At Risk

by Inc. Thriller Writers

  “She took the fucking diamonds!” the man said, scrambling to get up and run after her.

  So she wasn’t in on it. Now he had to protect her or this guy would kill her for sure. Donovan tried to pull him down by the leg, but the man fell on top of him, crushing him with his weight. He had complete advantage and a gun pointed directly at Donovan.

  “Bye-bye, bodyguard.” He took a breath, just about to pull the trigger when a deadly five-inch heel smacked the man’s face, shocking him enough to let Donovan shove him off.

  Instantly, Donovan flipped him over and got his own Glock in the bastard’s belly, looking up long enough to see Claudia in the doorway.

  “Thank you,” she mouthed.

  Without bothering to retrieve her shoe, she disappeared into the next car and let him finish the job of taking down the thief.

  * * *

  Even with the side trip to the French police station, it was 2:59 p.m. when Donovan arrived with the bag of diamonds at the Paris showroom of Boisvert Jewelers, a few doors away from the Plaza Athénée. Lucy had texted her congratulations and informed him the client was most pleased.

  Getting there on time would just be icing on the happy guy’s cake.

  “Bonjour,” he greeted the receptionist outside the management offices. “I’m Donovan Rush with the Bullet Catchers. I have an appointment with Monsieur Boisvert.”

  She smiled. “Oui?” There was amusement and admiration in her eyes. “We have heard of your heroics on the Thalys, monsieur. Une moment, s’il vous plaît.”

  He glanced at his watch as the receptionist disappeared behind a set of double doors. If she hurried, he’d make it.

  Four minutes later, she emerged. “You may go in now, Monsieur Rush.” She held the door and he walked past into a large, dimly lit empty office. No one was here? After all the warnings to be on time?

  “Excuse me?” he said to the thin air. “I was told I had a meeting in here.”

  “You’re late, Monsieur Rush.” Very slowly, the executive chair facing the window turned, revealing…a woman.

  He just stared at her, processing everything. The mahogany hair. The crimson scarf. And a heart-stopping smile of pure sex and…authority.

  “Claudia Greenwood?”

  “Claudette, actually. And you should study your French, Donovan.” Her accent was thick…and natural.

  Green wood…bois vert. Of course. “You’re the CEO of Boisvert Jewelers.” It wasn’t a question; it didn’t need to be. “Why?”

  “We often test new couriers. The run-in at the train station was a test of your observation skills.” She pushed the chair back. “You passed.”

  “And the foot massage?” He lifted a brow. “A test of my concentration skills?”

  “Yes, but…” A soft flush rose to her beautiful cheeks. “I let my attraction to you take that a little too far.”

  Actually, not far enough, and the attraction, he couldn’t deny, was mutual. “And the attempted theft?”

  Her expression grew serious. “Unfortunately, that was no test. There was no real threat that we knew of. You were told that so we could monitor how you handled such a situation. But, when it happened? It was real. And you were impressive.”

  Holding her gaze, he approached her desk as she stood up. “I believe I have something of yours,” he said, reaching into his jacket pockets.

  “It better be worth two million dollars.”

  He held out the red velvet pouch. “It is. And this—” he reached into his other pocket and slid out a sexy high-heeled shoe “—is priceless when you consider it saved my life.”

  “You saved mine first, so we’re even.”

  She reached for the shoe, but he tossed it to the floor and let the diamonds drop with it. “No we’re not,” he said. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you.”

  He pulled her into his arms and backed her up to the desk to lay her down right on top of it.

  “Now?” Her question was a breathy whisper in his ear.

  “I wouldn’t dare keep my client waiting.”

  * * * * *

  COLD MOONLIGHT

  Carla Neggers

  Only a writer as gifted as Carla Neggers could use so few words to convey so much action and emotional depth.~SB

  Ryan “Grit” Taylor felt snow melting in his right boot. He didn’t feel whatever snow might be melting in his left boot because he didn’t have a left foot, or any of his left leg below the knee. In the year since he’d lost it in a firefight in Afghanistan, he’d learned to manage with a prosthesis…even in the Vermont snow, even while looking for Marissa Neal, the eldest daughter of Preston Neal, the vice president of the United States.

  It wasn’t a Navy SEAL mission. It was a Charlie Neal mission, Charlie being the youngest Neal, a sixteen-year-old meddling genius and the missing Marissa’s only brother. The Neals had arrived in tiny Black Falls, Vermont, last night for a long weekend in the early-spring snow. Charlie had popped out from behind a tree fifteen minutes ago, when Grit had gone to look for Marissa, thinking she might be making a snowman. Now he wasn’t sure what was going on. Charlie had a tendency to overreact.

  He also had a tendency to be right. He was worried about his sister.

  The Neals weren’t Grit’s responsibility, but Charlie knew how to give the Secret Service the slip and had done it before. Marissa probably knew how but she was the eldest of five, a history teacher, responsible, mature…pretty. Had she just wandered off? How?

  What if something was wrong?

  “My life didn’t used to be this complicated,” Grit said.

  Next to him in the snow, Charlie shook his head. He wasn’t wearing a hat, and his hair seemed even fairer in the early-evening light, with a half foot of fresh spring snow on the ground and clinging to every branch, twig and pine needle in the Green Mountains. “You’re wrong,” Charlie said finally; he was confident that way. “Your life was complicated even when you were fighting in Afghanistan. It only seemed simpler then because you were a member of a special operations team that worked under a chain of command, with a clear mission.”

  “Still am, still do.”

  Charlie paused on the snow-covered trail. His face was pale, much paler than it should have been given the cold temperature and the pace he’d been maintaining. “Do you have a clear mission now?”

  “Keep you safe. Find your sister. Keep her safe. Get you both back to the Secret Service.”

  “What if Marissa’s already—”

  “Don’t go there, Charlie. It won’t help.”

  Without comment, Charlie resumed walking. He and Grit both wore boots, not snowshoes or cross-country skis. There were no other prints in the snow. They rounded a sharp curve shrouded with evergreens. Elijah Cameron was there, as grim as Grit had ever seen him—which was saying something, since Elijah, a Special Forces soldier, had been in the firefight in the Afghan mountain pass the night Grit had lost his lower leg. Black Falls was Elijah’s hometown. He’d always wanted to come home.

  Black Falls wasn’t Grit’s hometown. Too cold.

  “Marissa Neal’s in trouble,” Elijah said, never one to ease into a conversation. He glanced at Charlie, then shifted his Cameron-blue eyes back to Grit. “I spotted her up on the trail. Then out of the blue some jackass decides to shoot at me sniper-style.”

  “You were hit,” Charlie said, wide-eyed as he took in the blood on Elijah’s shoulder.

  Elijah shrugged. “I’m good.”

  Grit knew better than to argue with him. “Where is Marissa now?”

  “There’s a ski chalet not far from here. She’s probably heading there to hide, try to get hold of the Secret Service. She’s got about a ten-minute head start on you.” Elijah glanced at Charlie. “You, too.” He turned back to Grit. “One of them is hurt. He
r or the guy who’s after her.

  “Blood trail?” Grit asked.

  Elijah gave a curt nod. “Intermittent.”

  Grit didn’t respond. Charlie’s instincts had been on target, not for the first time. Elijah’s presence had to have distracted whoever was after Marissa. Elijah had gone for an afternoon walk in the mountains he knew so well, maybe to think about his upcoming marriage to Jo Harper, a Secret Service agent and another native of pretty Black Falls, Vermont. He and Grit had become friends during the past year, but especially over the winter, when they discovered a network of killers had set up shop in Black Falls. The killers were now dead or in prison.

  Whoever was after Marissa Neal would be soon, too.

  “Let’s go,” Elijah said, teeth clenched.

  Charlie Neal was shivering, more from fear than cold, Grit thought as he looked up at the clear Vermont sky. “A nice day for maple sugaring, and here we are again.” He sighed at Elijah. “I thought you said Vermont was one of the safest states in the country.”

  “It is.”

  “Yeah. Just not Black Falls. Not lately.”

  Charlie stood between Elijah and Grit. “What do we do now?” Charlie asked.

  Grit took charge. “Elijah will get you back to the lodge. I’ll find your sister.”

  “Not a chance, Grit.” Elijah’s voice was low, uncompromising.

  Most people would be intimidated. Grit wasn’t. “I’d take you with me if I could, but you know I can’t, Elijah. You have a bullet in your shoulder.”

  “Graze.”

  “Take Charlie. The Secret Service must be all over this thing by now. You can fill them in.” Before Elijah could argue further, Grit added, “We’re wasting time.”

  Elijah was an experienced soldier and knew how to set aside his emotions and do what the situation demanded. “You’re not armed, Grit. Neither am I.” He glanced back through the woods, then shifted again to Grit. “It wasn’t supposed to be that kind of day.”

  “I’ll grab a big rock or something,” Grit said, half-serious. “I’ll be fine. Go.”

  Charlie was close to hyperventilating, his lips purple, the skin at his jaw splotchy. He looked younger than sixteen. “I have a gun.”

  Grit sank deeper into the snow, the ground underneath soft, beginning to thaw. “Figures. Is it loaded?”

  “Yeah. Of course. I wanted to be prepared. Just in case, you know?”

  Elijah had the weapon out of Charlie’s hand and into Grit’s in two seconds flat. A Browning 9 mm. It’d work.

  “It’s not mine,” Charlie said without a hint of defensiveness.

  Elijah held up a hand. “Stop right there. Don’t tell us anything we don’t need to know.”

  “I won’t get arrested. It’s a legal weapon.”

  No doubt Charlie could cite the appropriate Vermont and federal laws—or make them up as he went along—but a look from Elijah and Grit silenced him, which wasn’t easy to do.

  Despite his bullet wound, Elijah clapped an arm on the boy’s shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” Elijah winced as he lowered his arm. “I’ve been shot, you know. I need a damn doctor.”

  “The bullet didn’t hit any major organs or veins or arteries,” Charlie said. “You’d be dead by now if it had. How’s the pain?”

  “Not as bad as the pain of listening to a kid with a 180 IQ yap at me.”

  Elijah’s teasing seemed to energize and steady the teenager as they headed down the path, around the curve. Elijah glanced back just once, his expression grim, penetrating, as if he wanted to beam his strength and determination into Grit. Grit wished he could. He’d figured out early on in life—long before his SEAL training—that he wasn’t Superman.

  He ducked past a hemlock and saw blood, still bright red, splattered in the white snow. For a split second, Grit thought he could smell it, then realized that was a memory of a long, violent night a year ago—and the memory of the smell of his own blood.

  You can do this mission.

  He swallowed at the sound of the familiar voice close to him, as clear and calm as it had been that night in Afghanistan. As real. “Hey, Moose. What are you doing here?”

  You’re in love with Marissa Neal.

  Grit’s throat tightened. It was true. He was in love with Marissa. It’d started when he’d first met her last fall, just for a few seconds. He’d been chasing hired killers. Charlie had been trying to help on the sly. Marissa had been starchy, annoyed with Grit, annoyed with her brother. Understandably. With the network of killers finally dealt with, she and Grit had been spending time with each other the past month.

  “Yeah, Moose. I’m in love with her.”

  But Michael “Moose” Ferrerra wasn’t there in the Vermont snow. He was dead, killed in action on a bad night last year in a remote Afghan mountain pass. Grit gripped the 9 mm and averted his eyes from the blood.

  He had no illusions. He knew he was alone, and he knew the Secret Service wouldn’t get there in time. He had to find Marissa on his own.

  * * *

  Marissa Neal shoved a heavy butcher-block island in front of the back door of the unoccupied ski house where she’d taken refuge, but immediately pulled it back to the center of the kitchen. She didn’t want to barricade herself in the kitchen after all. She wanted to be able to run out onto the snow-covered mountain if the man chasing her found her here.

  Unless he’s already in the house…

  She gave herself a mental shake, refusing to let her fear take control. She’d checked for footprints and signs of a break-in before she’d smashed the door window and slipped into the house herself.

  She was breathing hard, but she was no longer dripping blood. She’d torn her hand on a broken branch and had managed to tie her scarf over the cut. It ached, but she ignored the pain. Her thick leggings were soaked and cold from her trek through the snow. She’d fallen twice—maybe three times. Once in the house, she’d pulled off her gloves and hat but was careful to stuff them in her jacket pockets, in case she had to flee. Hypothermia was a risk…but the immediate threat was the armed man who’d shot Elijah Cameron. She’d gotten a glimpse of the shooter. Enough to know it was a man but not enough for a description—to know who it was.

  Marissa tried to focus on what she had to do now. To figure out her options.

  I’m not a Cameron. I don’t know these woods. I don’t know where this place is.

  The house was at the top of a dead-end dirt road. How far was she from help? Marissa tried to keep unanswerable questions at bay. Forcing back panic, she kept moving, digging through the drawers and cupboards for anything she could use for self-defense. Knives, bottles, rags, chemicals. She’d already grabbed a gas can from the attached one-car garage.

  Elijah’s a combat veteran. He knows what to do.

  Even wounded, he’d find a way to get help to her. He’d spotted her above him on the trail and yelled for her to run, giving her a chance to get away—to get here.

  Going to him hadn’t been an option.

  Marissa quickly assembled her potential weapons on the floor by the table. She was avoiding windows, wanted to be prepared if the shooter came after her. She paused, peering down the dark hall that led from the kitchen. The house didn’t look as if anyone had stayed there all winter, but the driveway was plowed, the walks shoveled. The owners must have hired a local groundskeeper. Maybe whoever looked after the place would come by, help her.

  Except why would they if they’d already been here after yesterday’s snow?

  Marissa reminded herself that her sisters and brother and parents all were safe. She was a high school history teacher, the eldest of five. It didn’t matter that her father was the vice president. She was no more important than the next person.

  “Marissa. You okay in there?”

 
Grit. She recognized his soft, low voice and felt her knees buckle as relief washed over her. She wasn’t alone anymore.

  And he wasn’t the shooter. Not Ryan Taylor, Navy SEAL.

  “I am, Grit. I’m here.”

  He came through the back door, moving with an agility and smoothness that had surprised her at first, given his disability, but now she had come to expect. He was one of the finest men she’d ever known. He was also witty, sexy, ultracompetent and as incorrigible in his own way as her little brother. Except she didn’t think of him as a brother. Not even close. Right from the start, even when he’d annoyed her, Marissa had been attracted to him.

  “Damn, it’s dark and cold out there. Springtime in the frozen North.”

  Marissa bit back a smile and tears at the same time. “If you can figure out I’m here—”

  “So can the guy who’s after you.”

  She studied him for half a beat. He was dark-haired, wiry and quiet, with a quick wit and a steadiness that often took people by surprise. He’d told her he was a mix of Creek and Scots-Irish, a kid from the swamps of the Florida Panhandle who’d always wanted to see the world.

  “He’s not after me.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper as she realized what she was saying was true. “He’s not my enemy or my father’s enemy, or a Cameron enemy. Grit…” She took a breath. “He’s after you.”

  Grit shrugged. “Even better. Why’s he after me?”

  “Because you’re here. He lured me out here because he knew you’d come after me. It’s so clear to me now, Grit. Elijah was a surprise. That’s why he shot him. But I could teach yoga in Black Falls for all this man cares. He wants you, Grit. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Grit said, the moonlight catching his dark eyes as he turned to her. “You’re sure about this?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  He gave her a small grin. “That Neal intuition at work. You okay? The blood—”

  “A scratch. It’s nothing. I’m fine. The shooter wanted me to think Charlie was getting himself in trouble again. I see that now. I fell into his trap. I thought I could help. I thought…” Marissa didn’t finish. “I’m not a prisoner of the Secret Service. I’ve always cooperated. I’ve never stepped a toe out of line.”