The Shadow: Someone is Watching (Rahab's Rope Series Book 1)

by Kimberly Rae

  The ShADOW

  SOMEONE IS WATCHING

  Kimberly Rae

  THE SHADOW

  Copyright © 2017 by Kimberly Rae

  www.kimberlyrae.com

  Cover Design: Narrow Way Design

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. Unless otherwise noted, all Scripture verses taken from the Holy Bible, New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 Thomas Nelson Inc. Used by permission.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Rae, Kimberly

  The Shadow/Kimberly Rae - First edition.

  Summary: “Meagan Winston is suspected of drug trafficking on her trips to India. As former Marine Cole Fleming searches for the truth, he discovers clues of a possible stalker, but is the stalker real, or has Meagan created the possibility to distract him? Meagan herself fears trusting Cole. Is he truly there to help her, or is he the enemy in disguise?”

  -Provided by publisher.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017906967

  [1. Romantic Suspense-Fiction. 2. Romance-Fiction 3. Suspense-Fiction

  4. Human Trafficking in USA-Fiction. 5. International Human Trafficking-Fiction. 6. Drug Trafficking-Fiction.] I. Title. II.

  Title: SOMEONE IS WATCHING.

  The full characters and events in this book are fictional. Aside from the grandfather, any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  to the real-life

  Rahab’s Rope team,

  especially Emily Cohen,

  whose hair-coloring story

  sparked the idea for this book!

  You are all heroes.

  1

  Thursday, December 25

  3:30 p.m.

  Lucias Maddox Moore licked his thin lips and sighed. Meagan Winston was special. Extraordinary, really. She had to be tired from this last eleven-hour flight to Atlanta, as he was, but still she smiled at disembarking passengers near her and even helped an elderly woman with her bags before reaching for her own. Within the next twenty-four hours, her hair would be blond again. She always dyed it back after she returned from India. Lucias knew these things. He knew Meagan better than anyone. Perhaps better than she even knew herself.

  “Need help?” Lucias edged around a woman holding a fussy baby, and with his free hand grasped the small red carry-on Meagan had used every trip for the past three years. He pulled it down from the overhead compartment and placed it into her outstretched hands.

  “Thanks.” Her eyes met his for a brief moment and she smiled.

  The baby near him cried, and Meagan turned from him to pick up the pacifier the kid had thrown to the floor. She wiped it clean with her bright red scarf and handed it to the frazzled mother.

  Look at me, Meagan. Smile at me again. Lucias clenched his briefcase, hating it when she gave her smile, the smile he lived for, to the baby instead. She cooed at the kid then pulled her carry-on down the narrow aisle toward the exit door of the plane. He watched from behind as he had all six trips, dreading their parting, scrambling for a way to delay it.

  This last trip had been the most successful, his largest sale yet. He’d brought back something special this time, something that would be worth a lot to his connection. All because of Meagan. He had to find a way to thank her, to tell her how much she meant to him.

  Lucias quickened his pace the moment he stepped from the tunneled jet bridge onto the carpeted airport terminal floor, but other passengers merged between them. The woman with the baby stopped right in front of him to dig a ratty stuffed animal out of her diaper bag. He moved to the side and ran to catch up. He almost called out Meagan’s name.

  Instead he came to a sudden halt in the center of the concourse passageway and watched her walk away. Again. Now was not the time, or the place. It had to be when no one else was around. He looked at the crowd rushing around him and felt his breathing quicken. Claustrophobia slid up his spine and clamped tight around his throat. Lucias counted his steps toward the shuttle that would lead him out of the world’s busiest airport. There were too many people, too many strangers, all of them probably judgmental hypocrites like his old co-workers, so quick to claim he had an anger problem.

  His co-workers didn’t know him at all. He hadn’t been angry when he did it, just hurt. Claudia had rejected his love, had been cruel, had laughed at him. The police had never found any evidence, they never even found a body, but he still lost his job. His co-workers were afraid of him, afraid he’d done it, but they didn’t need to be. He was good to people as long as they treated him fair.

  The shuttle doors closed him in. He tried to calm his heart rate and ignore the heavy, fish-tinged breaths puffing out of the pot-bellied businessman to his right. The shuttle shot to twenty miles an hour within seconds, and fish-breath man grabbed the metal pole with the hand he had just used to wipe sweat from his neck. Lucias positioned his feet in a stabilizing position, both hands clamped around his briefcase handle, safe from the billions of bacteria thriving unseen across the surface of the pole, the walls, the people. “Arriving at B Gates,” the robotic voice announced above his head. He liked it better when they called them concourses. The doors opened, people exited, and he inhaled a lungful of clean air before a new batch of bodies crammed in around him. No, even if he caught up to Meagan, the six-million-square-foot Atlanta airport was not the place to tell her his feelings.

  “Arriving at A Gates.” He jostled his way through the open doors and headed for the escalator that led to baggage claim. If he hurried she might still be there, collecting her two charcoal grey suitcases that he knew bulged with jewelry.

  He stepped off the escalator and strained for a glimpse of the baggage area. His foot caught on the wheel of a passing child stroller, and his briefcase flew as he tumbled to the ground.

  The woman pushing the stroller halted. “Are you okay?”

  He scrambled to his hands and knees. “Where is it?” He grabbed the edge of the stroller and pushed it out of the way. “Where is it?” he shouted.

  The woman saw the briefcase just as he did. She picked it up but he rose to his feet and snatched it from her hands. “It’s mine!” He backed a step away and clutched it to his chest. People around them stopped, looked. Some pointed fingers. He forced himself to hold the briefcase in one hand and drop it to his side. Turn. Walk calmly. Act natural. Think about something pleasant.

  When Meagan was frustrated, she would find a place to sit down, then close her eyes and bow her head. He followed her example and chose a bench far from the staring people near the stroller. He dropped his chin and tried to think. This was not the day to bare his heart. January eighth was a possibility. Meagan’s twenty-sixth birthday was circled in red on his pocket calendar, her name in bold. But to wait two weeks would be hard. He’d rather create the perfect moment before then, something special they could both remember forever.

  He clenched the briefcase and battled inner fears. What if she laughed at him? Rejected him? He could not bear it.

  He lifted his face and gazed across the baggage claim area. Just beyond the fourth carousel, she materialized into view, so beautiful, like a touchable ray of sunshine. She headed for one of the seven possible exit doors, pulling the two grey suitcases, her red carry-on slung over one shoulder. He watched until the crowd hid her from his vision, like clouds blocking the light.

  His heart stilled
. Meagan wasn’t anything like Claudia. If he did everything just right, Meagan would care for him. She had to.

  2

  Friday, December 26

  12:35 p.m.

  The metallic blue SUV, sleek and brash, pulled onto the road from Lakeshore Mall’s parking lot and barreled straight toward Meagan Winston’s little VW bug.

  In her lane.

  Meagan’s pulse skittered and her hands gripped the steering wheel to the point of pain. If this was a game of chicken, there was no chance she would win. That big vehicle would pulverize her beat-up jalopy, and at the speed it traveled, her car would not be the only thing broken.

  “Get out of the way!” Meagan screamed. She swerved to the left, her bones jarring as the car lurched up onto the sidewalk. She swerved again to avoid the neighboring ditch. A telephone pole and fire hydrant filled her view next. Meagan slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel to maneuver away from the pole. The car fishtailed and stopped hard. Her forehead slammed against the steering wheel.

  Had she hit the fire hydrant?

  No water gushed from the red landmark. Not yet anyway. Meagan put the car in reverse. As she edged backward, she felt the car lower slightly and groaned. Her first day back in the country and she’d hit government-owned property. All because some crazed driver couldn’t confine his joy ride to the right lane.

  The right lane…

  Meagan put the car in park and dropped her head against the steering wheel. “Oh no.”

  Minutes passed. She had not yet lifted her head when she heard a slight tap on the window. A look up revealed the flashing blue lights of a Gainesville Police Department car in the rearview mirror. With a long sigh, she used the handle to roll down the window. “I’m so sorry…” she began.

  “Are you okay, miss?” An officer in uniform stood next to her car. His breaths formed tiny clouds before they faded into the cold air. “We got a call saying another car tried to run you down.”

  “A call?” Meagan squinted at the policeman. The midday sunlight blinded her every time he shifted from one foot to another. “I didn’t call anyone.”

  “No.” He looked over the pad of paper in his gloved hand. “The call came from an anonymous source. A male. Said you were driven off the road and might need assistance.”

  The only assistance I need is to have my head examined, and not because I have a new lump on it. “I’m not hurt.” She might as well get it over with. “And it wasn’t the other car’s fault. It was mine. I was driving in the left lane.” The officer looked out at the road. His gaze took in the skid marks that ran up the sidewalk to the edge of her back tires. What a humiliating day. “You see I just got back from India yesterday, and—”

  “Ma’am, I need to ask you to step outside the vehicle for a moment.”

  Meagan obeyed. “They drive on the left side over there, and I got used to it. I drove to several places this morning, and got it right all the other times, but there weren’t any other cars on this road—well, not till that car, and I—”

  “See this line along the edge of the sidewalk, ma’am? Would you mind walking down that line for me? One foot in front of the other up to the telephone pole.”

  He thought she was drunk? “No, you don’t understand. I—”

  The man in uniform, no taller than herself, but armed with a weapon and the law, gestured toward the line. “Go ahead.”

  Meagan glanced at the mall parking lot. She hoped none of the women in her Bible study were out shopping for after-Christmas sales today. If he did a breathalyzer test on her and someone saw, she’d never hear the end of it.

  “You said you were in India?” the man asked. He jotted something on his notepad.

  “For two months.” Meagan shivered, holding her arms out as she walked the line. She never did have good balance. She glanced back and saw disbelief all over the man’s face. No doubt he heard plenty of creative stories by people trying to get out of tickets. Hers was going to sound like a whopper. “I work with a group that rescues women in brothels, trafficked victims who’ve been sold against their will.”

  “Oh, really?”

  Meagan thought of looking back but knew it would knock her balance off. “I go out twice a year to help with the children’s program.”

  “You said it was with women in brothels.”

  “Yes, but many of them have children, and the kids grow up in horrible conditions, stigmatized and rejected by their society.” There. She’d thrown in enough big words that he should know she wasn’t drunk at least.

  “So you work with Mother Theresa or something?”

  Mother Theresa died in 1997, but that wasn’t a pertinent fact at the moment. “My group is called Rahab’s Rope. We’re a Christian ministry that—wait, I have a card.” Glad for the opportunity to make it look like she hadn’t just fallen off the line, Meagan returned to her car and reached through the open window for her purse. The officer took the card she offered, looked it over and then wrote a few things on his pad.

  “Well, miss…” He looked at the card again. “Miss Winston, I had already decided you must be telling the truth, because nobody would make up something so elaborate.” He held up the card and smiled. “But thanks for the proof just the same. Since you didn’t seem to do any damage to public property, I’ll let you go today.” He grinned. “But do us all a favor and stay home next time until you’re sure which side to drive on, okay?”

  Cheeks burning, Meagan assured the officer she would pay more attention, then climbed back into her little bug and rolled up the window to block the sound of his amused chuckle. He’d enjoy telling this one back at the precinct.

  That thought triggered a memory. Meagan turned the handle the other direction and the window lowered again. “Officer, can I ask you a question?”

  He had bent over for a closer look at the fire hydrant, but stood at her call. “Sure.”

  “Do you work with someone named Cole Fleming?”

  “Cole Fleming?” He looked at his notepad and shook his head. “No, I’ve never heard of a Cole Fleming. Why do you ask?”

  Meagan bit her lip. “I got a call this morning from a guy by that name. He told me he was coming into the store this afternoon to ask me some questions.”

  “About what?”

  She shielded her eyes with her hand. “He didn’t say.”

  “And you think he’s a policeman?”

  “He said he was with the law.”

  The officer frowned. “Hmm. Sounds a little suspicious to me, since he’s not with our department. But he could be from an outlying area, or from Atlanta. When you get to a phone, you should call and run a check on his name.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks.”

  She turned the key and was about to put the window up again when he put a hand on the edge of the door. “But don’t call while you’re driving,” he said, chuckling again. “You should focus on the road till you get to wherever you’re going.”

  I deserved that. “Yeah, will do.” With a wave, she backed up, then turned until the car perched at the edge of the sidewalk, ready to pull back onto the road. She looked left, then right, then in both directions again. Oh dear…

  “The right side,” he called out behind her.

  Meagan drove out onto the road, on the right side, trying to ignore both the ache in her forehead and the laughter coming from the sidewalk behind her. What a day.

  3

  Friday, December 26

  1:30 p.m.

  “She just went in the store. You shouldn’t have roped me into doing this, Steve. She seems like a nice person.” The song on the CD ended in abrupt silence as Cole Fleming turned the key and shut off the ignition.

  “We see nice people every day who are criminals. I’m guessing what you mean is, she’s pretty.”

  Cole ignored that. “She got in an odd sort of accident on her way here.” He balanced the phone between his shoulder and his ear so he could reach back for his tablet. “A policeman made her walk the line, and
she wasn’t all that steady.”

  “You were watching her?”

  “Following her. I did a background check and found out she lives at the same address as her grandparents. I drove by to see if there were two buildings on the property or one.”

  “And?”

  “Just one.”

  “She’s probably mooching off them to save money for her habit.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “No, but I’m good at assuming.”

  Cole surveyed the stores, still decorated with lights and wreaths, most of them closed for the holidays. If Steve were there he’d snowball the woman before they knew all the facts. “Are you sure she’s the one you’re after?”

  “She’s on every single run, right there on the video. How can it be any clearer? Look, we’re overlapping with the DEA on this one and they need something to tell their guy in India. An address, name, anything. He can find lower rung meth sellers on the streets easy enough, but that isn’t going to help. We need her direct contacts—the one in India and the one here.”

  Cole stepped out of his car and pocketed the keys. He took another quick look around the quaint downtown square. No one had followed the woman into the store, and he didn’t see any loiterers who looked too alert. The cars parked parallel to the store were all empty. Two cars on the opposite side of the street had occupants: one in the passenger seat, one in the driver’s seat. The second car, a grey Oldsmobile, pulled out and left. Cole shoved his sunglasses back over his cropped black hair to rest on his neck like he had eyes in the back of his head, an old habit from military days. “You should be doing this yourself,” he said into the phone. “Not me.”

  “Yeah, but I’m running three cases right now, not to mention I don’t want to be recognized.”

  “By her?”

  “By anyone. There could be others in on it with her.”

  “You’re paranoid.”