by Tess Diamond
Maggie turned off the tree-lined, secluded road that surrounded the academy. The main street leading through town was a riot of colors this time of year, bright greens and pinks from the magnolia trees and their blossoms. In a tradition going back many years, every spring the brass statues in town—most of them historical figures—would be festooned with May Day ribbons. As Maggie drove past Reed Park, she could see a few pink and blue streamers draped over the shoulders of the statue of George Washington near the west entrance.
“Did you get anything useful from security?” she asked, desperate to break the awkward silence that had settled in.
“None of them saw anything unusual yesterday,” Paul said.
Maggie switched lanes. As they drove away from the academy, the traffic thickened, making her slow to a crawl. She stared straight ahead, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see Paul looking at her closely. She couldn’t stand the silence. “What?” She winced at the frustration that bled into her voice. She was being so unfair to him.
“I’m just wondering if you’re okay,” Paul said softly. “Teenage girl, kidnapping . . . I’m sure it brings up bad memories about . . .” He hesitated, and Maggie braced for what he was about to say. What she knew he was about to bring up, what he couldn’t help but remind her of. He spoke out of concern, maybe even love—but what he didn’t realize was that Maggie couldn’t talk about what happened when she was young. Not like this. She had to keep those fears buried deep in the dust of her memory.
“You know,” Paul finally said. “Your childhood. The unanswered questions. Your sister.”
It felt like a brick slamming into her chest. Even though she knew it was coming, the word spoken out loud turned her cold. Paul was one of the few people in her life who knew about her childhood. She hadn’t hidden it from him, but the few times he’d tried to get her to open up, she’d shut him down. About a month after he proposed, he’d stopped by her brownstone without calling, only to find her drunk, a photo album spread across her coffee table. Her own private version of a memorial service, an unofficial event she held every year, on the day that she’d lost—left—Erica. She’d broken down—and shouldn’t you be able to break down in front of the man you’re going to marry? That’s what she told herself at the time, but the discomfort at being so vulnerable settled in her chest and stayed there.
He’d said all the right things. He’d made her tea and held her as she cried. He’d gone through the childhood pictures of her and her sister, and tried to comfort her. But she couldn’t shake it: the feeling that even though he was doing all the right things, it wasn’t right for her.
He understood her grief, but he didn’t understand her anger or her guilt. Those were messier emotions, harder to hold and harder to heal.
She needed them. That was the one thing she couldn’t admit to even him. She needed the anger. She needed the guilt that thrummed through her, faster and stronger than her own blood. That was what fueled her. That made up the core of who she was—and if she had let him, he would’ve tried to melt it. To replace it with love and happiness. A house with a yard and a dog and a white picket fence. And she’d been too scared to let him try. Too scared to hand over that much trust. Too scared to bare herself. Too scared to let go of her motivating force; to give up what had become the core of her being.
She should’ve broken off the engagement then but was a coward. She’d let it die a slow death—they both had.
“I’m not going to discuss my childhood with you,” Maggie snapped.
“I’m just saying that this could be traumatic—”
“Paul, you’re not my shrink, and I’m not your fiancée anymore,” Maggie said, horribly aware of the barely contained anger in her voice. “You need to drop it.” Her fingers clenched the steering wheel—otherwise, she was going to lose her temper.
“Maggie,” he said gently. “I understand your not wanting to talk about it. Really I do. But I care about you, and I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. This is a big case. Are you sure it’s the one you want to dive back into negotiating with? Especially one with another little blonde girl? What if—”
“I’m fine, Paul,” Maggie interrupted him icily. She had to regain her control, to freeze those emotions before they ran rampant. To go numb. But she couldn’t help but mentally fill in that what-if. What if he was right? What if this ended like Sherwood Hills? What if she just wasn’t cut out for this anymore? What if she was too damaged to ever be adequate, let alone the best?
Taking one hand off the wheel, she rubbed the skin on the opposite wrist, unable to stop herself.
Paul noticed. “Oh, honey,” he said, his voice low with concern.
Maggie quickly grasped the steering wheel with both hands again, her cheeks burning. “I’m fine,” she repeated, a note of finality in her voice. She inhaled slowly, counting to ten. In those few seconds, she would bury her panic, find the control she’d had mere minutes ago, and take up the role she’d maintained on the phone with the unsub. “What about the video footage at the school? Did you catch Kayla on any of it?”
“She was everywhere she was supposed to be,” Paul said, trying to match the abrupt shift from personal to professional. “And the cameras didn’t catch her leaving the grounds.”
“Well, she did leave,” Maggie said, glad they were back on more solid ground.
She didn’t need any concerned ex stirring up memories that could weaken her right when she needed to be stronger than ever. The traffic finally eased, and she pressed on the accelerator, glad to get moving again. “One of her friends confessed that Kayla was headed to this ice cream shop where the Carmichael kids hang out.”
“Meeting someone?” Paul asked.
“Maybe,” Maggie said.
“What are you thinking for our unsub? Has he done this before?”
“Well, he knows what he’s doing,” she replied. “He’s careful, and he thinks things through. When the ask comes, it’ll be a professional setup: wire transfer for a lot of money somewhere untraceable. And there’ll be a ticking clock on it. He’s not going to give us any more time than he has to. We’ll be lucky to get a few hours to get the money together.”
Paul looked troubled. “What if there isn’t enough time? What are her chances?”
Maggie swallowed, pushing harder on the gas. She didn’t want to answer, but her silence did it for her. With Kayla’s diabetes, the kidnapper wouldn’t even have to kill her. All he’d have to do is leave her wherever he was keeping her without food, water, or insulin. Without any solid leads on her location, the FBI wouldn’t find her in time.
If Maggie couldn’t find the fuse to blow this case open soon, Kayla’s chances were slim, if that.
Chapter 10
“I think setting up a press conference for tomorrow is your best bet, Senator.”
Jake watched as Max Grayson, the senator’s policy advisor, juggled two cell phones and a smoothie as he paced back and forth. Grayson was short, and he was clearly one of those guys who had a chip on his shoulder about it. Dressed to the nines, tanned to an unhealthy degree, with an ever-present green smoothie in one hand, two cells in the other, Grayson was someone who wanted to be impressive. In Jake’s opinion, Grayson was failing, but he’d never had much patience for a big ego. The FBI agents milling about the senator’s library dodged the agitated man half-heartedly, annoyed by his restlessness. The senator was seated at his desk, his hand pressed over his mouth, his eyes tired and haunted.
“I know it’s gauche to say, but this will work wonders for us in the polls,” Grayson continued, oblivious of the dark mood in the room. Jake was thankful Mrs. Thebes had finally agreed to go upstairs to rest. Otherwise, he would have had to find a way to shut Grayson up, and he wasn’t inclined to do it politely.
“Max, maybe we can do this later?” the senator said, sounding tired and defeated.
“We need a game plan,” Grayson insisted.
Jake shook his head in disgust. “I think the sena
tor’s right. Time to take a break,” he said. It was an order, but Grayson’s head was so far up his own ass, he didn’t know what was good for him. He looked up from his cell to Jake, clearly annoyed by the interruption.
“Senator, it’s going to leak anytime,” he pressed on, as if Jake hadn’t even spoken. “I’m surprised it hasn’t yet, considering that negotiator woman went to the school. You know teenagers and social media—no discretion whatsoever. We have to get ahead of this . . . control the narrative.”
Jake had to stop himself from snorting. The narrative? That’s what he called this? It was a crime. A young girl’s life at stake, for Christ’s sake. Evil men doing evil things. It was simple. Clear-cut. That’s why he was so frustrated that Maggie Kincaid wouldn’t just take a step back and let him take the lead. She was cute as hell, the kind of feisty that revved him up more than anything else, but damn, she was being stubborn. She was obviously someone who saw the world in a prism of grays, when he knew too well it was stark black-and-white. If she kept up this cat-and-mouse chase with the kidnapper—trying to outsmart him instead of outgun him—someone could get hurt. Kayla could get killed.
He knew how to handle this. Getting the bad guy was what he was good at . . . what he was trained for. At eighteen, he’d sworn an oath to the United States, and he lived by those words to this day. Boot camp hardened him, and he was ready for action soon afterward. His admission to Ranger school shone as one of his proudest moments. He’d dedicated his life to his men, his country, and his honor. On his fifth tour of duty, his squad and the Red Cross workers they were escorting to a refugee camp in northeast Nigeria had caught enemy fire. It hadn’t been a routine mission—they’d just been in the area, and his commanding officer liked to help out the camp workers as much as he could. They’d been unprepared for an attack, but Jake had taken charge as soon as the bullets and missiles suddenly started raining down on them.
Quickly pairing his men with the terrified doctors and nurses, Jake provided covering fire as each pair made a run for it. His second-in-command hadn’t wanted to leave Jake behind, but he knew there was no choice—the Red Cross workers had to be protected, per Jake’s order. And then he was alone, crouching behind an overturned truck, holding off the Boko Haram gunmen with an M320 and not enough ammo.
He knew without a doubt they’d hit the refugee camp next, and the women and children especially would be subjected to unspeakable horrors, so he had to be precise and brutal. The innocent lives at stake were too precious. He’d spent time at the camp, at the makeshift school where kids gathered early every morning, eager to learn. He’d be damned if those bastards harmed any of them.
A nightmare of adrenaline, blood, and terror, it’d been the longest thirty-six hours of his life, but he’d survived—along with his team, the refugees, and all the doctors and nurses. The Army sent him home after that, slapped some medals on him, and paraded him in front of the press. Told him the best way to serve his country wasn’t back in action, but in DC, serving the Washington elite. It looked good to have an Army hero working with politicians—a circular image-boost that made the politicians look pro-military—and, in turn, gave the Army the good press it craved.
But then the general had showed up on his doorstep with an offer to join his private team. The operations Jake and his team worked on weren’t covert, exactly, but they were sensitive. In need of quick handling before they blew up.
DC was an entirely different type of war zone, but he was good at the job he’d been thrust into—maybe a little too good. Sometimes he wondered what life would’ve been like if his squad hadn’t been assigned the Red Cross escort duty that day. Would he have never caught the general’s eye? Would he have been able to go back to his team? He never regretted it—the refugees’, his men’s, and the health workers’ lives were worth everything—but sometimes he couldn’t help but wonder at the turn his life had taken.
Dealing with slippery politicos like Grayson was part of his job now, but he didn’t have to like it—or hide his dislike when they stooped low.
“This isn’t a fucking novel, Grayson,” Jake growled. “This is the senator’s daughter.” God, what the hell was this guy’s deal? Jake felt like decking him. He was talking about the kidnapping like it was a campaign commercial or something. The senator was clearly too distraught to put him in his place.
Finally, Grayson had the grace—or savvy—to look a little ashamed. “I’m trying to help.”
“What do you think, Jake?” Senator Thebes asked.
“I think involving the press is a terrible idea,” Jake said, relieved that the senator was asking for other opinions. If Thebes listened to Grayson, they were in for a hell of a mess. Plus, Maggie Kincaid would get all stubborn and huffy and start issuing more orders. Actually, Jake would enjoy seeing that curvy little spitfire go up against Grayson. She’d eviscerate him with just one look, likely. And good riddance.
“We’re walking on a tightrope with this person, Senator, and they can cut it at any time. Because they have Kayla, they have the power. Do you really want dozens of camera crews parked outside? Paparazzi hopping the fence? Nancy Grace speculating about Kayla’s chances as the hours tick by? Unless you lie low and wait for the ask, you could turn an already very risky situation into a deadly one. We want this to go smooth—and shouting it out into the world for publicity is the opposite of smooth.”
“Controlling the narrative gives us power,” Grayson insisted. “And the polls. Really, Senator, you should look at these numbers . . . I think they’ll convince you—”
Before Grayson could finish, the door to the library opened, and there she was again, the tiny blonde commander. This morning, when he’d caught her up in Kayla’s room, her defiance had amused him. Later, after the first phone call, it had annoyed him.
Now? He had to admit he was impressed. Especially after he’d gone through all the information Peggy had pulled up on her. She was highly decorated, Ivy League–educated, and her success rate was unusually high.
The woman with the golden tongue, Peggy had said, laughing. That’s what they call her. She’s kinda mythic in the negotiation circles, Boss. They say she can talk anyone down.
Should he trust that she knew what she was doing? That this was another case she could add to her list of successes?
Or had that last case—the one where she lost both the hostage and the unsub—shattered her confidence?
He knew better than anyone that faith in yourself was key to this kind of work.
Did Maggie Kincaid have faith in herself? The unshakeable kind that would see Kayla through this safely?
That was what he needed to find out.
Maggie had changed out of her running clothes into a skirt that directed his attention to a killer pair of legs. Well, running was good for the body and soul.
Gone were the double braids that had made her look much younger and innocent; her blond curls were pulled back tightly, but they were fighting their way out of the bun in spiky little corkscrews. Jake’s fingers itched with a nearly irresistible urge to brush back the little ringlets along her temple. Her skin had been warm when he’d reached out to steady her this morning. Soft against his rough.
He cleared his throat, adjusting his stance. He needed to concentrate on Maggie Kincaid’s tactics, not her luscious curves and golden hair. Her insistence on patience might screw them over even more than Max Grayson’s crass demand for a sympathy bump in the polls. Too much waiting led to nervous kidnappers. Nervous kidnappers shot first, thought later. He couldn’t let that to happen to Kayla.
Jake watched Maggie closely as she turned her head, talking quietly to the agent she’d come in with. He didn’t recognize the man from earlier this morning—was she bringing someone new in? The guy was looking at her like she’d hung the freaking moon. Watching him, Jake was strongly reminded of a puppy. Kincaid didn’t seem to share the man’s feelings. In fact, she looked almost annoyed—and for some reason, that made satisfaction curl in Jake�
��s stomach.
She muttered something to the guy before she hurried over to Senator Thebes, propping her hands on her hips in a resolute stance. Grayson glared at her before going back to glaring at Jake. He probably resented them for putting an end to his political maneuvers. For doing their jobs, essentially. What an idiot. Jake imagined squashing him like a fly and smiled. He probably could.
“Why don’t you give us some space, Max?” Thebes asked.
Grayson reluctantly crossed the room to sit in one of the leather chairs, huffily checking one phone, then the other.
Jake was close enough to hear Maggie and the senator’s conversation. As he listened, he kept his face impassive, ready to jump in as needed.
“Is there any news?” the senator asked.
“I’ve spoken to Kayla’s friends,” Maggie replied. “As well as Lucas Birmingham.”
“I don’t know who that is,” Senator Thebes said.
“Lucas is Kayla’s boyfriend of several months,” Maggie explained tersely.
So Kincaid had dug up some teenage dirt. Well, Jake hoped the boyfriend had given her some good intel. To find Kayla and get her out, he needed all the information he could muster—even if it seemed innocent or useless.
“I’ve never heard Kayla talk about a Lucas,” the senator replied, looking confused.
“Well, he’s heard plenty about you from Kayla,” Maggie countered. “My understanding is that they’ve been keeping the relationship a secret from you and Mrs. Thebes.”
Senator Thebes leaned forward. “Out with it, Ms. Kincaid.”
“Lucas went into great detail about your problems with your daughter,” Maggie said. “About how the two of you were always fighting. And how she discovered something you were lying about that upset her so much she ran to him in tears. He was shaken up by the whole thing.”
Thebes straightened in his seat, his face tightening with anger—anger at Maggie. It made Jake take notice. Thebes shouldn’t be angry at the woman who was trying to find his daughter, even if she’d informed him of a boyfriend he didn’t know about, and even if that boy had said unflattering things about him.
