by Sylvie Kurtz
Falconer aimed the remote at the screen and a face popped onto it. “We’ve been tasked with finding Abrielle Holbrook, daughter of Elliot Holbrook of Holbrook Mills in Echo Falls, Mass.”
Everything in Gray stilled. Though the mirrored lenses of his glasses shielded his eyes from everyone, the gray tint was light enough for him to see every detail clearly. Abbie’s picture filled the screen, and the past he’d worked so hard to leave behind slapped him between the eyes. There in front of him was the image of everything he’d ever wanted. Everything he’d been told he could never have.
Abrielle Helena Holbrook. A.H.H. Not just her initials but also the sound people usually made when they saw her.
Abbie was golden—from her honey hair to her honey eyes to her achingly sweet personality. You wanted to hate her for all she had, but you simply couldn’t. He had never met a single person who didn’t like her. Seeing her face on the screen knocked him off center. She was the absolute last person he’d have thought would ever need WITSEC. How could the girl every guy had been in love with and every girl wanted as a friend now be running for her life—not only from the scum who’d forced her into WITSEC but from the program itself? The girl was allergic to conflict.
“Isn’t Holbrook Mills involved with the Steeltex project?” Skyralov asked.
“They are,” Falconer said.
Harper frowned so deeply, his eyebrows met in the center of his forehead. “What’s Steeltex?”
Falconer clicked the remote, and a picture of a soldier dressed in camouflage came onto the screen. In the next slide, only a miragelike shimmer distinguished the soldier from the brick wall behind him. “It’s a new fabric the U.S. Army is working on. It transmits visual information about color, light and patterns through the fiber to make whoever wears it nearly invisible against any background. Microdots are woven in to locate a downed soldier. The latest model contains conductive fibers in the chest area that can monitor vital functions of an injured soldier. This information can be relayed by wireless signal to a remote location such as a field hospital.”
The V between Falconer’s eyes deepened. “That project and the safety of our troops out in the field are compromised if Abrielle Holbrook isn’t found in time to testify at her father’s murder trial. Because of the Steeltex project, the trial’s high threat.”
“Her father was murdered?” Gray’s nerves were running a marathon, but he spoke as casually as if he were relaxing beachside.
Falconer clicked the next slide forward, flashing a picture of Elliot Holbrook on the screen. Gray-haired, blue-eyed, fair and generous. The man had kept the small mill town of Echo Falls alive when everyone else had given it up for dead. No one was good enough for his daughter. But, then, when you had a daughter like Abbie, how could they be?
The next photo was of a younger man who’d tried his best to present a Pierce Brosnan 007 image but couldn’t quite cut the right attitude. He wore the better-than-you sneer of the typical bully. “Elliot Holbrook was murdered by his business partner, Raphael Vanderveer.”
The next slide turned Gray’s stomach. In color that was so vivid it almost looked fake, the James Bond wannabe held a pistol at Holbrook’s head. Smoke puffed out of the muzzle. Red mist sprayed out from Holbrook’s head. Gray recognized the place—Holbrook’s office in the back of the mansion on the hill.
Mercer’s voice floated from the shadows of the wall. “Where’d that photo come from?”
“The subject took it.”
Abbie had photographed her own father’s murder? The fast-food egg-bagel sandwich he’d wolfed down on his way here turned to brick. He hoped to heaven someone was there for her. She adored her father. Her whole world revolved around pleasing him. Losing him, witnessing his murder, would’ve torn her apart.
“Over the last month,” Falconer said, “information on her whereabouts was compromised three times. Three deputies are dead. After the last attack she disappeared and hasn’t been seen since. The Service is worried about her safety.”
Six slides clipped by, showing a photo of each of the three men as it appeared on their badges and a crime-scene photo of each of their corpses. Gray’s skin grew cold. His mind couldn’t wrap itself around Abbie having to witness such violence. That was his world, not hers. Hers was all softness and light. She could capture magic with her camera, render a child’s face into a work of art, a family portrait into an intimate revelation of cohesion. The photograph she’d taken of him and his sister at Brynna’s sixteenth birthday party was the only thing he’d taken with him when he’d left Echo Falls. Had she shut down as she had when her mother died? Without her tight-knit group of friends who would have shaken her out of her mental fog? Where had she run?
“Here’s our subject’s profile.” Dry statistics that couldn’t even begin to describe the life that buzzed around Abbie glared at him from the screen.
Skyralov sipped green tea. “What was her last location?”
Kingsley popped a suspender. “Ed Kushner was killed in Providence, Rhode Island. After that, Inspector Auclair took her to a small motel outside of Hartford, Connecticut. She escaped through a bathroom window.” Pictures of the motel, the window and the surroundings clicked across the screen. A lone imprint of a bare foot on the shoulder of a road. That more than anything made it real. Abbie’s foot in the sand. How often had he seen that image?
Gray shook his head. Don’t go there. “Where’s the trial?”
“Boston,” Falconer said. “Eight days from today. We have to find her. Without her, Vanderveer has no reason to reveal the extent of his treason. We have cause to believe he’s behind the attempted murder of Abrielle Holbrook.”
Falconer’s chair whispered as he turned to face Mercer. “Mercer, I want you to track the witness and bring her back. Reed, since you’ve worked WITSEC, you’ll go in posing as a deputy to find the inside—”
“I’ll track.” Gray sat as still as an art-class model. He could not let Falconer know how much he wanted to lead the retrieval team.
Falconer frowned at him. “This isn’t multiple choice.”
“I’ll track.” Be firm. Keep it cool. “I know how to find her.”
Falconer contemplated him with his hard eyes and sharp face. Without breaking eye contact, he said, “Harper, you’ll go undercover. Mercer, you’ll help Reed track.”
“I can track alone. No sweat.”
“That’s all, gentlemen,” Falconer announced. “Check your PDAs for updates. Reed, stay behind.”
Four sets of curious eyes appraised him as they filed out.
After Kingsley closed the door, Falconer sat on the corner of the conference table. “How much sleep have you had?”
Gray flashed him a smile. “You know me. I can sleep anywhere. I got some shut-eye on the plane.”
“It cuts close to home.”
“I know.”
“Can you handle going back?”
The strange thing about Falconer was that he asked for everything and somehow you felt compelled to give it to him. He knew the deep, dark secrets of each of his team’s men. But the courtesy didn’t extend both ways. He was still a mystery to them. But there was trust. And that said a lot. Falconer knew about Echo Falls, knew about the strained relationship between him and his sister, Brynna, knew the hard time he’d had surviving the unforgiving label of coward branded onto him by small-town narrow-mindedness.
But he didn’t know about Abbie. Gray had never told a soul about Abbie.
Gray leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, arms splayed wide—the image of relaxation. “Yeah, I can handle going back. That’s why I took your job offer in the first place.” Sort of.
Falconer turned the remote in his hand. “You’ve been here over a year and you haven’t set foot in Massachusetts.”
Gray popped a careless shrug. “Guess I just needed a push.” If he had, he’d have known about Abbie’s father and could have helped her.
“I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”<
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“I know her. I know Echo Falls. I can find her faster than anyone here.”
Someone within the program wanted to harm his golden girl. He might have had nothing to offer her thirteen years ago, but now he could keep her safe from the bullies who wanted to hurt her. “I understand her. I understand where she’s coming from. I understand the program that betrayed her.” He was her only chance.
“It’s not just Abrielle, Reed. There’s WITSEC’s reputation and the lives of soldiers at stake.”
“I get that.”
A long silence loaded the room with tension, high-strung and expectant. Never let them see you sweat.
Falconer reached forward and with a finger flicked Gray’s glasses so they rested on top of his head. “Tell me about Abrielle.”
Gray willed his naked gaze to meet Falconer’s straight on. Never let them see your pain. He grinned and made a joke out of the feelings that had nearly eaten him alive. “She was the princess in the mansion and I was the guy from the wrong side of the tracks.”
“I see.”
Gray feared maybe Falconer was seeing too much. “I never stood a chance.”
“A schoolboy’s first crush can make him blind to boundaries.”
“But he still understands their restrictions.” Especially when they were pounded into him.
“Make sure you do.” Falconer rose and gathered his files. “You find her and you bring her in. Is that understood?”
“Crystal clear.”
“Mercer’s my best tracker. He’s going with you. This is too important.”
Just what Gray needed—a shadow to witness his weakness.
ALL PRISON TELEPHONE conversations were taped, so Raphael Vanderveer had to learn to talk about what to the censors would sound like treason as if it were apple pie. But what did the little minds know about how the world really worked? They didn’t understand he was selling defective merchandise to the enemy while working on the real thing for the U.S. government. Why shouldn’t he profit from the enemy’s greed? “I’ll need a new suit for court.”
“Check.”
That’s what he liked about Pamela Hatcher—her efficiency. With just those few words she’d know what to do. It wasn’t that they were intimate. He’d hired her because he wasn’t attracted to her. She was a steel stork of a woman, with a face like a scarecrow and delusional fantasies of being the next Lara Croft. But her mind was sharp enough to cut paper and she understood him. So few people did. A vengeful woman was a force more fearsome than an atomic bomb, and he never wanted pleasure to interfere with business. No sex. No jealousy. No need to worry about female revenge. Pamela got that. What she wanted from him wasn’t passion; it was adventure.
“Have my tailor cut a dress for you while he’s at it.” Raphael pulled on the cigar he’d paid a small fortune for.
“Really?” Pamela’s squeal of delight was real. In his generous understanding of her fantasy, he’d offered her the kind of assignment that would send someone like Pamela in throes more satisfying than any orgasm. How often had she asked for a more hands-on part in this game he was playing with his captors? Now she’d get to tackle the role of private investigator.
“Any word on the Belgian chocolates yet?” Abbie was a sweet more delicious than any candy, as Pamela already knew. But Abbie had escaped the box he’d put her in, and he needed her back.
“You don’t pay me enough for all this runaround.” Pamela pretended to whine.
Another little ruse. The censors heard an overworked, underpaid assistant. But Pamela knew the worth she brought him, and he paid her accordingly. Nothing Uncle Sam could get his hands on, mind you. All part of the fun for Pamela. “I just gave you a designer dress.” Out of fabric so secret, being caught wearing it would have her tried for treason.
“Um, so you did.” She giggled like a schoolgirl, already anticipating the thrill of the hunt. He beamed at his foresight to hire her.
“Check the order confirmation and track down that chocolate. And make sure the contents aren’t damaged.” He blew out rings of smoke. As soon as he got what he needed from Abbie and erased her from the picture, he could get back to business. She’d already cost him almost a year of his life. He’d make her pay for all of her sins. “I want to celebrate my release in style.”
Chapter Two
Gray had sent Mercer to sniff Abbie’s trail at its last known point, but the shortcut to information lay in this armpit Gray had sworn he’d never come back to.
The skeleton of houses forming the backbone of Echo Falls appeared through the rain-drenched windshield of his Corvette. How could so little have changed in thirteen years?
Echo Falls squatted in northwestern Massachusetts, east of Highway 91, north of Route 2. A town lost in time, tucked in its own little world. Settlers had followed the law of least effort, taking advantage of the natural fall of water from Holbrook Pond to Bitter Lake, which then emptied into the Prosper River and into the Connecticut River. To make up for the falls’ lack of grandeur, the founding family had somewhere along the road built a spectacular granite arch bridge over the fast-moving river.
Originally water powered the wool mills; now it was electricity. The surviving mill buildings still stood on their original site, reflecting on the pond on sunny days. Built in 1774, Holbrook House still faced south, overlooking the river. As the family grew, more estates were built on Holbrook land. Five grand brick homes once lorded over the lower village where the peons lived in boardinghouses on Peanut Row. In the late 1800s, that constituted enough political power to divert a railway to this nothing town.
The train had long ago stopped coming and the tracks turned into nature trails. Modern gabled capes, contemporaries and colonials mixed in with the old brick homes, Victorians and farmhouses. Posh homes still cropped up in the small upper village. Working stiffs still lived paycheck to paycheck in the larger lower village. Of course, Holbrooks didn’t own all the fancy homes now, only the original house on Mill Road.
As Gray crested over the last hill, he let out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d held. Orange construction barricades closed off the old bridge and redirected traffic through the lower village. Great. He’d hoped to avoid meandering through the center of town.
At least the rain watered down the hard edges. He didn’t really want to see the old hometown and all the bitter memories that stagnated there. The plan was to talk to his sister, get a lead on Abbie and get out of this hellhole as fast as possible. Take it in like a reporter, Gray. Or a travel writer. Notice, don’t feel.
He gritted his teeth as he passed the middle school. Even through the slosh of rain and the tint of his sunglasses every ugly detail glared at him. His grip tightened on the steering wheel and he pretended not to see the redbrick building. Voices from the past crowded in, making his skin shrink too tightly around him. Cry-baby. Loser. Wimp. You can’t do anything right. Run, you coward, run.
Coward.
He rolled his shoulders, trying to dislodge the old taunts that had been the steady staple of his school years.
To his left, the high school’s mustard-brick facade smeared between swipes of his wipers. There he was voted most likely to fail and end up in jail. This in spite of being ranked ninth in a class of one hundred and three, lettering in three sports and working twenty-five hours a week. Ironic really that his job was putting scumbags back behind bars where they belonged. Including, once, a former classmate. The all-grown-up Mr. Soccer Star still liked to pick on boys who were smaller than he was.
Who’s laughing now?
It was all in the past. He was no longer the runt who had to play class clown or run to save his hide. He no longer had to fight his sister for the last scrap of food on the table. He could stand up straight and be proud of who he was and what he’d become. He was good enough for anyone—including Abbie.
Yeah, right. Her old man would still have found fault with him.
At Peanut Row he slowed. The old weight of doom he’d dragged around like
a ball and chain fitted itself around his neck. He loosened his tie. You’re not that kid anymore.
Spinners’ Tavern still stood on the corner. Still had a steady clientele even at eleven in the morning. His mother had probably spent more time on the second bar stool from the right than she had at home. Like a stick of peppermint gum was going to mask the booze and fool them into thinking she’d actually gone to work for a change.
The last house on this dead-end street looked better than the last time he’d seen it. The door and shutters wore a fresh coat of lipstick-red paint. But not even the bright color could erase the tired slouch of the roofline or the defeat of the sagging siding. The wipers taunted him, coward, coward, coward.
Now that he was here, he wasn’t quite sure what to do. The last time he’d talked to Brynna, she’d screamed at him to never call her again and had slammed down the phone. All of his calls after that were screened through a voice box, and she hadn’t returned any. But then Bryn had never played by anyone’s rules; she’d made up her own. That’s what got her kicked out of the police academy. Last he’d heard she’d gotten a P.I. license. He couldn’t imagine that business was booming for her here.
Maybe she was right. Maybe he was a coward for not pushing the issue. Maybe he had run from his responsibility to her. But only an idiot went where he wasn’t wanted.
Rain drummed impatiently on the ragtop of his Corvette, reminding him of his mother’s red nails clicking against the cracked kitchen table. Are you just going to sit there? Her shrill voice taunted. For heaven’s sake, Grayson, grow a spine. Do you want to end up like your father?
Don’t know. That might be a good thing.
The imagined smack of his mother’s slap stung his cheek.
He twisted off the ignition and, rounding his shoulders against the pelt of rain, trotted across the street to the red door. For a second his hand hovered above the glossy red paint, then he knocked.
A volley of small yips answered him. “Quiet, Queenie!”