was putting on her FBI windbreaker. If she followed her normal pattern, she’d be back in the apartment by dawn, humming in the kitchen as she boiled eggs and toasted bagels for breakfast. Her face would light up when he joined her at the sink, as if she truly loved him. As if he were the Prince Charming of her Happily Ever After, even if she wanted to kill him for leaving the toilet seat up again. Conrad knew it was too good to be true. Nobody in his world ever got the happily ever after, but somehow he’d scored the lottery in that department.

  He’d almost stopped her and demanded an explanation for her secretive behavior the last time she snuck out in the wee hours of the morning, but an old paranoia had gripped him hard. If she was hiding something, Conrad wasn’t sure he wanted to know…or should know. Her job was hers alone. He had no say over what she was working on, and he had to have faith that she could handle whatever it was. Still, he couldn’t control the flip of his heart or the unease in his stomach. If she was keeping the details of her assignment a close hold, it meant the assignment was dangerous.

  He sensed more than heard her close the front door as she slipped into the Arlington night. In one fluid motion, he threw back the sheet, grabbed his own jeans and tugged them on. Tonight he would tail her and find out exactly where she was going, who she was meeting, just for peace of mind. Sweeping both his personal cell phone and his work cell from the nightstand, he hoped for the best and steeled his gut for the worst. Never in his life had he loved a woman like he loved Julia.

  Jogging to the front door, Conrad picked up his running shoes. Outside, the sidewalk was cool and gritty under his bare feet. Before he could throw his shoes into the passenger seat of his Jeep, one of his phones rang. “What now?” he muttered. One good thing about pretending to be dead had been that no one demanded his attention.