Intrigue Books 1-6

by Delores Fossen, Rachel Lee, Carol Ericson, Tyler Anne Snell, Rita Herron

  Kate slowed her pace, released the breath she’d been holding. Her scars burned, but the sensation was only in her head. She knew that. The adrenaline lingering in her veins from the situation—almost the exact same one she’d survived a year ago—was her brain’s way of protecting her. Of sending up a warning. Besides, it’d been months since her last surgery, and scar tissue lacked nerve cells. She wasn’t supposed to feel anything.

  She studied the small window in the door leading to the firm’s medical suite, and her insides tightened. She wasn’t supposed to feel at all.

  “I have no idea who pulled the trigger tonight.” The shooting couldn’t have been a coincidence. The chances both she and Declan would be in that house again, at the same time... There were too many variables to calculate. Especially given that Declan Monroe had legally died over a year ago. Had he been waiting for her to show? Brian Michaels, her patient who destroyed everything she’d known in the span of a minute, was still behind bars. Whoever had shot at them tonight couldn’t have been him. Why come after her now? Or had she been the target at all?

  “Take it easy on the carpet, Doc.” Anthony pushed off the wall, hands dropping to his sides for better access to his arsenal if necessary. “Sullivan will kill you if he has to pay to replace it twice in two months.”

  Right. The bomb meant for their network security analyst had wiped out this entire floor two months ago. Was that her teammate’s way of telling her they were never safe, even in the most protected and secure building in Anchorage?

  Blackhawk Security employed the finest security experts in the world. She and her team provided personal protection, private investigating, logistical support to the US government, profiling and personal recovery. Whatever their client needed, they delivered. They did it all, and they did a good job. If the shooter had been targeting her, he’d be insane to try here.

  Kate slowed her pacing, fingers tightening into fists. She was losing her mind. She was better than this. She’d been a psychologist. She’d struggled through months of grief by shutting everything down, ignored her instinctual drives, repressed the anger and hurt. What was wrong with her now? What had changed?

  The door to the medical suite swung open.

  Declan stood in the frame, those familiar blue eyes locking on her as he placed his hand over the new hole in his T-shirt, and everything went quiet.

  The tension in her chest eased, and she stood a bit straighter. Right. Declan Monroe hadn’t died after all. He’d cheated death. Twice. She took a single step toward him, caught in the gravitational pull she’d never been able to resist.

  “Don’t take too long, Doc. Everyone’s waiting for you.” Anthony crossed the waiting area filled with comfortable chairs and an empty receptionist’s desk to the large oak doors of the main conference room. Swinging them open, he didn’t wait for her before heading inside.

  Leaving her and Declan alone.

  She tamped down the anxiety clawing up her throat. “How’s your side—”

  “This is where you work.” The smile she’d dreamed of seeing again flashed wide, hiking her blood pressure higher. So easygoing but gut-wrenching at the same time. “Good as new,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “Good.” Nodding, Kate rolled her bottom lip into her mouth and bit down, a nervous habit she’d picked up to distract herself when reality crept in. Which happened all too often. She scratched at the back of her neck in another attempt to lock it out. What was she supposed to say to the man who’d supposedly died because she failed to recognize the warning signs in her own patient? “Tell me where the hell you’ve been. Because none of this makes sense.”

  The words slipped out. She clenched her fists to ease the stress that had been building since Elliot had given her the photo of Declan in downtown Anchorage a month ago.

  The stubble along his jawline shifted as he ran his hand over his face. Closing the distance between them, he heightened her awareness of him with every step. “Not much to tell. I woke up in a hospital alone. I didn’t know where I was or what had happened. Who I was. I could barely move because of the pain in my chest, and no matter how hard I tried... I couldn’t remember anything.”

  She held her breath as he raised one hand toward her face. This wasn’t real. Soon she’d wake up, realize she’d been living a beautiful nightmare, and the grief would crush her again. But then he touched her. Her eyes drifted closed as he framed her face, and she leaned into his warmth. Wrapping her hand around his, she forced herself to look at him. To learn his face all over again.

  “I remembered you for the first time three weeks after I left the hospital, and I knew I had to find you.” Declan brushed his thumb across her cheek. Too soon, he pulled away, taking his body heat with him, and the brightness in his gaze dimmed. “I remembered other things, too. Bits and pieces. But nothing that explained how I ended up shot.”

  “You don’t remember anything before waking up in the hospital?” Her mouth dried. Retrograde amnesia. Partial or total loss of every memory he’d ever lived. She’d studied cases back in her doctoral program at University of Oregon, but never imagined she’d be involved in the real-life nightmare that came with the condition. But he hadn’t sustained any head or brain injuries as far as she knew during the shooting. Which suggested trauma. His brain had blocked the incident as a way of protecting itself. “Your parents, your work, your favorite food?”

  “Nothing. Guess that means I have a lot to catch up on.” His attention drifted to the top of her shirt collar, to the largest of her scars. Declan’s voice turned to gravel. “Your scar looks like mine. How many bullets did they pull from you?”

  She gave in to the urge to cover up, rubbing the fabric of her shirt collar between her fingers. They were a reminder of the worst night of her life, the onset of a lifetime of pain and grief, a kind of death sentence that she’d go through the rest of her life alone.

  But he wasn’t dead. He was here.

  His condition might let up. She’d have to dig into her research, call a former colleague to be sure, but he might remember the life they had together, the years they’d spent together. Hope spread hard and fast, and Kate gave in for just a moment. To remember what it felt like.

  Bullets. He’d asked about bullets. “Three.”

  “They catch the bastard who did it? Your patient.” The blue in his eyes turned to ice, the tendons between his neck and shoulder visibly tightening. Her insides went cold, her instincts on alert. The man she’d married—the one she’d built an entire life with—had never shown signs of aggression in front of her, despite it being a large part of his job inside the FBI’s serial crime unit. So who exactly had come back from the dead? Her husband or somebody else entirely?

  “My teammate, Elliot, found him a few weeks after I started working for Blackhawk Security. Nearly six months after the shooting. He’s one of those people who likes to know everything there is to know about the people he works with, and I wasn’t an exception.”

  She slipped her hands into her cargo jacket—no, his jacket—pockets, but the guilt she’d shouldered only weighed heavier in her stomach. She’d done this to him—to them. She’d been so blinded by her own personal life, she hadn’t seen what was happening right in front of her. How many other patients had she failed? How many lives had been changed due to her negligence?

  “Brian Michaels had been off his medication for a few months. Toxicology screen came back for additional medication I wasn’t aware he’d been taking. The steroids only increased his aggressive behavior to the point...” She didn’t need to tell Declan the results. He’d lived them, same as her. “He’s in a psychiatric ward here in the city. Sentenced to twenty years for murder.”

  “If he’s locked up, then who do I have to thank for a bullet in my side tonight?” Declan asked.

  “I don’t know.” Kate turned toward the conference room door and the entire Blackhawk Security team wa
iting for her briefing. She’d almost lost him—again—but this time would be different. Wrenching the large oak door open, she leveled her chin, more determined than she’d been in months. Whatever didn’t kill her this time had better run. “Let’s find out.”

  * * *

  “LOOKS LIKE WE’VE got a new case.” A heavily muscled man seated at the head of the table stood. “Sullivan Bishop. I run the place.” He closed in on them, hand extended.

  Shaking his hand, Declan noticed the guy moved with measured strength, and if Declan had to guess, the founder of Blackhawk Security was former military. The dirt under Sullivan’s nails said this definitely wasn’t a man who sat behind the desk while his team ran cases he wasn’t willing to get his hands dirty with first.

  “You’ve already met Anthony.” Sullivan acknowledged the silent and armed weapons expert standing against one wall. “Elizabeth Dawson is our network security analyst.”

  A dark-haired woman with a heart-shaped face and leather jacket nodded.

  “Vincent Kalani runs forensics.” Pointing to the massive wall of muscle on the other side of Kate, Sullivan took his seat. Long black hair brushed across the guy’s shoulders, an overgrown beard hiding his expression. “And Elliot Dunham here is the one who discovered you’re still alive.”

  “Welcome back to the land of the living.” Elliot extended two fingers in a wave, one foot stacked over the opposite knee. Storm-gray eyes zeroed in on Declan, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The guy was studying him. Every move. Every word out of his mouth. Looking for secrets? Something to use? Declan checked his expression. Not happening.

  “Kate’s already given us a briefing on your death,” Sullivan said. “Why don’t you fill us in on the rest, so we can find the bastard who took a shot at my profiler tonight, Mr. Monroe?”

  Declan took a seat at the large conference table with one hand positioned over the bullet hole in his side. A vast view of the Chugach mountain range was visible through the span of windows behind Sullivan Bishop. Funny how Declan could name each peak along the range but couldn’t remember his own damn name, where he’d worked before waking up in the hospital or the fact he’d been married. His senses automatically settled on the woman sitting beside him. His wife. Hell, were they even still married since he’d been declared dead?

  He studied the rest of the team, the weight of their attention settling on him. “What do you want to know?”

  “Where’d you go after you left Providence Alaska Medical Center?” Elizabeth leaned forward in her chair, her chocolate-brown gaze flickering to Kate for a moment before she refocused on him. The laptop in front of her highlighted the dark circles beneath her eyes, the softness around her middle exaggerated by a too-large maternity shirt. New mother.

  “Brother Francis Shelter.” He pressed his back into his chair, stretching the brand-new stitches in his side, and braced against the table. “It’s not much, but I get a hot meal every night, a place to sleep, and they don’t ask questions I can’t answer.”

  There was a soft gasp from Kate as she massaged the thin skin of her left temple.

  “Anyone ever follow you, or you get the feeling you were being watched?” This one from the one Sullivan had called Vincent. Based on his line of questioning, Declan pegged him as former law enforcement. A cop? Federal agent? The tattoos climbing up the guy’s neck had already started showing their age. All done at the same time. Declan guessed four, five years max, but Blackhawk was fairly new, and no cop would be able to get away with ink like that unless it’d been part of a cover identity. Undercover work then.

  About two months after regaining consciousness, Declan had started picking up on those kinds of details. Small things at first. The small amount of mud on the shoes of one of the shelter’s other residents. The way the same man had disappeared when Anchorage PD had cleared out Buffer Park for the night. Almost as if Declan had been drawn to the guy’s activities. But there’d never been a point where he’d picked up on being watched. Nobody had followed him to that house tonight, either. He was sure of it. “No. Never.”

  “What about your consulting case, Kate?” Sullivan landed an assessing gaze on his profiler, fingers tapping on the gleaming surface of the table. “Or any of your other cases where someone might’ve left unhappy?”

  “Anchorage PD and the FBI only brought me in this morning to run a profile for a serial murder case. There hasn’t been time for me to make any conclusions or to connect me with the investigation.” There was little inflection in Kate’s voice, as though she were a woman dictating her grocery list into her phone instead of a woman who’d nearly been shot a couple hours ago. Shifting in her seat, she cast her gaze to the paperwork set before her. “Given the fact I resemble all three of the case’s victims, a connection isn’t impossible, but the killer’s MO includes an arrow and crossbow. No guns.”

  Every cell in Declan’s body caught fire. She was the possible target of a serial killer? He set his teeth against the rising flood of possession. This was her job, and from what he’d gathered from her notes back at the house, she was damn good at it. Despite the fact they’d been married, he was sitting next to a stranger thanks to some dramatic event he couldn’t remember. He had no claim on her safety, but he would find the bastard who’d tried to hurt her. With or without Blackhawk Security’s help.

  “Is Michaels still behind bars?” Sullivan asked. “He’s already proven this kind of thing is right up his alley.”

  “Yes, as far as I know.” Kate’s hand constricted around the arm of her chair, her knuckles white against the coffee-colored leather.

  “Liz, let’s follow up with Corrections,” Sullivan said. “Michaels has family, friends. One of them might not have been too happy about the way his case was handled.”

  “On it.” Elizabeth made a note on the small notepad beside her. “Shouldn’t take too long.”

  An automatic response had Declan interlacing his fingers between Kate’s. Some part of him deep down considered her well-being more important than his own. Or was his body’s response an attempt to recover even just a sliver of the memories he’d lost by physically connecting with the one person it recognized the most? A war had already erupted inside of him. Between his irrational urge to protect the wife he’d left behind, the compulsion to make her shooter pay and the need to uncover his past, Declan had to make a choice. “What about me? Could there be a threat from the time before I woke up in the hospital? Something to do with my job or family member?

  Kate pulled her hand back, setting it in her lap.

  Surprise infiltrated through the wall of certainty he’d built.

  “Now there’s where things get interesting,” Elliot said. “I mean, aside from the fact your surgeon apparently tried to pass off a body in the hospital morgue as you to avoid having to answer for his patient suddenly missing from his hospital bed.” He slid a file folder across the table. “Which I have him admitting to on audio, by the way. That guy isn’t going to be cutting anyone open anytime soon.”

  Declan caught the folder before it dove off the edge, his name clearly on the tab’s label. He’d run from the hospital so fast, he hadn’t thought to read the patient chart in his room. For the past year, he’d assumed a different name, guessed at his age and birth date and had been searching records every week for a lead. His first instinct had been to run. He didn’t know why. Only remembered the need to get as far from the hospital as possible. But this file... He had the answers he’d been looking for right in his hand.

  Flipping open the cover, he skimmed the first page. “I worked with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit for eight years. In their serial crime division. Special Agent Declan Monroe.” A copy of his federal ID was right there in full color.

  He studied Kate’s expression, but she’d shut him out, intent on the design etched into the massive conference table. A profiler and a special agent who hunt
ed criminals. Was it their work that had brought them together in the first place?

  He scanned the list of his recent cases, but nothing stood out or jump-started another memory. “I don’t recognize any of these old cases.”

  “But the perps might recognize you,” Sullivan said. “Liz, get an update on Special Agent Monroe’s past cases with the FBI, too. See if one of the suspects has been holding on to a grudge, and we’ll work from there. The sooner the better.”

  “You got it.” Elizabeth nodded, then stood, taking her laptop with her.

  She wouldn’t be the only one going through those cases. Declan’s grip tightened on the stack of papers inside his file. Elliot had dug up the past, but this was Declan’s job. His marriage. His life. He’d do whatever it took to get it back.

  “Vincent, go back to Kate’s house and dig as many bullets out of those walls as it takes to see if we can get a print, a ballistics match or anything to identify the shooter.” Sullivan rounded the table as the forensics expert stood and followed Elizabeth out the door. “Anthony, tag along with Vincent in case the shooter gets an itch to finish the job. Elliot, you’re on Kate’s cases. I want to know if any of our current or past clients have had a problem with her since she came back from leave.”

  Came back from leave? Confusion rippled through Declan, which was common these days. He hauled himself to his feet as the meeting had obviously concluded. There had to be someone—other agents he’d worked with, a boss, a partner—who’d help him get his hands on his old case files.

  “I admire you, Kate.” Elliot straightened, nodding with a closemouthed smile. He rolled back his shoulder as though his muscles had stiffened up. “Took you two full weeks to get someone to start shooting at you. That’s longer than I’ve gone.”

  “Thanks, Elliot. My client files are in my office.” Kate stood, expression guarded. She pushed her chair back into the table without a single glance in Declan’s direction. She nodded. “I need to start my profile on the FBI’s serial case and check in with Special Agent Dominic.”