by Misty Evans
Except where the tracks of a vehicle had disturbed the snow.
Who the fuck would be out in this storm?
John recognized the tracks. A four-wheeler had made them. A four-wheeler that had pulled something behind it. A cart? A wagon?
The footsteps in the kitchen fell quiet, but the distinct presence of another human in the kitchen radiated in the stillness. Was the intruder a survivalist nut who’d gotten lost in the storm and sought shelter?
John glanced at the red light. A stranded person would have knocked and rang the doorbell. If they’d broken in, the security system would have gone off.
Which led him back to the idea the person had a key, knew the security system’s code.
One of the Morgan family? He couldn’t see them traveling in anything but their fancy cars, and definitely not in this kind of weather.
He edged toward the fireplace. The fire was long out, the embers cold. His cell phone and Lucie’s lay on the mantel. He snatched up both, turning his on, and pocketing hers.
He kept his phone on silent all the time, a habit born of being in compromising situations in the Berets and with Pegasus. The bars showed no service. Not surprising in this area under the current weather conditions. He touched an icon on the screen of what looked like a normal app and his phone transformed into the Agency-enhanced computer it was. The extra juice stored inside the phone amped its ability to find a cell tower. After typing in his password, he went through a series of screens and found a list of available Wi-Fi connections in service that could link him to a specific satellite. Once it connected, he sent a message to Lawson: Trouble brewing. May need backup.
What kind of trouble was the question. Boot treads. A four-wheeler. A quiet intruder who had bypassed a high-end security alarm to do a B&E during a blizzard.
Only a few types of people could or would pull that off. And they weren’t your garden-variety survivalists.
Military. Special ops. Assassins.
None of which made him happy, but…
A military or spec ops soldier would never give himself away by the sound of his boots. An assassin smart enough to bypass a security system? Puh-lease.
John had to operate under that assumption anyway. Whoever the mystery man was, he was good. Just not as good as John.
Need to get eyes on him.
Passing the fireplace, he took slow, measured steps. In his line of work, he’d pissed off a lot of people. Most never knew his real name, who he worked for, or where he lived. Half of them never saw him; Pegasus typically got in and out without raising an eyebrow. Missions were classified, some labeled secret or even top secret. Details limited to a handful of people directly involved with the mission or the outcome. The CIA, FBI, DoD—they had knowledge of the missions, but only the person giving the orders knew the names of the operatives doing the job.
But there were always leaks, always people like Lucie who knew the truth.
Now her family knew, too.
The Russians, the Mexicans, the Afghans, hell, a common criminal…didn’t matter who was in the house. John had a job to do.
Protect Lucie. Neutralize the enemy.
John palmed his gun. Thanks to his and Lucie’s escapades during the weekend, he knew the layout of the house like the back of his hand. Did the intruder? If the man knew the code for the cabin, he knew the layout.
What had he carried in the cart? Or was the intruder a highly-skilled burglar who planned to abscond with some of the Morgan family’s expensive collections?
Was there more than one? Did they know the house was occupied?
Were they armed?
Questions ran through his mind as he scooted to the corner, took a steadying breath with both hands on the gun and his finger on the trigger. Raising it, he peeked around the corner into the kitchen.
The table was empty except for a scattering of cake and icing. The chairs were pushed out of the way and the island sported a jumble of trays and plates from the baby shower. A few decorations Lucie had torn down were piled in one corner.
No one in sight.
John’s eyes bounced over the outline of dirty champagne glasses by the sink, passed over the various appliances…and came back to the island.
A silhouette caught his attention. Darker than the rest, it was a black square amidst the clutter. A tiny light on the side pulsed on and off.
A computer?
Not his. Not Lucie’s.
John held his breath and listened. Where had the intruder gone?
Above his head on the second floor, Lucie screamed.
Chapter Six
The nightmare was happening all over again. The bad nightmare. The really bad one.
Locked doors had never kept the nightmare away before, and they hadn’t this time either.
After kicking in the door, the man in a black ski mask had pointed a gun at her head and motioned her to back up.
Screaming, she’d taken a good, hard swing at him, but his friend, another goon in a gray ski mask, jumped forward and blocked the swing. He ripped the poker out of her hand and sent her sprawling to the floor.
Where is John?
Keeping her focus on the gun, Lucie rose as instructed. Black Mask moved behind her, motioned at the second man to toss him the poker.
Before she could fight, he wrapped an arm around her and jerked her back against his chest, placing the long poker across her throat and giving a tug. The cold iron bit into her skin, cutting off oxygen. The pain was terrifying, an odd pressure that told her the tiniest slip and her windpipe could be crushed.
Where was his gun?
The pressure on her windpipe intensified. Tiny black dots danced at the edges of her vision. The second man looked over his shoulder and slipped into the shadows behind the open door.
John appeared a second later, his attention landing on her at once. His eyes were flat and hard, but all she felt was relief. John will stop this.
Glancing at the masked assailant holding her, he raised his hands in surrender.
No, no, no. Lucie tried to say his name, but what came out was an odd sound and fresh pain burst in her throat. What was he doing?
He stepped into the room and the man holding her forced her back a step. John stopped.
His voice was low and calm—as if this kind of thing happened every day. “Yo, man. Whoever you are, you want me, not her, so don’t hurt her, okay? Release her and we’ll talk.”
Black Mask chuckled in her ear. It sounded weird, mechanized almost. “Wrong. We want her.”
Lucie tried to catch John’s eyes. He was totally focused on the man. She darted a glance to the other guy behind the door and frantically pointed in that direction, trying to warn John he was there.
Black Mask yanked the poker, stepping backward once more. Her feet got tangled and he removed the poker from her throat only to smack her leg with it. He shoved her toward the bed, and at the same time, the second man emerged from behind the door and pointed a gun at John’s head.
“John!” she screamed.
He ducked and pivoted, grabbing Gray Mask in a bear hug and jamming him against the wall. That man’s gun went off and plaster rained from the ceiling.
Black Mask hit Lucie in the back with the poker and she dropped to the floor on hands and knees, the bed blocking her view of John and his fight. Jumping up, she started to climb over it when Black Mask grabbed her by the hair and yanked her off.
As John knocked the gun out of his assailant’s hand, Lucie stomped on Black Mask’s foot. His gun made another appearance, the cold, hard end of a pistol suddenly lodging under her left ear. “Enough!” he yelled, his voice again sounding unnatural. It reminded her of a television documentary she’d seen with Zara where the person interviewed had their voice changed to remain anonymous. “Or I shoot the girl.”
John froze. Seeing the gun, he released the other man, raising his hands and facing Black Mask. “Relax. Whatever it is you want, we’ll work it out.”
Where was
John’s gun? She was sure that’s what he’d put in his pocket earlier, but she hadn’t seen it during the fight.
Gray Mask slumped to the floor, coughing and gagging. Lucie could relate. Her windpipe burned and her voice had sounded ragged when she’d yelled John’s name.
Thank God he was calm. She was shaking like the windblown leaves outside the windows. Black Mask had said he wanted her. Was he one of Dmitri’s men come to the States to kill her out of spite?
John made a lower the gun sign. “Take the weapon away from her head. You don’t want to hurt her.”
“Shut up.” Black Mask put an arm around her shoulders, pushed the end of the gun into her skull. There was no European accent leaking through the mechanized sound, so he wasn’t one of Dmitri’s, but maybe someone they’d hired? “Lucie and I have business to discuss.”
The second man rose on hands and knees, coughing. John ignored him. “What kind of business?”
Lucie wanted to know, too, but a part of her didn’t care. The nightmare was back. All she cared about was getting out of this alive. Getting John out of this alive.
John had given her a hostage negotiating lesson when she’d asked how Pegasus had rescued her and Zara. She still remembered what he’d said:
Find out what they want. Find a way to give it to them. Get something in return.
Lucie tried to stop shaking and sound like she knew what she was doing. “What is it you want with me?”
“Cuff him,” Black Mask said to his partner. “Relieve him of his weapon and put him in the wine cellar.”
That wasn’t the answer she was looking for.
The second man staggered to his feet, recovered his gun, and pointed it at John. His voice was hollow-sounding and scratchy. “How about I kill him instead?”
Oh, God, no. “What do you want?” Lucie demanded again, panic hitting her low in her stomach. “You said this was about me, so leave him out of it.”
Black Mask rubbed the side of her face with his, the knit mask rough against her skin. “All in due time. Twenty minutes, to be exact.”
John let the second man pull his hands behind his back and restrain them with a couple of plastic straps. Lucie knew those straps. Dmitri’s men had used the same kind on her when they’d drugged her and tied her to a bed.
Twenty minutes. Lucie looked at the clock. A cold tension slid down her spine. “My trust fund? You want my money?”
The second man snickered as he patted John down and took the weapon he found hidden in John’s sweatpants. He tossed it on the bed. “Your girlfriend catches on fast.”
Black Mask gave Lucie’s hair another tug, tipping her head back and revealing her neck. “Your father owes me a debt.” He ran the tip of the gun over her vulnerable skin. “And I’m here to collect.”
“Her father will pay a ransom,” John reasoned. “I can call him for you.”
“Always the hero, aren’t you, Quick?” Black Mask released Lucie’s hair, but kept her snug against him and the gun jammed once more under her ear. “There won’t be any ransom. I know how that works out for the kidnapper. Seen it up close and personal. Usually I don’t have to get my hands dirty, but a simple hack job to relieve Charles Morgan of his money would be too…anticlimactic. No, this job requires me and Lucie here to enjoy each other while we screw over her father.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lucie ground out. She kept her eyes pinned on John. Black Mask knew his name. Somehow she knew that was her fault. Her stomach threatened to revolt. “But whatever my father’s done to offend you, I’m sorry.”
Black Mask laughed like it was all a big joke. “Offend me?” The laugher died away. He gave her a jerk, put his lips to her ear. “He fucking killed my mother. An eye for an eye, I say. Nothing means more to him than his money and his daughters.”
The man was insane. Just like Dmitri.
Lucie held John’s gaze. Find a way to give them what they want. Get something in return.
“You can have my trust fund. When the money hits my account, I’ll have it wired to whatever offshore account you want…if, and only if, you release John.”
He paused, shook his head as if she were an errant schoolchild. “Negotiating?” He tapped the gun against her temple. “Neither you nor Quick are in a position to negotiate with me, now are you, Ms. Morgan?”
Her teeth threatened to chatter. She clenched her jaw.
John, still appearing calm, tried to reason with him. “Kill Lucie and you won’t get your money.”
“Oh, I’ll get it. But this way, I get to have a little fun, too.” He motioned to his partner. “Get him out of here and bring me my laptop.”
Gray Mask led John out of the bedroom, taking Lucie’s hope with them.
Chapter Seven
John went quietly, letting the guy in the gray mask push and prod him down the stairs as he walked too slowly for the guy’s liking. With his hands secured behind his back, keeping his balance wasn’t easy, so he bounced off the railing a few times, lost his footing and sat down on a step. Anything to stall while he figured out how he knew the leader of this little escapade.
Not military or special ops, although the guy had military-like training. Definitely not an assassin, although he had the moves and the lingo of a kidnapper. The way he’d wielded the poker in his right hand and the gun in his left took skill.
He knew my name.
FBI? CIA? Pegasus technically worked for JSOC and ran foreign missions for the CIA because of their training and qualifications. Because of that, John knew spooks inside and out, but this guy…
I know how that works out for the kidnapper. Seen it up close and personal.
Experienced with kidnappers. Had to be FBI.
The leader’s partner—the one kicking and shoving John down the steps—was the muscle of the operation. Nothing military about him, but he’d had police or security guard training.
A Bureau agent kidnapping someone? Hell of a deal. The perfect deal, in fact. Guy would know exactly how to avoid getting caught and he’d most likely already gained access to everything about John and Lucie, right down to the cabin’s security code.
The idea made John’s blood run hot.
Criminals existed in all branches of the government; the FBI wasn’t immune. John Connelly had been convicted of racketeering and obstruction of justice. Robert Hanssen had sold US secrets to the Russians and Soviets for twenty-two years. There were a handful of other Bureau employees who’d been convicted over the years.
FBI guy had mentioned hacking and a laptop. The laptop had to be the one John had seen on the kitchen island.
Muscle walked him through the living room and into the kitchen, gun pointed at John’s back. As they passed the island, John pretended to trip, knocking his elbow into the laptop. It skidded to the side, taking out a few plates and crashing to the marble floor.
Muscle flipped on the overhead lights. “Asshole.” He picked up the laptop and moved to John’s side, swinging the butt of the gun at John’s head. John ducked, kicked out with his right foot, and nailed the guy in the shin.
Muscle swung again, losing his balance but managing to make contact with John’s temple.
Stung like a bitch. John leveraged his weight, falling into the guy and knocking him off balance. The laptop smacked into the counter, and using the momentum of his body, John rotated and landed a kick to the guy’s wrist.
The gun flew sideways, bouncing off a cabinet and skittering across the floor.
A voice from the second floor interrupted the fight. “What’s going on down there, Mattock?”
Mattock shot John a rage-filled look as he set the laptop on the table. If the leader was calling Mattock by name in front of them, it meant John and Lucie were not walking out of the cabin alive. “Nothing, boss. Everything’s under control.”
“Hurry up with the laptop.”
“Yes, sir.”
They waited for the footsteps to retreat overhead before they both went for t
he gun at the same time, John diving and twisting his body to block him as Mattock also dove forward, hand outstretched. John head-butted him and got kneed in the balls for his trouble.
Mattock rolled away, cursing and holding his head. Going fetal, John used his body to shelter the gun, which had slid under a chair.
John caught his breath and angled a foot beneath the chair. He kicked the gun hard and sent it under the long wooden table and into the kitchen’s far corner. As he rolled over to come up on his knees, a sharp object sliced into his lower left side.
Red-hot pain tore through skin and muscle, sinking deep into his back and leaving him gasping for breath. He nearly belly-flopped from the searing torment.
“How’d’ya like that, asshole?”
Shit. What had Mattock stuck him with? A K-bar knife? A steak knife? God, that much pain could not come from a wimpy ol’ steak knife…
Warm blood trickled down John’s back, ran into his waistband. Fucker was going to pay for that.
If John could stand up, which at the moment was proving difficult. The aftermath of the one-two to his groin and kidney made his stomach flip upside down.
He stood up anyway, faced the bastard.
The cake server was in the man’s hand.
Aw, fuck. Icing clung to the silver. Blood dripped from the serrated edge.
The man was breathing hard and had a welt on his forehead.
John thought he might pass out. But not before he got in one more assault. “Give up yet, pussy?”
The term threw Mattock off for a split second, and that’s all John needed. Lowering his head, he gut-rammed the guy, a bull in full charge, slamming the enemy into the cabinet.
Mattock didn’t drop the cake server, but his back slammed the countertop hard enough to illicit a heavy grunt. By the time he recovered and tried to stab John with the cake server again, John had already dropped, locked his legs around the man’s and yanked.
Mattock’s knees gave out, feet lurching up in the air. On his way down, Mattock tried to twist away and head-smacked the corner of the countertop.
A sickening thud echoed in the kitchen and Mattock’s head snapped back. The man slowly slid down and toppled to the side, unconscious, the cake server tinging as it hit the floor.