Dangerous Lover

Sixteen

When Sanders walked into First Page, a very bad day suddenly turned worse.

Very few customers had showed up all morning and those few were, she suspected, dying from the cold instead of dying for a good read. By eleven o’clock she’d racked up a grand total of $27.15 in sales, her second-worst day. The worst had been Friday, with a grand sales total of zero.

Still, maybe it wasn’t a bad thing that the weather was still so bad people would rather reread their old books than drop by First Page. She found it hard to pay attention to the few people who actually ventured inside the shop. They’d talk, and she’d suddenly zone out, then have to scurry to apologize when it was clear she hadn’t been listening. So, all in all, it was a good thing she was mostly alone with her thoughts.

Except for the fact that she was alone with her thoughts.

No matter which way she looked at it—upside down, inside out—Caroline couldn’t figure out how Jack could know that the dining room had been painted yellow six years ago.

As if it were the first trickle from a cracked dam, now she felt the cold floodwaters of doubt rise in her mind, sickening her. Besides the color of the dining room, she now realized with hindsight that he seemed to have an uncanny knowledge of Greenbriars. That first night, he hadn’t even wanted to be accompanied up to his room. He seemed to know where the tools were kept, where the wine cellar was, even—that first night—where her bedroom was. He’d said he recognized it by her smell, but it didn’t ring true.

He’d known.

How had he known?

And, most horrible of all, how could he at times look faintly familiar to her?

She hadn’t slept all night, had simply stared at the ceiling, mind whirling restlessly and uselessly, until the black outside her window had slowly turned steely gray.

Jack realized that something was wrong. There was no way she could hide her upset from those perceptive dark eyes, and she’d had to pretend the onset of flu to distract him. And then she’d had to stop him from bundling her back into bed with hot tea and seven hundred blankets.

They’d fought about her coming in to work, but she’d been adamant, threatening to drive herself in if he wouldn’t. That had shut him up, and he’d driven her in, tight-lipped and silent.

Fine. Let him be angry. His anger allowed her space and time. She needed to know who he really was. Tonight. They had to talk tonight.

Maybe he’d been too good to be true. Maybe, in her loneliness and grief, she’d conjured the perfect lover out of thin air. Simply invented him.

The bell rang over the door. Another customer. She should be happy, but right now all she wanted was to be alone with her thoughts. Still, customers meant money, so she pasted a smile on her face and walked toward the door.

“Oh.” Caroline stopped when she saw Sanders. He was with another man, who was standing slightly behind him. “Sanders,” she said coolly. What did he want? To apologize? Today was not a good day for him to show up. “I don’t think this is a good idea. I think perhaps you’d better leave.”

“Now, Caroline, don’t be like that. You haven’t heard what I have to say.”

Something had happened to him. The crushed, beaten Sanders had disappeared, and he was back to his old assured self—elegant and in control. He even had that slight smile that looked like a smirk. It did not endear him to her.

“I’m sorry, Sanders, I’m very busy. Maybe some other time.”

He held his expensive gloves in one hand and looked slowly around the bookshop. The very empty bookshop. He took his time and finally brought his gaze around to her.

“I think you’re going to want to hear what I have to say. Or rather, what this gentleman has to say.” He stepped to the side, and Caroline saw the other man clearly now.

He was of medium height, with short sandy hair, big oversized, unfashionable glasses. Whippy rather than thin. Shiny, black, ill-fitting polyester suit, white shirt, shiny black tie. Completely nondescript, except for his eyes. They were light blue, flat, cold.

“Ma’am,” he said, and flipped a leather holder open to reveal a brass badge. “Special Agent Darrell Butler. FBI. New York Field Office.”

FBI?

Was this Sanders’s idea of a joke? Or had he actually called in the FBI because Jack had thrown him out of the shop yesterday? That was going way too far, even for Sanders.

And shame on the FBI for even giving Sanders the time of day. Didn’t they have anything better to do? Crazed terrorists were plotting day and night to blow people and buildings up, and what do they do? Fly across the country because Sanders had had his hair mussed and his feelings hurt.

Caroline rounded on Sanders. “Listen, I know you said you’d sue, but calling in the FBI is just insane. You should know better than that. It’s a totally overblown reaction to what happened yesterday. This is—”

“Ma’am,” the FBI Agent—Special Agent—interrupted. “I think you need to sit down. This isn’t about Mr. McCullin.” He shot Sanders a hostile glance. “Actually, Mr. McCullin shouldn’t even be here. But never mind. We need to talk somewhere, Ms. Lake.”

He wants to talk to me? Bewildered, Caroline led the Special Agent to her desk at the back of the room, separated from the rest of the bookshop by a counter stacked with books. Caroline sat behind the desk, and the Special Agent sat across from her. There were only two chairs in her office, but Sanders went and dragged another chair from out front.

The FBI agent ignored him totally. He placed his briefcase on his knees and took out a folder. He didn’t open it, just set it on his lap and placed his hand over it, as if protecting it.

“Ms. Lake. I understand you know someone who calls himself Jack Prescott. How long have you known him?”

“Why, I just met—” She stopped suddenly, frowning. “What do you mean—calls himself Jack Prescott? Isn’t that his name?”

Butler opened his briefcase and slid a photograph over her desktop, facing her. It was an enlarged snapshot of Jack in uniform, full face, the kind used as military ID. He looked younger, with a buzz cut and some kind of beret.

“Is that the man you know as Jack Prescott, ma’am?” He thumped the photograph with a rough forefinger.

Caroline swallowed and looked up into cold pale blue eyes. “I have no reason to think that he is anyone else. What is this about? How can this possibly be your business?”

“Just answer the question,” he snapped. “Is that the man you know as Jack Prescott or is he not?”

“Yes.”

“And when did you meet him?”

He’d left his badge open, and the brass reflected the ceiling light. It sat there with the weight of the U.S. government behind it, the shiniest thing in the room. Caroline watched it, as if it could yield up answers.

“Ms. Lake.” He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to.

Her throat felt tight. “I met Jack—Mr. Prescott last Friday. He’d just got into town and needed a place to stay. I take in boarders.”

“If he just got into town, how did he know that you have rooms to let?”

“The cab driver told him, on the way in from the airport.”

“What time did he arrive in your shop?”

“Around four, I think. I was thinking of closing up early because the weather was so bad. Nobody had come in all afternoon. He was actually the only person who came into the shop that afternoon.”

“What did he have with him?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What did he have? What was he carrying?”

“Oh. Well, he had a duffel bag and a suitcase.”

“Were they heavy?”

“I have no idea. He carried them in and carried them out.”

“Was he armed?”

Caroline’s mouth closed with a snap. Yes, he’d been armed, though at the time, she hadn’t known it. She would never have taken an armed man into her home. The silence stretched out.

“Ms. Lake. Answer the question.”

“Is Jack being accused of something?”

“Just answer the question. You can do it here, or in Seattle. Your choice.”

It felt like a betrayal—of a man she wasn’t sure she trusted anymore. Still, Caroline found it hard to tell the truth. “Yes,” she said finally. “He was armed. I didn’t know that at the time.”

“What kind of weapon was he carrying?”

She stared at him. “Are you joking?”

He stared back, gaze flat, utterly impersonal. No, he wasn’t joking.

“Mr. — Special Agent Butler, I know absolutely nothing about guns. It was big and black, that’s all I can say.”

“How do you know he was armed?”

“Someone broke into my house yesterday.” Or rather, Jack told her someone had broken into her house. Caroline hated this, hated second-guessing herself, second-guessing and doubting him. Hated the feeling that she’d been making love—and falling in love—with a fraud. “I found out then that he was—was carrying a weapon. Until then, I had no idea.”

“See, Caroline,” Sanders said suddenly. “You should have known better. You’ve never been a good judge of people. This should teach you a lesson in trusting perfect strangers.”

Butler didn’t turn his head. “Mr. McCullin, one more word out of you and I will have you arrested for obstruction of justice, is that clear?”

“Sorry.” Sanders tried to look chastened, but it wasn’t working very well. He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.

“Now, Ms. Lake. Did he say where he’d come from?”

Caroline was starting to realize how very little Jack had said about himself. “Well, he said he’d been in Afghanistan. And he said that his father had died very recently, in North Carolina. I don’t know whether he flew in all the way from Afghanistan or whether he’d stopped off in North Carolina.”

“Our records show him as flying in from Africa. From Freetown.”

“The capital of Sierra Leone?” Caroline asked. “What on earth was he doing there? He didn’t say anything about Africa.”

“No? That’s probably understandable, seeing as how he and three other mercenaries massacred a village of women and children.”

“That’s a lie!” The words came from deep inside her. She stood up suddenly. “I refuse to listen—”

The Special Agent didn’t raise his voice, but then he didn’t have to. “Sit down, Ms. Lake, or I will haul you in for obstruction of justice. Sit!”

She sat and folded her hands on the table to keep them from trembling. “There is no way Jack Prescott could do something like that.”

He didn’t even answer, simply stared at her out of his cold eyes.

“Have you been watching the news over the weekend?”

What she’d been doing over the weekend was no business of his. “I fail to see—”

“Answer the question, Ms. Lake,” he interrupted in a hard voice, “or I will take you in to the Seattle office and have you questioned there, which would be much less pleasant for you. Would you like that? Your choice.”

“I—no, um, to answer your question, I haven’t been watching the news over the Christmas holiday.” She’d been too busy with Jack and besides—now that she thought of it—both her radio and her TV set had been on the blink. It was only then that it occurred to her how unusual it was for both the radio and the TV to die on the same weekend. “I don’t really see what that has to do with anything.”

“It’s been all over TV,” Sanders said, leaning forward. “I don’t know how you could have missed it.”

The FBI agent shot Sanders a look that had Sanders lifting his hands—sorry—and sitting back. The agent turned back to her. Caroline kept herself from shivering by force of will. The man had the coldest eyes she’d ever seen.

“Ms. Lake, it appears you are unaware of the fact that six days ago, four U.S. military contractors who worked for a U.S. private security company called ENP Security massacred a village of women and children in Sierra Leone and made off with a fortune in uncut diamonds. Sierra Leonean soldiers appeared at the end and killed three of the military contractors. One escaped with the diamonds.”

What a horrible story. Maybe her TV and the radio had died out of compassion, deciding to spare her this news. “I’m sorry. What does that have to do with me?”

“The man who escaped was Vincent Deaver, the leader of the military contractors. You know him as Jack Prescott. He’s a very dangerous man, and we need your help in bringing him in.”

A sudden gust of gelid air burst into the shop as a customer walked in. Caroline heard the ping of the bell as if from a great distance. Laurel Holly, the mayor’s wife. She had to do something, get up, go to Laurel, get away from this terrible man. She placed her hands flat on the table, but somehow she couldn’t. Something was wrong with her legs.

Sanders got up immediately and went to Laurel. Caroline heard them murmuring, then Laurel left and Sanders turned the OPEN sign around to CLOSED and walked back, never taking his eyes from her face. “No one will bother us now.”

He had the most awful look—triumphant and self-satisfied. Happy. Happy at the thought that she might have been sleeping with a mass murderer.

If there had been a tiny little something inside her, a little softness for Sanders, for old times’ sake, it died right then and there. He wanted Jack to be a monster, a war criminal. It made him happy.

Well, too bad, because she didn’t believe it, not for a moment.

Jack—a mass murderer? Jack? A man who’d kill for diamonds? It wasn’t possible. She refused to believe it. Her body didn’t.

The man who’d held her so gently, so self-controlled he constantly reined himself in so he wouldn’t hurt her, not even inadvertently, in the throes of passion. That man wasn’t a murderer.

Of course, he was a soldier. Undoubtedly he’d killed, time and time again, in the line of duty.

Caroline shivered violently, as if her heart had suddenly frozen. The taste of the breakfast she’d choked down this morning was in her mouth. She clamped her jaw shut as bile tickled her throat.

Never mind that she’d had her doubts about Jack. They’d been more along the lines of how he knew her home so well, not whether he might be a monster.

She looked the Special Agent straight in the face. “That’s insane. Jack’s not a mass murderer! And he wasn’t in Africa, he was in Afghanistan this winter. You’ve got the wrong man.”

Agent Butler slid another photograph across the table. Caroline crossed her arms, body language rejecting what she was seeing in the photograph, and stared straight ahead. The agent was a good starer, better than she was. His gaze was steady and unrelenting, and with a shudder and a sigh, Caroline gave in and dropped her eyes to the photograph. Just a flicker of a gaze, but it was enough.

The photograph was very clear.

A slightly leaner Jack, with several days’ growth of beard, in camouflage, holding a big black gun. Dense, blindingly green foliage in the background, a line of wooden huts with tin roofs, African children playing in the dust, African soldiers standing guard.

There was a time stamp in white at the bottom. 11:21 A.M., December 21.

“That’s not Afghanistan,” the FBI agent said.

“No,” Caroline whispered. “It’s not.”

She wanted to pull the photograph closer for a better look, but she couldn’t. She was hugging herself, deeply chilled in the core of her being.

“That was shot by a UNOMSIL soldier in Freetown, seven days ago, just before Deaver headed into the hinterland for a village called Obuja, where there were rumors swirling around about a sackful of diamonds. He caught a pirogue going upriver to Obuja. Twenty-four hours after that photograph was taken, everyone in Obuja was dead, and he had found the diamonds. The UN is still looking for him there, but we’d got word that he’d flown back to the States.”

Caroline had to cough to loosen her throat. She licked dry lips as she counted the days. “But—but that would mean that he flew from Africa directly here.” She stopped, her throat hurting. “But…why. Why come here? It’s halfway around the world. It doesn’t make sense. Why here?”

“To see you,” Agent Butler said.

The quiet words seemed to fill the room, bounce around the walls, echo in her head. It took her several minutes to process the words. He didn’t hurry her, just watched her closely.

The tea she’d just had threatened to come up, and Caroline swallowed heavily.

“I–I’m afraid I don’t understand. He flew straight back from Africa to see me? Jack Prescott didn’t know me. I met him for the first time on Christmas Eve. He can’t possibly have flown something like ten thousand miles for me.”

This time there were two photocopies slid across the table. Caroline didn’t look at them. Didn’t want to look at them. Special Agent Butler tapped first one, then the other.

“He knew you all right. These photographs were found in his backpack, which he abandoned at the village. They were faxed to me by a UNOMSIL sergeant. Look at them, please, Ms. Lake. He came here for you.”

Caroline held his eyes, completely unable to read them. Finally, with a feeling that nothing would ever be the same, she looked down, then looked away immediately. A cold fist gripped her heart and squeezed.

“You found those in Africa?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Caroline hugged herself more tightly—cold, miserable, stomach roiling. She heard a vague whistling sound in her ears and wondered whether she was going to faint.

“Do you recognize these photographs, Ms. Lake?”

Caroline couldn’t speak. She could barely breathe.

“Ms. Lake?”

Sanders leaned forward. “Caroline, that’s your high-school photo, don’t you recognize it? And the other one—”

Special Agent Butler spoke without turning his head or taking his eyes from hers.

“Shut up. Sir.” His gaze was fierce and unblinking, focused tightly on her. “Ms. Lake, I’m asking you for the second time—do you recognize those photographs? And don’t even try lying because I can drag you to the Seattle office and make you swear all of this under oath, and you know what the penalty for lying under oath is.”

Caroline nodded jerkily. “Yes,” she whispered. “I do.”

“So what are those photographs of?”

“Me.” Her voice came out thin and reedy, almost a wheeze. “One is my sophomore high-school portrait. The other is—is a photograph cut out of a local newspaper. Of me at a piano recital. I must have been—what? Sixteen? How on earth could those photographs be in Jack Prescott’s possession?”

“That’s precisely what I want to know from you,” he said grimly. “Maybe the two of you were in it together?”

“What?” Caroline whispered, shocked.

Special Agent Butler nodded. “You could be a great alibi. Deaver couldn’t have killed the villagers, stolen the diamonds, because he was with his lady love over the Christmas holidays. It makes a crazy kind of sense, because he traveled under a fake name. If we didn’t have that photograph and the time stamp, well then, he could just say that he was curled up in his love nest, and who’d be the wiser?”

“Damn right,” Sanders said. “Caroline, you barely escaped. Why when I think of what could have happened to you if the FBI hadn’t been on this guy’s trail…God knows he’s violent enough to really hurt you. Even murder you, if he had to.” He didn’t look unhappy at that notion. The darker the picture of Jack, the brighter his star shone.

Caroline looked from Sanders’s smug face to the bleak, cold features of the FBI agent. She felt trapped, as if the walls of her shop were closing in on her. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead, her head swirled, her chest felt tight.

A younger, happier her looked up at her from the tabletop, a mocking reminder of life’s cruelties. She reached out a shaking finger to touch first Jack’s photograph then the photocopy of her high-school portrait, trying to make the connection between the sunny high schooler and the dark, dangerous-looking man in the jungle fatigues.

Sanders laid his hand over hers and squeezed. She whisked her hand out from under his.

It was the last straw.

Don’t touch me! The words were there in her throat, and she had to clamp her jaw closed to keep them in.

Suddenly, Caroline couldn’t stay in the same room with the two men, with the photographs and with the doubts about the man she’d made love to all weekend. The man she’d fallen in love with. Was half in love with, still. If she stayed in this room one second more, she’d vomit her misery all over the floor. She shivered violently, stood up and rushed out the door.

Jack parked on the other side of Hamilton Park just as it started to snow. Didn’t make any difference. He didn’t mind the cold, and he needed to stretch his legs after the long day spent in his SUV driving around offices. He needed the walk across the park on the way to Caroline’s shop, to clear his head.

Something was very wrong with Caroline. Jack could feel it in his bones. All day, as he’d gone about his business, he’d had the tickle of unease as a background noise in his head.

Pity, because otherwise it had been a good day, no doubt about it. An airtight security system was going up at Greenbriars tomorrow. Cost him the better part of $5,000, but it was worth it. Caroline didn’t have to know how much it cost.

A fabulous property in a busy downtown building which would be just perfect for his business was for sale at a very reasonable price, and he had an appointment the day after tomorrow with the Realtor. With luck, he could incorporate and start his new business by mid-January.

His day had ended with a visit to an estate lawyer, something that had been preying on his mind. No matter what happened to him, if he dropped dead this instant, from this day on, Caroline would be taken care of. She was his sole heir, and she could live in ease from the proceeds of his estate.

Very satisfying all in all, but he couldn’t relax until he cleared up what was eating Caroline. She’d been pale and silent over breakfast, looking worried and wan.

He hated that. He hated to see that look on her face. It was probably a mix of money worries, someone she considered a friend attacking her and that fucking son of a bitch breaking into her home.

Well, that wasn’t ever going to happen again. The new security system was airtight. The only way to break into Greenbriars as of tomorrow would be to blow up the door with Semtex or fire an RPG through the living room window of Caroline’s home.

His home. Soon.

The last thing he’d done in his busy day was price diamond rings. It hadn’t been fun making the rounds of jewelers, but it had to be done. His head swirled with technical data. Carats, clarity, hue. He didn’t give a fuck. All he knew was that he wanted something big and his on her ring finger. Big and bright and shiny enough so that it screamed back off! to every male who came within a hundred-foot radius of her.

He’d seen at least twenty rings that would do. Tomorrow he’d swing by again and bag one.

The irony of shopping for a diamond ring when he had a fortune in uncut diamonds in a safe-deposit box wasn’t lost on him.

Not for a second, though, was he tempted to use one of the diamonds in the cloth bag. They were tainted with blood, heartbreak and suffering. He’d never let one of them even near her. The stones would have to go as soon as he could arrange it. He wanted them out of his life and Caroline’s. There was a perfect way to wipe out the bad karma, and he was sure Caroline would approve.

That idea was for later, for when she’d accepted that they were together. Were meant to be together for a lifetime.

When could he give her the engagement ring? Not today—today she was upset, tired, worried. He was going to have to work overtime at loving her tonight, not that it would be a hardship.

Maybe he’d give it a week. A week of sex and food and rest, fixing up her house, making it safe and comfortable. Put the roses back on her cheeks, wipe the worry off her face.

Yes, this time next week, he’d find out what the nicest restaurant in the area was, take her out and propose. Or take her to Seattle. Or—hell—to Aruba. That sounded about right. Some luxury resort, days in the sun, nights making love. A candlelight dinner, the ring and the promise to love her all the rest of his days.

And he’d have Caroline for the rest of his life.

The idea wouldn’t leave his head once he’d planted the seed of it. Caroline—his forever. They’d have children, and he’d grow old with her by his side. It was the one thing he’d never even dared to dream, all those lonely nights thinking of her, and here he was, close enough to touch the dream.

The image filled his head so much he could see her, right before him…

Jack frowned. That wasn’t a vision—it was Caroline, running right into the park in the middle of the fucking snowstorm. His jaws clenched. Shit, she was without a coat and had on a pair of those fancy shoes that might be good in a heated shop but were ridiculous in the snow.

His frown deepened. She was going to catch pneumonia. Right after she slipped and broke her fucking neck.

“Caroline!” he roared. “Get back in the shop before you catch your death of cold!”

She looked up, saw him and froze, panic and fear etched on her face. Then she whirled and disappeared into the shrubbery lining the path. In a second, the only thing on the path was falling snowflakes.

A sudden gust of raw easterly wind parted the snow. Jack could see all the way across the park and the street to Caroline’s shop. He had only a glimpse before the snow curtain closed again, but it was enough.

Standing in the doorway was Vince Deaver.

The shock of seeing a man he’d left in custody ten thousand miles away sent him reeling.

His hands shook as he drew his weapon and checked it for ammo. It was second nature. He always had a full magazine. But he was operating on half his wits right now because the other half was scared shitless.

Vince Deaver, a man he’d watched blow kids’ heads apart, was here, gunning for him, and Caroline was caught right in the middle.

Weapon in hand, crouching, Jack started circling toward Caroline.

She’d taken him completely by surprise; otherwise, she’d never have left the shop. Not alive, anyway.

Deaver raced after Caroline Lake, but a curtain of snow drifted down and enveloped her before he could get out of the shop. She could have bolted in any direction.

Deaver stood in the doorway, senses wide open. He couldn’t let Caroline Lake get away. She was the key to the diamonds, and she was what would get him his revenge.

“Caroline!” a deep voice shouted from across the street. “Get back in the shop before you catch your death of cold!”

Jack Prescott! Deaver would recognize that voice anywhere. He was here! It was impossible to tell how far away he was, the snow muffled sound, but by God, he was here, Caroline Lake was here, and Deaver was so close to the diamonds he could almost smell them.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out the Beretta 92 Drake had acquired for him. The snick of the safety coming off sounded loud in the room. As did the sudden intake of breath behind him.

Fuck, he’d completely forgotten about McCullin.

“Hey!” McCullin said. “You can’t fire that thing. What if you hit Caroline? Aren’t there rules for you guys about using your weapon?”

“Shut up,” he growled. This guy yapping in the background was distracting him. He needed to figure out where Prescott was and where the Lake woman was so he could grab her without getting shot. Prescott was damned good with his weapon.

Well, fuck, so was he.

The snow was drifting in through the open door, melting onto the shop’s hardwood floor. Ordinarily, this was a bad position to be in for a firefight. No one stood in a lit doorway. But the weather was so severe, it didn’t make any difference. Deaver sighted down his weapon, tracking in quarters. First quarter, blink to black, second quarter…

McCullin tapped him on the shoulder, hard. Hard enough to make him miss the shot if he’d been about to take it. “Put that gun away, someone might get hurt.” He had the petulant voice of the rich. Don’t pull a gun, you might hurt someone. Another sharp tap. “Did you hear me?”

There he was! There was a break in the snow, and Deaver could see Prescott. He was dressed in black and contrasted with the snow. It had been just a glimpse, but Deaver had been able to make out his outline. Deaver didn’t see a weapon, but that didn’t mean Prescott wasn’t armed. Still, if he knew Caroline Lake was in the vicinity, it wasn’t likely he’d start shooting until he knew what the situation was.

Deaver had a little window of opportunity here. He didn’t want to kill Prescott—not yet at any rate. He wanted to wing him, disable him, and use the Lake woman as leverage.

Good thing he’d done some zone recon yesterday. Across the street from the bookshop was a little park. It didn’t offer much coverage—just some shrubbery and a little gazebo in the middle. It was perfect. Prescott would be afraid to use his weapon, and the Lake woman would have huddled up in the center.

There he was again! Up against the big oak in the center of the park, trying to get his bearings. Deaver bent his knees and brought his weapon up two-handed, at an angle to present as small a target as possible, ready for the next break in the snow. A heavy dump of it came, then the wind parted one of the sheets. Deaver was breathing regularly, feeling his heartbeat, waiting for the moment from one beat to the next, though at this range, he could hardly miss.

Now! A slight break in the snow. Deaver sighted…

A thump on his back broke his concentration just as he was gently squeezing the trigger. By the time he was able to focus again, the snow had come down like a curtain across a stage. He’d lost sight of Prescott.

Deaver twirled around, staring into McCullin’s arrogant, angry face.

McCullin had a finger up, pointed at him. “Listen, I won’t have you firing g—”

Without changing expression, Deaver grabbed the fuckhead by the shoulder to steady him, brought the muzzle of his Beretta up against McCullin’s chest, and fired right through the heart. That petulant voice stopped instantly, the arrogant expression going blank in the space of a heartbeat.

Deaver had turned back around before the body hit the floor.

He scanned the area outside the open door. The snow was so thick he couldn’t see farther than the lampposts, but he knew Prescott was out there. He wasn’t going anywhere, not with Caroline Lake in the park. But where the fuck had he gone? Deaver waited in vain for another break in the snow, but it didn’t come.

This wasn’t working. He’d have to go straight into the kill zone.

He loped across the street, invisible in the snow, stopping behind a huge elm, listening and waiting. This was it. If he played his cards right, he’d be leaving this godforsaken frozen burg soon with $20 million and a dead enemy.

“Ms. Lake, for God’s sake, come back in here! That’s a murderer out there! Get away from there, for your own safety!”

Caroline heard the words, muffled by the snow, but it took her a second to realize that the FBI Agent was talking about Jack. He meant that Jack, a murderer, was in the park. That Jack could kill her.

Wasn’t that precisely why she was hiding behind the gazebo? She hadn’t even thought it out. She’d seen Jack’s broad, dark outline and without thinking she’d darted into the bushes.

“Ms. Lake!” the agent called. “For your own safety, I must ask you to come back inside.”

Yes, of course. She was out in the open with a mass murderer. A man who, moreover, had boasted that he was always armed. Actually, he hadn’t boasted, he’d just said it matter-of-factly, but still. She had no doubt that he was armed right now.

For your own safety, the agent had said. Get away.

Jack was armed, Jack could hurt her. However painful that thought was, it was the truth. Wasn’t it?

An FBI agent, ready and willing to protect her, was right there, outside her shop. All she had to do was run to him.

So why was she hunkering down behind the gazebo, cheek pressed against the splintery wooden base, hands turning blue from the cold?

The cold was so intense, it was a wonder Special Agent Butler and Jack couldn’t hear her chattering teeth. She was in her shop shoes—pretty black pumps that were pathetic in this weather. They were waterlogged and stiff with the cold. The snow was already halfway up her shins, her feet lost in the cold, wet slush. She could barely feel them. If she was going to make a run for it, now was the time, before her feet froze, and she had to be carried out of the park.

She held on to the brass railing ringing the base of the circular gazebo, heart thudding. She had to run, she had to…

“Caroline!” Jack shouted. “Come to me!” Oh God. Caroline closed her eyes at the sound of his voice. So deep, so reassuring. She huddled more deeply into the snow. Her cheeks were wet and cold with melted snow and tears.

“Ms. Lake!” Special Agent Butler sounded closer. The voice was muffled, but by snow and not distance. “Remember what I said about Deaver! He’s a killer. He’ll use you as a hostage to get away. Run toward me, and I’ll cover you.”

“Jesus, Caroline!” Jack’s deep voice cracked. “Don’t believe him! He’s Vince Deaver. He’ll kill you the way you squash a bug, and with just as much remorse. I saw him kill women and children in Africa. Stay put! I’m coming toward you.”

“No!” she screamed, standing up, ready to run if he came for her. The wind was whipping ice particles in her eyes, and she had to swipe at them to be able to see for even a moment. Her hands were so cold they were clumsy as they batted at her eyes. “Don’t come near me.” She sobbed the words out, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Don’t come, Jack. Stay where you are.”

Silence. The only sound was the wind in the trees, muffled by the snow and her own thundering heart.

Fuck!

Jack didn’t dare go after Caroline. He could barely see her, behind a big round bandstand, hunkered down. But he didn’t have to see her face to know that she was crying, the tears had been in her voice.

She was scared and disoriented, her head filled with Deaver’s lies. None of it made any difference, what was important now was keeping her away from Deaver. If he was here, it was to use Caroline as bait for the diamonds.

Jack had no idea how Deaver had escaped from the UN soldiers and tracked Caroline down, or known enough about her to know that he’d travel to her, but here he was. Ready, willing and able to hurt Caroline or—God! — kill her.

He wouldn’t kill her right away, he was too smart for that. He’d put a bullet through her kneecap or through an elbow, make her suffer.

If Jack had thought it through, he’d never have taken the fucking diamonds. He didn’t want them. The diamonds weren’t worth one hair on Caroline’s head. If he could, he’d go straight to the bank, open the safe-deposit box and hurl them at Deaver’s head. He couldn’t though. If he didn’t play this right, Caroline would get hurt. Maybe killed.

Jack grew cold and detached in combat. His heart rate actually slowed during firefights. He could strategize with bullets flying overhead. Not now, though. Right now he was sweaty and panicked and terrorized. Caroline was forty feet away from him and just might flee into the hands of a stone killer.

How could he think? How could he plan, make the right moves, when his head was filled with horrific visions of Caroline shot, her lifeblood seeping away into the snow? Screaming in pain with a bullet in her gut.

Jack had seen Deaver take careful aim and blow a woman’s arm off at the shoulder. If he closed his eyes, he could see that on the inside of his lids, only it was Caroline in the line of fire, and it drove him crazy. His heart beat high and wild in his chest, and his weapon slipped in his fist. His hands were sweating. He was sweating all over.

What could he do? If he ran toward Caroline, she would bolt, straight into Deaver. If he didn’t make a move, Deaver would. Either way he was fucked.

“Ms. Lake!” Deaver called. “Run now, before it’s too late! I’ve got agents coming, we’ll keep you safe. We’ve got to get you back to your shop. Make a run for it, and I’ll cover you!”

Deaver’s voice was stronger. He was edging closer to Caroline. Soon, he’d be able to take a bead on her even if she didn’t bolt.

“Don’t believe him, honey.” Jack kept his voice low, hoping it wasn’t carrying to Deaver. “He’s lying.”

“How—how can he be lying?” Caroline’s voice quavered. “He’s an FBI agent.”

“No, he’s not.” In two long strides, Jack came several feet closer to Caroline, finding cover behind another big oak. “He’s not an FBI agent. He’s a war criminal. He’s responsible for a—”

“Massacre in an African village. Stealing diamonds. I know.” Caroline was keeping her voice low. “He told me. Only he said it was you. That you were a war criminal with a fortune in stolen diamonds. And he showed me a photograph of you, Jack. You said you came from Afghanistan, but the snapshot showed you in Africa. The time stamp said it was taken on the twenty-first of December. And Jenna Johnson said that you deposited eight million dollars in a bank account. How can I believe you?”

Oh, Jesus.

He didn’t have time to explain, convince. Deaver was going to pounce any minute. Jack would gladly take a bullet for her, but she wouldn’t let him get close enough.

The sweat was pouring down his back, falling into his eyes. He felt sick with fear.

He could see the lampposts along the street—the snowstorm was easing up slightly. Deaver was out there, moving from cover to cover, and inside a few minutes, he’d reach Caroline. Deaver didn’t need for her to bolt. All he had to do was sneak up behind her, snake an arm around her neck, and call for Jack to put down his weapon.

Jack would do it, too. Even knowing that certain death would follow, he’d do it to save Caroline. Only he wouldn’t save her. She’d be next.

Jack swallowed the surge of bile in his throat, the taste of defeat.

There! Something flitted between the trees, a ghost of movement. Deaver. Coming closer.

Caroline couldn’t stay there, she’d be dead inside of five minutes. And Deaver had filled her head with so many lies, she wouldn’t run to him.

She had to get away, now!

Jack dug into his jeans pocket and tossed a mass of metal toward Caroline. Even in the dusk and in the snow, he had an excellent aim. It fell at her feet, sinking instantly into the snow.

She bent and picked it up, turning it over in his hand. He could see her clearly now. She raised her eyes and saw him. His heart clenched at the expression on her face—sorrow and fear and grief.

“Caroline,” he said urgently. “Those are the keys to the Explorer. It’s parked on Harrison. Get in and drive, just as fast as you can. Head for Seattle or Spokane. There’s a couple of thousand dollars in the glove compartment, use that. Just get yourself away from here. If something—if something happens to me, get in contact with Philip Napier. He’s an estate lawyer on Hewitt. I’ve left my will with him. You’ll inherit everything I own. Have him wire you the money and disappear. Don’t ever come back here. Deaver will kill you if you do.”

She stared into his eyes. “Where did the money come from?” she whispered.

Another glimpse of a shape, barely visible, taking refuge behind the concrete walls of the public toilets before Jack could aim. He was moving toward the bandstand. Jack could see the barrel of Deaver’s gun jutting out from the right-hand corner of the wall. Caroline was on the other side of the bandstand. He’d figure it out in a moment and rush her. She had only minutes left.

“Listen carefully, sweetheart. The money didn’t come from the diamonds, I swear. I sold my father’s company and my house. Use it and stay far away from here. Promise me you’ll go. I need to know you’re safe.”

“You had photographs of me.” Tears were rolling down her cheeks. “You know Greenbriars inside out. Who are you?”

He had to get her away, now. Only the truth would work.

“Ben.”

“What?”

“I’m Ben, sweetheart. Do you remember the boy in the homeless shelter? Twelve years ago? You brought me food and books.”

Her eyes were wide, fixed on his. He could see her very clearly. The snow had almost stopped. Fifty feet away, Deaver stepped out from behind the concrete wall and assumed the stance.

“Ben? You’re Ben?”

Jack brought his weapon up, aimed. Time had run out.

“Run, Caroline! Run!” he screamed.

Caroline bolted and ran. But not toward his vehicle. She ran straight toward him.

Deaver stepped out from behind the concrete wall, tracking her…finger on the trigger…

Jack caught Caroline with one arm, lifting his weapon with his other, going for the one shot certain to kill instantly—putting a round right on the bridge of Deaver’s nose. Deaver fell backwards, the spray of blood bright on the pristine white snow.

And that was all Jack saw as he wrapped his arms around Caroline, safe now, safe forever, and buried his face in her hair, tears bright and cold on his face.

Headquarters of The Children’s Shelter

Chicago

Two weeks later

Sister Mary Michael smiled at the envelope on her desk. Over the course of the past ten years, there had been many of them—all the same. They had all been addressed to her, care of the nondenominational charity she headed. The Children’s Shelter, dedicated to providing an education to the lost children in homeless shelters.

Each envelope was written in black ink in a bold, strong hand. Each envelope held the same return address—a foundation incorporated in the Bahamas. The JP Foundation, Box 1341, Freeport, Grand Bahama. Each envelope had held a check.

There was no way to know whether the person writing was a man or a woman, but Sister Mary Michael just knew it was a man. Something about the strong strokes of the pen, the spacing, the evenness of the letters…over the years she’d even built up an image in her mind. A tall, strong man, who didn’t want gratitude.

She’d tried to thank him. Oh, how she’d tried. After the first few checks had arrived, she’d asked Tom Pinto for help. Tom had learned to read at the age of twelve thanks to the Shelter, and he had become one of the finest private investigators in the country. She asked him to track down the person or persons behind the JP Foundation. Tom was very good at his job, but he never managed to crack the infinite layers of protection screening the Foundation’s backers. Finally, Tom had told her gently to let it be, and she had.

The Foundation was clearly an example of God’s will, shining through.

Sister Mary Michael laid the envelope down on the desk before her, touching it with the tips of her fingers and said a prayer for the immortal soul of the sender, knowing that God’s grace shone particularly strong in him. The Shelter would have long since had to close its doors if it hadn’t been for her mysterious and generous benefactor.

Sister Mary Michael picked up a wooden letter opener that had been carved for her by one of her lost children, lost no more, now a second-year surgical resident in Boston, and slit the envelope open.

The checks had started out small. A thousand dollars, a couple of times a year, at first. As the years went by, the checks increased in size as her benefactor, bless his soul, grew wealthy.

The last check had been for thirty thousand dollars.

Smiling, Sister Mary Michael slid the check out and looked at the figures. Two thousand dollars. Well, maybe business hadn’t been…

No, she’d read it wrong. Twenty thousand—no. Sister Mary Michael caught her breath and blinked, staring at the words written in black ink in that familiar strong hand.

Twenty million dollars.