by Elle Kennedy
Reilly let out a shocked breath. “Are you messing with me, Holt?”
“I’m assuming you’ve heard about her disappearance then.”
“It’s all over the news.”
“Does the Bureau have agents on the case?”
Reilly hesitated. “You know I can’t divulge that.”
Damn bureaucrats. That meant yes then.
“Listen to me, Reilly. She’s here with me. We’ve been captured by Paul Le Clair, I know you’ve heard of him.” The cell phone let out three mechanical dings. Low battery. Deacon cursed softly. “Look, you need to get in touch with the agents in charge of the Kelley abduction. Tell Hank Kelley the exchange is a trap. He can’t show up alone, you understand, Reilly?” Three more warning chimes sounded, prompting Deacon to talk faster. “Le Clair has no intention of letting Kelley or his daughter get out of this alive. You need to make sure that—”
The connection died. Cursing again, Deacon dropped the useless phone on the floor of the van and kicked it underneath Lana’s seat.
“Do you think he’ll believe you?” Lana asked, urgency thickening her voice. “Will he warn them?”
Deacon took a long breath, then released it slowly. “I sure as hell hope so.”
* * *
“You’re not going alone,” Jim Kelley insisted for the hundredth time, fixing yet another steely gaze on his father.
Hank’s jaw was set in a stubborn line. “I already told you, boy. I’m not about to play games with my daughter’s life. The man said to come alone.”
Jim fought a wave of sheer frustration. He glanced around the massive room at his twin brothers, seeing the same frustration on their faces. Dylan had flown in from L.A. the moment the kidnappers had called to arrange the exchange. He’d wholeheartedly agreed with Jim’s assessment that their father was taking an unfathomable chance here, as did Cole and Gage, who’d been trying to talk Hank out of it for hours now. Lowe and Hartman, the two federal agents sitting on the couch opposite Hank, had also tried discouraging the senator, but to no avail.
Hank was determined to do this on his own. Atonement, Jim knew. For the first time in his sorry life, Hank Kelley was trying to clean up his own mess.
And what a mess it was.
From what Jim understood, his father had gotten mixed up with a secret society whose main goal was to assassinate President Joe Colton. Freaking figured. His dad couldn’t just stick to cheating on his wife, could he? No, he had to involve himself in presidential assassinations. Aim high, that had always been Hank’s motto.
Jim had sat there in disbelief when Hank confessed everything. Apparently, after he learned of the assassination plot, Hank had tried to extricate himself from the situation, but the men he’d joined up with had panicked. Hank Kelley knew too much and, therefore, needed to be eliminated. Everything that had ensued, Lana’s kidnapping, the sabotage on Cole’s ranch, the attack on Hank in town—it was all done to lure Jim’s father out of hiding.
And it had worked. Hank had decided to sacrifice himself for Lana, no matter how foolhardy this plan was. “Hank.”
Jim’s head lifted at the sound of his mother’s quiet but commanding voice. She was still in Martha’s Vineyard being watched like a hawk by the guard Jim assigned to her, but she refused to be kept in the dark, and had demanded to be included in any discussion. She’d been on speakerphone this entire time, and like the others, Sarah sounded increasingly upset by her husband’s decision to handle the exchange alone.
“You can’t do this by yourself.” Sarah’s tone softened. “I know you want to bring Lana home, but you’ll be risking both of your lives if you don’t let the boys or the FBI help you.”
Jim heard a cell phone vibrate, noticing from the corner of his eye as Special Agent Lowe rose from the sofa to take a call.
“I won’t allow anyone else to get hurt,” Hank told his wife. “I’m responsible for everything that’s happened. I need to be the one to fix it.”
“Not at our daughter’s expense,” Sarah shot back. “The FBI is trained to handle kidnappings. You, Hank Kelley, are not.”
Jim only half listened as his parents argued, far more interested in the hushed conversation Agent Lowe was conducting across the room. The man’s broad shoulders had stiffened, his brow furrowed as he listened. Something was up. The agent’s body language convinced Jim of it.
He was right. A few seconds later, Lowe stalked over and rested both hands on the arm of the sofa. “There’s been a development,” Lowe announced, cutting Sarah off in mid sentence.
The room fell quiet.
“A call just came through headquarters’ main switchboard from a man claiming to be with your daughter.” Lowe studied Hank’s face. “His name is Deacon Holt. Are you acquainted with him?”
Hank was quick to shake his head. “Never heard of him.”
“Well, he claims he’s with Lana, and he had a warning for us.” Lowe’s jaw tensed. “He says the exchange is a trap. The kidnappers plan to kill you on sight.”
Hank wheezed out a breath. “And Lana?”
“She’s going to be killed, too.”
This time, the silence that descended on the room was thick with tension.
“Okay.” Hank’s Adam’s apple bobbed fervently as he swallowed. “Okay. What do we do?”
Jim spoke up. “We come up with a new plan. One that doesn’t include arranging a funeral for Lana, or damn it, you. Sound good?”
Hank nodded in resignation.
CHAPTER 16
When the van came to a stop three hours later, the slam of the brakes nearly sent Lana flying off the bench. She steadied herself and shot a rueful look at Deacon. “This is it.”
He met her gaze. “Yes it is.”
Car doors slammed, followed by the sound of footsteps. A tremor of fear dashed up her spine. Lana lowered her hands to her belly, covering the small bump protectively. Deacon didn’t miss the gesture.
“I won’t let them hurt you,” he said quietly.
She sighed. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do to stop it. Not this time.”
Pure helplessness exploded in his eyes. When he looked at her like that, she almost believed he might love her. That the heartless words he’d hurled her way last night had been nothing but a last-ditch attempt to avoid his true feelings. But she knew better. Deacon wasn’t one to mince words. They’d spent two months together, long enough for her to get to know him, to grasp that he said what he meant, even if it wasn’t something the other person wanted to hear.
He didn’t love her. But at least she got comfort from the knowledge that he would do everything in his power to protect her and their baby.
“When this thing goes down, I want you to stick close to me,” Deacon said. “Don’t move an inch unless I tell you, okay?”
Swallowing, she nodded. “Okay.”
Footsteps approached the doors, which were thrown open. Lana blinked from the sudden flood of light. Kilo’s large body loomed in front of them. His nose was caked with dried blood, and the expression on his face revealed the anger he still felt over Deacon besting him.
“Get out,” he ordered.
Lana exchanged a look with Deacon. He gave a small nod.
She climbed out of the van and immediately examined her surroundings. They were in an abandoned industrial area, judging from the crumbling brick buildings and random pieces of machinery scattered on the gravel. A long line of storage units stretched out to her right, but many of the doors gaped open, revealing dark empty spaces. There was some metal scaffolding to the left, broken and rusty, and then a whole lot of nothing. Just a paved lot that ended after a hundred yards or so, and a field with yellowing grass and a sagging chain-link fence.
Lana turned as Deacon hopped out of the van, his bound hands clasped to his stomach. Like her, he did a thorough sweep of the area. His lips thinned, as if he weren’t happy with what he saw.
Le Clair stalked up, cell phone in hand. “Any minute now,” he said w
ith a smile. He glanced at his men. “Make sure we’re secure.”
The men headed off, weapons drawn, in the direction of the deserted buildings. One by one, voices crackled from Le Clair’s radio to declare, “Clear.” Lana recognized each voice, noticing that Echo had yet to report in. She’d seen him creep around to one of the farther storage units.
Le Clair frowned, clicked on the radio. “Echo, check in,” he barked.
A moment of static, then, “Clear.”
Le Clair’s features relaxed. He ordered Echo and Tango to station themselves by the buildings, then barked for Kilo and Oscar to return to the vehicles.
Tension gathered in Lana’s body. Le Clair’s hawklike gaze scanned the area, focusing more than once on the pebble-littered road they’d driven in on. He was on guard. Impatient.
Her father would be coming from that direction. And if Deacon’s warning to the FBI had gone unheeded, there was a great chance her dad wouldn’t be leaving here alive.
Seconds ticked by painfully slowly. Le Clair glanced at his watch. Kilo and Oscar were ready with the rifles.
A minute passed. Two. Three. Lana’s ears perked as the distant hum of a car engine broke through the cold afternoon air. She craned her neck, peered at the gravel road, gasping when the front bumper of a beige Mercedes came into view. She didn’t recognize the car, but it was a model her father enjoyed.
Her pulse kicked up a notch.
“About time,” Le Clair muttered.
The Mercedes crept closer, driving unbearably slowly. The nearer it got, the faster Lana’s heart thumped in her chest. She could just make out the driver—male, salt-and-pepper head, a tailored black suit jacket.
Her father.
She swallowed down a lump of panic. He’d come alone. Damn it! Deacon’s warning had fallen on deaf ears.
The Mercedes stopped twenty yards from the van. Lana’s heart was in her throat as she watched her father get out of the car. The very sight of him shocked her to the core. He looked nothing like the man she remembered, the man she’d seen only six months ago. His face was thinner, haggard and weary defeat swam in his eyes. He was in his late fifties, but suddenly seemed far older. Gaunt and broken and completely beaten.
Lana took a step, then thought better of it. Deacon’s order to stay put resonated in her mind, but she wanted so badly to alert her father of her presence. Le Clair and Tango were shielding her from his view.
Le Clair nodded at Kilo. “Search him.”
Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, Kilo strode to the car. As Lana watched, Kilo patted her father down with enormous hands, then proceeded to inspect the interior of the Mercedes. She heard some muffled words. Her father bent through the open driver’s window and released the trunk lever. Kilo rounded the car, lifted open the trunk and slammed it down a second later.
With a satisfied nod, Kilo rejoined the group. “He’s clean. So’s the car.”
Le Clair glanced at Lana’s father. “Walk toward us, Senator. Do it slowly.”
“I’m not doing a damn thing until I see my daughter,” Hank said loudly.
“As you like.” With a gracious sweep of the arm, Le Clair stepped aside and gave Hank what he wanted.
Tears filled Lana’s eyes the moment she met her father’s gaze.
Hank stumbled, leaning against the car for support. “Lana! Baby, are you all right?” he shouted at her.
Her throat was so tight she couldn’t get a word out. Instead, she nodded, while tears ran down her cheeks.
“Safe and sound, as you can see,” Le Clair said impatiently. “Now walk toward us. Hands on your head.”
Hank lifted his arms and clasped his fingers together at the crown of his head. He took a step forward, as Lana battled the tears seeping from her eyes. She wanted to shout for him to turn around, drive away, save himself, but the hinge of her jaw seemed to be welded together, her teeth chattering as the fear and horror of these past two months flooded her body like water from a dam that had broken inside her.
The closer her father got, the faster her heart raced. No. She couldn’t let this happen. She didn’t know why Le Clair hadn’t shot her dad outright, but it wouldn’t be long before he did. Wouldn’t be long before her father lay on the cold ground with a bullet hole between the eyes. Like Rick Garrison. Oh, God. She couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t—
Chaos!
Lana barely had time to blink before the entire area erupted in commotion. Men seemed to pop out of nowhere like cardboard targets in a shooting range. They swarmed out of the buildings behind them, weapons drawn from all directions as shouts for Le Clair to surrender echoed in the deserted area.
From the corner of her eye, Lana saw Echo being dragged out of a storage unit, arms cuffed behind his back. And then an explosion of gunshots ripped through the air. Beside her, Kilo dove for cover behind the SUV, his rifle spitting out bullets that clanged against the metal scaffolding and bounced off the pavement. Tango rolled to the ground, shooting at the approaching attackers.
Lana’s pulse shrieked, her ears ringing. Her feet were suddenly yanked out from under her, just as a bullet slammed into the side panel of the van, right where her head had been. Dazed, she found herself staring at the gravel, while a heavy weight pressed down on her back.
“Stay down,” a voice hissed in her ear, and she realized what had happened. Deacon had thrown her to the ground. He was keeping her out of the crossfire.
A loud thud came from beside them. Kilo had fallen to the ground. She turned, saw the hole in his forehead, the lifeless expression on his face. Sick satisfaction coursed through her. He was dead.
She heard an enraged roar, and when she peered up from under Deacon’s heavy arm, her body became paralyzed with panic. Le Clair was charging her father like an incensed bull looking to gore a matador. A blur of movement flashed before her eyes. Blue jackets with the letters FBI blazed across them. The glint of sunlight reflecting off the Mercedes’ windshield. Le Clair’s arm lifting, gun raising, aimed at her father.
“No!” Lana screamed.
She struggled to get out from the unrelenting shield of Deacon’s body, but he forced her down, one strong arm pinning her by the collarbone.
“Put your weapon down!” Loud voices barked orders at Le Clair, but the man was beyond listening.
Lana couldn’t see his face, but she could imagine his expression. Fury. Desperation. He’d come here to do a job, and he would finish it, no matter the cost.
She tried to peer around Deacon again. “Don’t move,” he ordered into her ear. “Stay down until it’s over.”
Another gunshot cracked in the air, followed by a second one.
Fear jammed in her chest. With a sudden jolt of strength, she shoved Deacon’s arm off and rolled to the side, lifting her head just in time to see Le Clair tumble face-first to the pavement. A red stain bloomed on the back of his shirt. Relief crashed into her. Le Clair had been shot. Not her dad. Not—a crushing weight of horror nearly knocked the wind right out of her.
Her father’s motionless body lay on the gravel.
Nausea rose up her throat. “Dad!”
She heard Deacon’s rough protest. Ignored him. Stumbled to her feet.
Waves of dizziness rolled through her as she hurried to her father. Voices shouted at her, people moved in and out of her peripheral vision. She ignored all that, too. She had one goal. One destination.
She froze when she spotted the blood pooling at her father’s temple.
He’d been shot in the head.
“No,” she whispered.
Her knees turned to jelly and her legs started to give out. Sirens wailed in the distance. Lights flashed from the road as a whiz of emergency vehicles raced toward them. But she couldn’t rip her gaze away from that puddle of blood. Her father’s face was pale. So pale. He was… She couldn’t…couldn’t get to him.
Black spots danced in front of her eyes, a dizzy rush made her body sway, and then a pair of strong warm arms wrapped
around her from behind.
“It’s all right,” a familiar voice murmured. “You’re safe, baby girl. I’ve got you.”
She lifted her head, met her brother’s concerned dark eyes and began to sob. “Jim! Oh, God, Jim, Daddy was hit!”
“It’s okay,” he soothed, stroking her hair. “They’re going to take care of him.”
Lana suddenly registered the sound of urgent voices and hurried footsteps. She turned in time to see a pair of paramedics bending over her father’s body. A third rolled a stretcher over.
“We’ve got a pulse,” she heard one of them say, triumphant.
Relief shuddered through her. He was alive. Her father was alive.
Burying her face against her brother’s chest, she continued to cry softly. Jim just held her, touching her hair, whispering, “It’s okay,” over and over again. Her tears stained the front of his shirt, her cold hands, still in restraints, clung to his neck. A myriad of emotions swirled inside her. She’d almost lost her dad. Almost lost her own life. Her baby’s life.
The baby.
Deacon!
She jerked out of Jim’s arms, her gaze darting anxiously around the crowded area. Where was he? He wasn’t by the van, where he’d shielded her from harm. Her head swiveled, eyes searched, heart thumped wildly.
And then she saw him. Two federal agents were shoving him into a black car. A flash of silver caught her eye. Handcuffs. Deacon was being arrested.
Ignoring Jim’s shocked expression, she staggered forward, trying to get to Deacon, but he was already inside the car. Doors slammed. An engine roared to life.
“No!” she shouted when the taillights blinked and the car began to move.
Jim’s hand clamped down on her shoulder. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.
The car sped past them. Lana caught a glimpse of Deacon’s face in the back window. He looked stoic, sad, and then she could no longer see him.
She spun around to face her brother. “You can’t let them arrest him!”
Jim frowned. “Who?”
“Deacon Holt. He saved me.” Her voice held a note of urgency. “They have to let him go, Jim! I’d be dead if it weren’t for him.”