Phantom in the Night

by Sherrilyn Kenyon

  It sucked, but then, so did life.

  "Listen to me." Nathan took a breath before continuing. Decision made. "If I get you out of going to prison, you have to swear to stay away from anyone who even hints of being a shyster, criminal or otherwise."

  "The attorney says I can't beat it, he says—"

  "I don't care what he says. I'll get you out of this, but you have to swear to use your head and get a real job, no more bullshit deals. Take care of Mom for me. Give me your word."

  "I swear I will, you know that. I'd do anything for you and Mom. You really think you can fix this?" Jamie's relief rushed through the lines. "I only have a week before the attorney says the trial will be over. I'll do whatever you say, just tell me what to do, Nate."

  Find a way to roll back time so I could have sent you the money before you went to Marseaux's loan shark.

  Going there was like losing his temper, neither would solve the mess Jamie was in. "Sit tight until I call you tomorrow. Don't tell a soul—including Mom—you talked to me. Got it?"

  "Yeah, but what are you going to do?"

  "I'll tell you tomorrow…" Nathan rubbed his eyes, sick over what he'd have to do. "I've got to go now, but I will keep you out of prison, so you better start holding up your end of the deal right now."

  "I will." Jamie was silent a moment, sighed. "Thanks, Nate. Sorry about this. I was just trying to take care of Mom and you know I don't do drugs."

  Nathan sighed deeply. "I know, bud. We'll get through this." His brother had never taken so much as an aspirin or a beer since the first time he'd drank and spent a whole day puking his guts out hungover. Nathan ended the call and stared into a star-riddled sky. His father's words echoed in his mind from the day he showed the challenge coin to Nathan after Jamie had been beat up at school.

  "I need you to make me a promise, son." His dad's voice had been tight, as if he hated handing this burden to a child.

  Nathan had nodded. His dad continued," A man's word is worth more than all the money on earth. Don't ever break yours."

  When Nathan gave him another head nod, his dad held out the coin from his days as a Ranger in the army." I want you to have this, but with it comes responsibility. Your brother is never going to be as strong or street smart as you, so I need your promise that you'll always watch out for him."

  "I will, Dad, you know that. Me and Jamie forever." Nathan lifted his hand, palm up, to accept the coin he'd treasured more than anything. That had been a month before his father, an ARCA driver, was killed in a fiery crash. As an eight-year-old, Nathan had never imagined what he would now have to do as a man to keep his word to his father.

  To keep his word to his brother.

  He shoved up and away from the tree, unplugged the encryption unit and stowed it, then called for the predetermined Friday extraction point. When finished, he laid the phone alongside Stoner's hammock on the ground, still folded. Once Nathan secured his backpack, he removed a green pouch the size of a deck of cards from his belt, which held an emergency locator strobe. He unlaced the back of the pouch and slit the threads on a hidden pocket, withdrawing the challenge coin he always carried.

  The mission was over and his team would extract tomorrow.

  Nathan stared at the coin once more, then placed it on top of the bedroll, just as he'd promised when he went to face the devil. Stoner would understand the simple message.

  As far as anyone was concerned, Nathan was dead.

  * * *

  In two steps, he disappeared into the night.

  * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  New Orleans, Louisiana, two years later

  Terri Mitchell studied the naked male lying before her once more. Straight black hair fell loosely around his baby-smooth face. He'd shaved recently. Those chiseled lips were too enticing and perfect, as if shaped by a master sculptor.

  How many women had enjoyed this body and those lips? Been pleasured by that captivating mouth?

  And why should she care? Terri tamped down on her female interest. She was a professional and shouldn't consider things like this guys social life or his lean, muscular body, but men didn't come much better packaged than this one. All she'd seen so far was his upper body since the cotton sheet covered his lower half.

  Using her pen, she lifted the white cloth to see if there was anything else she could glean from this inspection beyond the bullet hole in his forehead.

  Not really, unless she wanted to add "well endowed" to her notes. Such a waste of one fine-looking male.

  Probably not the Fat Tuesday this guy had expected when he got up this morning.

  "I like the highlights, the more blonde look. That new?" The radio-announcer-smooth baritone asking that question from behind her belonged to a man she hadn't planned to see again. At least not yet.

  Terri yanked her pen away. The sheet fell back into place over the corpses toned midsection. She swung around to face DEA Special Agent Robert Brady and cursed silently for almost getting caught ogling a body.

  "Hello, Brady."

  "Nice to see you, Terri. Look good. I like the extra meat on your bones."

  "Is that a polite way of saying I'm overweight?" She used to worry about trying to reach a dress size in the single digits. Not anymore. Surviving a nearly fatal attack had put her priorities in order. Stressing over the scale was in her past. If she could just put other things behind her as easily.

  Like Brady's smug face.

  "I said you looked good. Can't you take a compliment?"

  Maybe, if it had come from someone else, but Brady liked his women thin, long-legged, and busty. At five-six she'd never met the long-legged qualification and nothing in her wardrobe had been designed for a slim body. She'd assumed. Brady made an allowance when they'd dated because of her chest. Most of the men in her life jumped to the ridiculous assumption large breasts equaled an easy lay. Men had such simple guidelines, she envied them at times… almost.

  They'd had a few dates, but she'd enough sense not to sleep with Brady. Terri fixed a smile in place. "Thanks for the compliment."

  "What were you doing?" He nodded toward the cold body.

  "I'd think it would be obvious—even to you." She winked to soften the dig. "I'm examining a male corpse." Maybe they could keep things pleasant if he didn't bring up the past.

  "The hole is in his head, not his dick."

  She shoved a droll stare his way. "If I didn't inspect the entire body, I might miss something significant." Especially since she hadn't seen a naked male in so long.

  Who knows? Something might have changed.

  "You need to get laid." Brady's wrinkled navy suit had lost its polish hours ago. The scruffy, plain-brown hair hadn't changed, still looking both sexy and as if he'd just gotten out of bed and finger brushed the thick locks. How unfair. Men not only got away with bed head but turned it into a vogue style.

  At a loss for a stinging comeback, she just arched an eyebrow.

  "What?" he snapped.

  She let out a tired breath and raked him with a peeved glare. "Why is getting laid a man's answer to everything?"

  Brady shrugged. "Maybe because once we get laid, most of our problems are solved." He broke out a megawatt smile intended to wear down her resistance.

  Which should have been easy since she'd never been on the first page of anyone's little black book.

  Terri wasn't in the market for marriage, but neither was she willing to climb into bed with a man she had no real feelings for, which meant his original primitive assessment of her mood was probably correct.

  Change the subject now, before…

  "Why didn't you return my calls?" His face lost all joking appeal, ruining any chance of avoiding this conversation.

  Might as well get this over with. "I did return your first call and left a voicemail I'd be out of pocket for a while."

  "A while?" He stood away from the doorjamb, rising to his imposing stature. "Most people would take a while' to mean a few weeks, not three months."
A six-foot male leaning toward her in an intimidating posture would have rattled her right after the attack, but not now.

  After leaving the hospital—and the DEA—she'd spent endless hours with a personal trainer to even the field with dangerous men. She didn't want to ever feel weak or helpless again.

  "I had to do a major rehab—"Terri started.

  "I know that, but why did you hide from me?"

  "Hide?" Was he insane, insensitive, or just plain unobservant? She growled under her breath and slapped her clipboard down on the body, then winced over her lack of respect for the dead.

  What was it about sexy men that undermined, her confidence?

  "There are very few rehab facilities in New Orleans since Katrina. Or haven't you noticed?"

  "That's not the real reason you cut out. The agency would have—"

  "What?" She strangled the pen in her fist, then crossed her arms to hide her hands. "The DEA turned its back on me and left me out to hang."

  "Not exactly. You made the final decision."

  "Oh, sure. I resigned. You're right." She clicked the pen head up and down, then stopped. The last thing she wanted to do was televise a slim hold on her control. "They suspended me and started an investigation while I was hooked up to tubes in a hospital. Excuse me if I'm just a little… irritable."

  Brady paced two steps away, hands in his pockets, then paused and met her gaze with a shielded one. "What did you expect them to do?"

  "I expected them to—" Her throat clogged. Pain and humiliation wrapped around the memory that shadowed her thoughts daily. "I expected them to believe me and to back me up. Not to blame me for Conroy's death or suspect me of working with Marseaux." Damn them all. Who could possibly think she'd kill her partner and join ranks with that vermin Marseaux?

  "The DEA has not taken any action against you." Yet.

  "True, but in two weeks they'll make a final determination and close the case."

  "Or charge me with a crime" She raced the clock to prove her innocence and find Conroy's killer, DEA Internal Affairs was racing just as hard to charge and convict her.

  "Stay clear of any trouble and you should be fine."

  Terri let a humorless chuckle escape. Brady should just say it straight: Don't get caught associating with any felons.

  Easy for him to say. She needed contacts, to groom new informants, and that meant consorting with felons. No easy task with word out that her last snitch had died after she and her partner, Conroy, had been ambushed. Her best contact on the Marseaux case had been found murdered the next day.

  The minute she'd awakened after surgery, Terri had quickly realized the questions being put to her were DEA interrogation level, not just for information. She'd put her faith in them and they'd screwed her.

  Never again. While going through rehab she'd been recruited by BAD—the Bureau of American Defense—and now worked for the multijurisdictional covert agency that protected American citizens wherever they might be found. The DEA didn't even know BAD existed. Another reason she'd signed on.

  Two weeks. Terri swatted an errant curl off her forehead. She'd be lucky to find a felon willing to talk to her again.

  "Save your advice. I didn't get into trouble before." Terri cringed at her shrewish voice. She owed the DEA nothing, but she did owe Brady for making a clean shot at the man who had tried to carve her a new body with a twelve-inch butcher knife. Reaching inside herself for the calm she'd been taught in self-defense training, she took a deep breath. "The agency didn't want me back, and even if they had I'd have been stuck at a desk job. Might as well post a bulletin stating I'm not trustworthy in the field."

  More importantly, she couldn't clear her name or find out who had set her and Conroy up while sitting at a desk, answering phones. Signing on with BAD gave her a fighting chance.

  Brady had the decency to look uncomfortable. His gaze wandered around the room before he muttered, "Neither here nor there at this point." Then he focused on her again. "So you got plans for Fat Tuesday? Want to hook up for a drink later?"

  She hadn't been asked out in a while, so on one level that was flattering, but not a path she wanted to travel again. Especially not with him. "Not right now. I'm pretty busy." Proving my innocence and convicting a vicious killer—you know, the usual stuff that might preoccupy a woman facing prison time.

  His eyebrows tilted together at the lie, seeing the truth behind her words, but he didn't press the issue. "Still haven't figured out what you want, huh?"

  She tensed at his dig. Three glasses of wine after a long day four months ago and she'd blabbed to him some of her most personal thoughts. But that wasn't enough humiliation for her. Oh no, she had to finish with telling him she didn't know what she wanted out of life.

  He'd used that as an invitation to help her figure it out.

  Talk about having a blonde moment. She shook it off. "Well, sugar, half of figuring out what you want in life is by figuring out what you don't. Let's just stick to business, okay? What are you doing down here? This isn't your usual area." Terri picked up her clipboard.

  "I'm on a case." He glanced to the decedent. "What's your interest in this body?"

  She relaxed. Brady had come in because of the male victim and not just to see her. Maybe they could keep this professional after all. "John Doe was found at noon today in the area I've been investigating."

  Brady's eyes widened a bit. "What are you working on?"

  "I can't discuss that with you any more than you can discuss your case with me."

  Curiosity burned deep in his eyes. "So where you been? Who you working for?"

  She considered her answer and decided best to stick with the cover she'd been given by BAD. "I'm consulting with the New Orleans Police Department."

  "Ah… I heard about that."

  Terri didn't take the bait to explain. She stonewalled, forcing him to carry the conversation if he wanted to continue.

  He cleared his throat. "Got a buddy in the NOPD who says there's a rumor you're with some private agency. Who?"

  She rolled her eyes at him. "And I slice open chickens at midnight to sacrifice to the great gods of Santería. I'm just a consultant, Brady. No real news there." Confidence returned, she served that up in a bored tone. "Anything you can tell me about this body?"

  Brady's gaze danced from her to the body and back. He was clearly buying time to decide what—if anything—he should share. She doubted he'd give up anything of use.

  "Guy's name is Nathan Drake. He was running drugs and tried to double-cross the wrong family."

  Every alarm in her body rang out. Why would he share that when the concept alone went against his very nature? "How do you know this?"

  "He was our snitch inside an organized crime family. Drake got greedy and tried to work one angle too many. Got what he deserved." Brady pinned a gimlet stare on Terri. "That's why you can't trust these guys."

  Her face heated at his unexpected censure. She'd paid the price for trusting a snitch—a felon—who'd double-crossed her. She didn't need Brady to remind her, but criticizing him would stymie this unexpected flow of information.

  Terri suffered in silence and hedged for more. "Thanks for the name. I'll pull this guy's rap sheet when I get back to headquarters."

  "Save you some time. He doesn't have a rap sheet."

  Now that surprised her. "You sure?"

  "Yeah. His brother, Jamie, is doing hard time for running drugs, supposed to get out in a month. We found Nathan when he buried his mother a few weeks back and someone in our unit mistook him for Jamie."

  "They look that much alike?"

  Brady licked his lips, then said, "Pretty close. We dug around, found out Jamie was still in prison and that Nathan was listed as MIA from the army two years ago… the same time his brother got put away. Didn't take much to figure out he'd gone AWOL to come home and take care of his sick mother."

  That made sense. It also made her ache for the poor man on the gurney. Shame to do something so noble and then end up l
ike this. "So what did Nathan do for you?"

  Brady shrugged, his gaze moving around the room as if he was contemplating how much more he'd share.

  Or was he shading the truth?

  He paced two steps again as he spoke. "Nathan had special training in the military. We approached him and said we wouldn't tell the army about finding him if he'd go undercover and help us nail the head of the family. He agreed, got a job in a shipping company, a front for moving contraband."

  In other words, Brady caught the poor sucker at a real low moment and coerced him into working for the DEA.

  Terri tried to think professionally and keep her emotions locked away, but this guy had basically died because he got blackmailed into helping the Feds. "You screwed him."

  "Not really." Brady broke eye contact as he spoke, a sign he was hiding something. "We had good intel. Nathan was dealing drugs, just not at the level his brother Jamie had. We didn't ask him to do anything he wasn't already into."

  Terri accepted the information, with a healthy dose of suspicion. She'd worked with Brady long enough to know he was either holding back or tweaking the truth.

  He crossed his arms. "We gave Nathan a file on the major players in the family we were after and asked if he thought he could get inside."

  "Like he had a choice?"

  "Everyone has a choice, Terri." His tone carried more weight than the topic they discussed. He wasn't over her subtle rejection, nor had he found it subtle.

  She broke eye contact this time. "Whatever."

  Surprisingly, Brady kept talking. "Nathan said he knew the family from what his brother had told him. Said he'd go in if we would get his brother out of prison early and clear his military record. I agreed. If he'd gotten us what we needed by this Friday, I'd have had his brother out by this weekend, barring any discipline issues. So he screwed himself."

  She frowned. "How long has his brother been in the pen?"

  " 'Bout two years."

  "Then why the rush to get him out a couple weeks early?"