by CJ Lyons
LOST IN SHADOWS
CJ Lyons
Praise for CJ Lyons:
“Everything a great thriller should be—action packed, authentic, and intense.” ~#1 New York Times bestselling author Lee Child
“A compelling new voice in thriller writing…I love how the characters come alive on every page.” ~New York Times bestselling author Jeffery Deaver
“Top Pick! A fascinating and intense thriller.” ~ RT Book Reviews
“An intense, emotional thriller…(that) climbs to the edge of intensity.” ~National Examiner
“A perfect blend of romance and suspense. My kind of read.” ~#1 New York Times Bestselling author Sandra Brown
“Highly engaging characters, heart-stopping scenes…one great rollercoaster ride that will not be stopping anytime soon.” ~Bookreporter.com
“Adrenalin pumping.” ~The Mystery Gazette
“Riveting.” ~Publishers Weekly Beyond Her Book
Lyons “is a master within the genre.” ~Pittsburgh Magazine
“Will leave you breathless and begging for more.” ~Romance Novel TV
“A great fast-paced read...Not to be missed.” ~Book Addict
“Breathtakingly fast-paced.” ~Publishers Weekly
“Simply superb…riveting drama…a perfect ten.” ~Romance Reviews Today
“Characters with beating hearts and three dimensions.” ~Newsday
“A pulse-pounding adrenalin rush!” ~Lisa Gardner
“Packed with adrenalin.” ~David Morrell
“…Harrowing, emotional, action-packed and brilliantly realized.” ~Susan Wiggs
“Explodes on the page…I absolutely could not put it down.” ~Romance Readers’ Connection
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2009, CJ Lyons
Legacy Books
Cover art: Pat Ryan
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, Legacy Books. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.
Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.
Library of Congress Case # 1-273031561
LOST IN SHADOWS
CJ Lyons
PROLOGUE
The nurse, her face hidden by a surgical mask, moved to strap Lucky’s left arm down. Lucky grabbed her wrist. She turned to him, her eyes wide with surprise as well as more than a hint of fear.
He forced himself to relax, to release her.
“No restraints.” He hoped she attributed the tremor in his voice to the fact that he was naked under his flimsy hospital gown. And the cardiac catheterization room was freezing. “Please.”
Both his hands shook uncontrollably—no way he could hide that, so he didn’t bother trying. Besides, once she saw the panorama of Technicolor bruises blossoming over the rest of his body, she’d quickly figure out that he was no ordinary patient. Maybe she already had.
Instead of arguing with him, she averted her eyes and backed away as if Lucky was a load of nitro, armed and ready to go off at the slightest provocation. He lay back on the hard metal table with its too-thin mattress and stared into the bright operating light, willing himself to not think, not remember, not feel. Just be.
Breathe in, breathe out.
And wait to see what the rest of his life would hold. Once the doctors finished their poking and prodding and pinching, taking a piece of his sorely abused heart muscle with them, they would render their verdict: either he’d be labeled a cardiac cripple at age thirty, forced to take medical disability and leave the ATF, or they’d let him get back to work.
To the life he’d left behind when he and Chase Westin went undercover three months ago, trying to get inside The Preacher’s operation. To his simple, well-ordered life governed by the laws of chemistry and physics, where he spent his days analyzing and reconstructing bits and pieces of bombs.
A life that seemed like another world after what happened two days ago on Christmas Eve.
Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t think. Don’t remember. Don’t feel.
“Ready, Mr. Cavanaugh?” His cardiologist’s chipper voice pierced Lucky’s awareness.
Before Lucky could answer, the heart specialist drew back the sheet that covered Lucky’s legs and pushed aside his gown, pouring icy cold brown soap over Lucky’s groin and thighs. The nurse standing beside him looked down and made a small noise, muffled by her mask, as she saw the damage inflicted on Lucky’s body.
Lucky ignored her. Only two days and he was already getting used to blocking out other people’s reactions when they learned what had happened to him. What The Preacher and his man, Fergus, had done to him.
Hell, he’d cheated death.
Handling the shock and morbid curiosity that came with surviving should have been easy.
Easy as breathing.
“Just relax, Agent Cavanaugh,” the cardiologist said as he pressed his fingers against Lucky’s femoral artery with one hand. The nurse slapped a large, wicked appearing syringe into his other hand, the overhead light making its needle gleam like a steel dagger. “The midazolam should start working now. You won’t be unconscious but you will relax and probably won’t remember anything.”
Lucky closed his eyes and sank back onto the scrawny excuse for a pillow, wishing the doctor’s magic potion could truly erase the memories, stop the nightmares that flashed before his eyes in a constant, never-ending instant replay.
Breathe in, breathe out.
His brain grew foggy and despite his best efforts, he began to remember...
Christmas Eve, two nights ago
Lucky’s muddled thoughts slowly coalesced as brain and body rejoined. Pain stabbed through his arms and legs. A jackhammer pounded behind his eyes.
It was freezing. Then he realized he was naked except for his boxers. They’d come for him while he slept. He remembered fighting, struggling, the crash of breaking glass, a bright blue jolt of electricity shooting through him. His legs crumbling, his awareness spiraling down into blackness.
Lucky cautiously opened one eye. The pounding in his head increased momentarily, then resumed its previous rumble, so he opened the other.
A wave of nausea hit him. He tried to lean forward but couldn’t. He laid on his back, hogtied, arms and legs pinned beneath the weight of his body, duct tape binding them together. He blinked, swallowed back the nausea and drew in a deep breath to clear his vision.
He was on the dirt floor of some kind of prefab hut. A single dim light bulb hung overhead. Abandoned mine, the fact wavered in his consciousness.
Lucky had the sudden image of dark shafts with deep, deep drops into the nether lands of the earth. Great place to dispose of a body.
A steel-toed boot nudged his ribs. “Wake up, sleeping beauty,” came a high-pitched voice that could have belonged to a man or woman. The nudge turned into a bruising kick. “Now!” the voice commanded. “I didn’t give you that big of jolt.”
Lucky rolled away from the next kick, this one would have broken a few bones if he’d allowed it to connect. He opened his eyes. Crouched over him was a flinty-eyed man with a large head, long, gangling arms and thick legs connected to a squat trunk. He wasn’t a dw
arf, but was short and bow-legged, like the deputy in that old TV show, Gunsmoke. Only a helluva lot uglier.
The man grinned down at Lucky, his breath fetid enough that Lucky gagged. “Hey, Preacher,” he shouted, escalating the crashing in Lucky’s head to a deafening crescendo, “secret agent man is awake!”
He held a hand up with a small device. Blue lightning arced between two terminals as he teased Lucky with the stun gun, feinting toward Lucky’s naked skin and laughing as Lucky pulled back.
“So you remember my toy?” the man said. “You’re gonna see a lot more of it.”
“Who are you?” Lucky asked, maintaining his cover. “What do you want?” He tried to keep his voice from quivering, but it was hard to do when his body was shivering uncontrollably.
All he could think of was the FBI agent The Preacher’s fanatic militia group, The Crusade, had tortured and murdered six months ago. Chase, he told himself, his stomach now contorting into a strangled knot. He had to protect Chase, couldn’t give them anything that would blow Chase’s cover too. No sense both of them getting killed.
“Name’s Fergus,” the man told him with a laugh.
Another man entered the small shack, his shadow darkening Lucky’s vision.
“I expect you can guess who I am,” the second man’s voice was rich and compelling. A voice that had built a terrorist network bent on destroying the United States in a so-called Second Revolution.
The Preacher. He held his palm out and Fergus reluctantly parted with the stun gun.
The hair on Lucky’s neck stood at attention as The Preacher squatted down beside him, staring into Lucky’s eyes as if weighing his worth.
“I’m a busy man, Agent Cavanaugh,” The Preacher said, his tone as hypnotic as a cobra’s dance. “But I promise you, I won’t shirk my duties. You will either tell me who you are working with. Or,” Lucky tried to ignore Fergus’ insane grin of delight as the dwarf peered over The Preacher’s shoulder, “you’ll die a most unpleasant death.”
Before Lucky could respond, The Preacher planted the stun gun over Lucky’s heart. A surge of pain shot through his chest and up into his left shoulder. Lucky cried out as his muscles locked into spasm. His heart stuttered for a moment, then raced.
Lucky lay there, panting, cold sweat breaking out over his body as the pain slowly subsided. A residual pins and needles sensation continued down his left arm and his hand flopped uselessly behind his back.
And so the night began…
Hours later, a woman called Lucky’s name, beckoning him from the dark comfort he had enveloped himself in. She stood, surrounded by a lush forest of trees, streams of sunlight dancing through the rich canopy of leaves to illuminate her in golden radiance.
Long, thick dark hair swirled over her shoulders, but could not camouflage the rich curves of her body. She held out a hand, beckoning for him to join her.
The forest felt primeval, removed from time and space. Lucky stretched his hand, yearning to join the raven-haired beauty. Pain came at him from every direction, but still he tried to reach her.
Their fingers touched and joined. She was almost as tall as he was, their hands fit together perfectly, and suddenly the pain was gone. For one blissful moment, she was his entire universe and he was at peace.
Not the calmness of surrender. Rather a deep, certain knowledge that he would survive.
He had to, how else would he ever get the chance to meet her? He couldn’t give up, not now that he had something to live for, something more than loyalty to a cause or to a friend.
She was his life and he was going to find her again. All Lucky had to do was stay alive.
He choked on his own blood, and her image faded as Lucky coughed himself awake.
The shack was empty. Where did his Lady go? His thoughts were hazy, and he fought to focus his vision.
She was never there, a cruel whisper from the recesses of his mind taunted him as he struggled to sit up. Just a mirage conjured from the Art Survey course he took to impress that sophomore—what was her name?
Juliet—no that was what Lucky had called her. Julie, that was it, plain old Julie. He remembered sitting in the dark auditorium, holding her hand while larger than life Raphael and Botticelli paintings floated on the screen before them. Man, those guys had it right—women should be life-sized, warm flesh you could get a hand on, not waifs too fragile for a man to touch.
He spit out a mouthful of blood. Bit his tongue during that last session—was it the third, or the fourth? No matter. He hadn’t said anything, had kept his attention focused on trying to find any distinguishing characteristic he could use to identify The Preacher in the future.
He ran his tongue over parched lips. His entire left side was tingling with sharp jolts that ran from his heart down to his fingertips. He tried to wiggle his left hand, but it flapped useless in his right.
Lucky blew his breath out, fully awake now. He might have had a seizure after the last electric shock session—or maybe a heart attack.
His chest felt like an elephant was sitting on it. Ugly purple marks where the prongs of the stun gun had burnt his skin were grouped over his heart.
Hey, he was still breathing, time to worry about the rest later. In between each session, he’d been busy prying the metal trim free from the base of the desk. The painstaking process had loosened a two inch by one inch strip of metal that he had managed to bend out before the last session. Thank God, they hadn’t noticed it.
Now or never, Lucky told himself as he inched over across the floor, his arms and legs screaming in agony from their position behind him. Finally he reached his destination. He hauled himself upright and began the painful process of sawing through the duct tape that bound him.
When Fergus returned, Lucky played possum, lying on the dirt floor, hands clutching his homemade shiv beneath him. The bowlegged caricature of a man squatted down, reached to roll Lucky over onto his stomach.
Lucky kept his body a dead weight until Fergus had him halfway rolled over, exposing the side of Fergus’ neck. Then he aimed a knee into Fergus’s abdomen and shoved his weight on top of him, the jagged edge of the shiv at the other man’s jugular.
Fergus went white, and he shouted a curse. “You were dead!”
“Think again,” Lucky whispered, leveraging his arm against the man’s windpipe to shut him up before any of his partners heard his cries. “Where’s The Preacher? Who else is here?”
The little man just kept shaking his head, muttering gibberish. Typical bully. Give them any show of resistance and they crumble. Of course, seeming to return from the dead hadn’t hurt Lucky’s street cred.
“Tell me, Fergus!” He lifted the shiv and held it in front of the man’s face.
“Go to hell!” Fergus crashed his beefy fist into Lucky’s windpipe.
Lucky’s vision darkened with pain as he gasped for breath. He swiped his blade down, felt it dig into the flesh of Fergus’ neck, but Fergus deflected it before it could do any serious damage. Fergus pushed Lucky off him and scrambled to grab a length of thick chain piled by the door.
Lucky caught his breath and rolled to his feet. Fergus was swinging the chain before him, aiming to snag Lucky’s knife hand with it. Lucky feinted with his shiv, then stepped forward, extending his left arm to take the blow from the chain.
The heavy chain wrapped around Lucky’s forearm like a python strangling its prey. Fergus howled with victory as he wrenched the chain tighter, pulling Lucky forward onto his knees.
“You’re gonna stay dead this time!” he roared as he lifted a length of chain around Lucky’s neck and used both hands to tighten it.
Lucky leaned his weight back, forcing Fergus to step closer. Just a little bit more, he thought as his vision darkened. Fergus obliged, leaning forward to watch Lucky’s suffering.
Giving Lucky the opening he had been hoping for. Lucky rammed the homemade blade up, burying it into Fergus’s groin.
Fergus jerked back in astonishment and Lucky yank
ed the knife out. A spray of blood spurted from Fergus’s femoral artery. Fergus dropped the chain, clasped both hands over the wound and staggered backward.
Lucky uncoiled the chain from his neck and stumbled to his feet, aimed another blow under Fergus’ ribcage.
This time Fergus dropped to the ground, one hand flailing for the shiv stuck in his chest, the other slipping in the blood streaming from his thigh. Lucky dropped the chain onto the floor and crouched beside the dying man.
“Last chance, Fergus,” he said. “Where’s The Preacher? Who is he? What does he have planned?”
The little man’s color grew ashen. He twisted his lips into a grimace, and his hand tightened on the blade in his chest.
“The death of all of you.” Fergus’s words were slurred by hatred and effort. “He’s going to kill you, Cavanaugh. I’ll see you in hell.”
Before Lucky could stop him, Fergus wrenched the shiv out of his chest. A fresh blossom of blood streamed over his shirt and his eyes closed. Lucky put pressure on the wound, but knew that without the blade slowing the blood loss, it was a useless gesture. He felt for a pulse. There was none.
Lucky sat back on his heels, his body covered in blood, shivering with cold and adrenalin. He took a breath in, let it out, his eyes never leaving the body of the man he had killed.
He needed to move fast, warn Chase, start searching for The Preacher—the realization hit that Lucky was probably the only law enforcement officer alive who knew exactly what The Preacher looked like.
He closed his eyes, blocked out the stench of blood and fear and urine, blocked out the pain lancing through his body, the thick, heavy feeling of his left side, the arctic cold that threatened to devour him. Blocked out what had happened and what The Preacher would do to him if he ever caught Lucky again and the fact that Lucky had just killed a man with his own hands.
