by Debra Webb
No one in her family could believe it when she had left the Secret Service for her current duty. Forward Research, the people whose sole responsibility was to scout out talent for Mission Recovery, had noticed her Secret Service exploits and, the moment the president for whom she worked had left office, they’d lured her away from the dark suits and designer sunglasses.
Mission Recovery’s whole cloak-and-dagger routine had seduced her. Now her brothers, all local cops in L.A., were permanently one-upped. Little sister was a secret agent. She always laughed and told them it was nothing nearly so James Bondish as all that. But the truth was, they were closer to the mark than they knew.
Mission Recovery had been created to serve the needs of all other government agencies, CIA, FBI, ATF, DEA. Whenever the usual channels failed, Mission Recovery was called in to “recover” the situation. Blue could vouch for the fact that all the members of this elite group, called Specialists, were highly trained in all areas of anti-terrorism, aggressive infiltration and such. Of course, she couldn’t share any of that with her brothers.
But that was okay with Blue. She didn’t do any of it for the notoriety, she did it because she loved the job. Most of the time anyway.
She slowed to a walk as she entered the gym and made the journey to the women’s locker rooms. The place was deserted. There weren’t that many females in Mission Recovery, but their facilities were every bit as elaborate as their male counterparts’.
Peeling off her T-shirt, she toed off her sneakers, then reached for the door to her locker. Her cellular telephone rang. She flipped down the mouthpiece and said a breathless, “Callahan.”
“Blue, this is Joan at the gallery.”
Blue’s heart did a somersault. “Hey, Joan.” She tried to stay calm and not jump the gun here, but adrenaline was already soaring through her.
“I’ve located another painting by that obscure artist.”
“So I can purchase the one I’ve been admiring?” she asked quickly. She had to know! She’d mooned—obsessed really—over that painting for months now. She’d even dreamed of the enigmatic artist behind the work. Too bad no one, not even the gallery owner, knew his name. The work was simply signed N.D.D. All transactions were conducted through his agent. N.D.D. was a complete mystery. One Blue would like nothing better than to solve. Since his work was so hard to come by, the gallery owner was reluctant to let it go.
Joan laughed softly. “Drop by at your convenience. I’ll be holding it for you.”
Blue tossed the phone back into the locker and did a little victory dance. The painting was hers. Thoughts of the dark, sensual images of the almost Gothic-looking forest scene made her shiver. And now it was hers!
She snagged her towel. Maybe she’d have time to pick it up today. Clad only in her sports bra and running shorts, she closed her locker and turned to head toward the showers.
She inhaled sharply at the sight of Lucas Camp sitting on a bench at the end of the row of lockers, a briefcase at his feet.
“Afternoon, Callahan.” He propped his hands on his cane and eyed her unapologetically. “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”
“No, sir.” Growing up with five brothers made a girl pretty damned unflappable. She threw the towel over her shoulder and moved to the bench. “Your timing is perfect. I’ve been thinking about you and that assignment you mentioned.” She sat down next to him.
Though the last place she’d expected to receive a mission briefing was in the women’s locker room at the training facility, she’d waited a long time to be the primary on an assignment. She’d take it any way it came. No matter that her record with the Secret Service was stellar, all Specialists started out on the same level and had to earn their way in Mission Recovery. Impressing the likes of Lucas Camp and Thomas Casey was no easy feat.
Lucas reached into his briefcase and brought out a large unmarked manila envelope. “Here’s the profile on your principal, Noah Drake. You’ll serve as his personal bodyguard until further notice.”
Blue nodded. “I look forward to the opportunity.”
Those wise gray eyes studied her for several seconds before he continued. “Mr. Drake has special circumstances.” Lucas nodded toward the envelope. “The necessary details are there. To cut to the chase, before forced retirement as a major in military intelligence he was instrumental in numerous high-level missions. It would be pointless to tell you the branch he served since our government continues to deny its existence, it suffices to say that its chief focus is research and development and Major Drake was one of their best-kept secrets.”
Blue listened intently, her heart surging into a brisk pace once more. This sounded like a choice assignment.
“Five years ago Drake volunteered to test their newest prototype.” Lucas drew in a deep breath, then let it go as if taking the time to consider his next words more carefully. “The new technology appeared successful and was used in an operation that brought down a ring of traitors within our own government.
“Unfortunately two things went wrong,” Lucas resumed after a moment’s pause. “There was a serious discrepancy in a piece of crucial evidence and the ring leader, General Regan Bonner, got off with a mere slap on the hand, four years in a minimum-security institution. Club Med, if you get my drift.”
A frown worried Blue’s brow as she waited for the rest. When his pause lengthened, she prompted, “You said two things went wrong.”
Lucas nodded, his expression solemn. “The experimental technology had an adverse effect on Noah Drake’s physical health. He had to give up his career and live like a prisoner in his own home. And that’s where he remains to this day.”
“So Bonner has been released and he represents a threat to Drake?”
“We believe that to be the case. Bonner swore he would have his vengeance on Drake. And since his release six months ago, intel suggests that he has not only behaved suspiciously, but that he has been consorting with known assassins and other anti-American partisans. Then two months ago, Drake started receiving threatening letters.”
Blue unconsciously dragged loose the holder from her ponytail in preparation for that badly needed shower, but her thoughts were on Drake. “Where is Drake now?”
“Are you familiar with St. Gabriel Island?”
She shook her head.
“It’s just off the coast of Georgia,” he explained. “Near Savannah. That’s where you’ll fly into. We’ve chartered a boat to take you to the island. Once there, transportation will be provided.”
Picturing a tropical island, Blue said, “Sounds like a vacation spot.”
“It’s a lovely place, that’s true enough,” Lucas told her as if he had firsthand knowledge. “But it’s small and the locals don’t care much for outsiders. They’ll shun you, probably make you feel completely unwanted. Since you won’t be there to make friends, that won’t really matter. Just don’t expect to be embraced as if you were on a more touristy island.”
“When do I leave?” Adrenaline spiked. She was so ready for this.
“Your flight to Atlanta and then on to Savannah leaves National tomorrow morning. Can you handle that?”
Blue smiled. “I started packing this morning in anticipation of your call.” That still gave her time to pick up the painting.
Though Lucas didn’t smile, she didn’t miss the sparkle of amusement and approval in his eyes. “Very good, Callahan. The other accessories you’ll need will be waiting on St. Gabriel.”
Blue knew what he meant by “other accessories.” When flying commercial it was always best to have the weapons one needed waiting on the other end. It cut down on the hassle and supported anonymity.
“Who’s got my back?” she asked, wondering if it would be someone she had supported before.
Lucas didn’t answer for a moment, just considered her as if trying to decide if she was ready to hear what he had to say. “That’s why I came down here instead of calling you into the office.”
She’d wondered about
that, but was so glad to get the assignment she didn’t question the irregularity.
“Edgar Rothman,” Lucas continued, “is a personal friend of Director Casey’s. Rothman feels personally responsible for what happened to Drake since he was the one who created the technology used. He doesn’t want just anyone looking out for Drake. Rothman wants the best. So, I’m sending you. I’ll have your back on this one.”
Blue’s eyes rounded in disbelief. “You’ll be on St. Gabriel?” She’d heard the words clearly enough, it just didn’t seem plausible that she’d heard correctly.
“Don’t worry, Callahan.” Lucas did smile this time. “I might spend most of my time behind a desk, but I know what I’m doing.”
She forced her head into an agreeable up-and-down motion. She didn’t doubt his qualifications or his ability. The idea was just a little unnerving. “Yes, sir.”
Lucas pushed to his feet and reached for his briefcase. “Well, I’ll leave you to carry on, my flight is this afternoon.”
Callahan followed him to the door. “Thanks, Mr. Camp.”
Lucas patted her on the arm the same way her father had done a thousand times. “Don’t worry, Callahan, I don’t bite, and, to the best of my knowledge, neither does Drake. Don’t be afraid to act as you would under any other circumstances. I won’t be there to rate your performance, I’ll be there as the director’s personal representative.”
Callahan didn’t move for a long time after the door closed behind Lucas Camp. Sure it made her a tad uneasy to know that the boss was going to be watching her every step. But as far as being afraid went, she definitely wasn’t.
Blue Callahan wasn’t afraid of anything.
A telling stillness crept through her.
Okay. There was that one itsy-bitsy matter but it didn’t really count. And no one except Ferrelli knew about it.
Her entire life she had been utterly terrified of one thing and one thing only—the dark.
Chapter Two
Unfortunately the stifling humidity she’d encountered the moment she stepped off the plane in Atlanta hadn’t abated as Blue made the boat ride to St. Gabriel Island late that evening. The view, even in the coming twilight, she had to admit, was nothing short of spectacular. She’d have been here hours ago had it not been for baggage-check delays in Atlanta.
As they cut through the water’s sleek surface, she inhaled more deeply of the salty wind caressing her face. It was rich with scents, nothing like the kind she was accustomed to in the big city. Admittedly, there was a vague hint of decaying vegetation and fish, but it wasn’t an overpowering smell, more a dash of aroma one would expect in the vicinity of a sea island.
As the boat slowed near the landing, Blue studied the small island. Near the aging dock, which served as a primitive marina, she could see what looked like a small commercial district. Very small, she decided on second look and commercial applied only in the most obscure sense of the word. Towering trees dripping Spanish moss from their arching limbs lined the sandy shore, sentinels guarding the forest beyond, a forest that looked incredibly deep and dark. She resisted the urge to shiver. And yet, it felt oddly familiar. She frowned, wondering at the sensation. She’d certainly never been here before.
It wasn’t what Blue had expected at all. When Lucas had said island, she’d thought of palm trees and other tropical plants, beaches filled with sunbathers and at least a few tourist hangouts. Not for a moment had she expected evergreens, live oaks and other deciduous trees with gnarled branches. And she definitely hadn’t anticipated the apparently sparse population.
In spite of her best efforts that shiver she’d put off tap-danced up her spine. She was being ridiculous, she knew. But all things considered, the whole mission was a little eerie even without the seemingly deserted island setting.
She’d studied the profile on Noah Drake. He was thirty-five, former military and highly decorated. Five years ago he’d field-tested some sort of experimental technology that was not explained since it was highly classified and explanations were doled out on a need-to-know basis only. The brass had apparently decided she didn’t need to know specifically what the technology was or what exactly were the resulting effects as applied to Mr. Drake. Nothing like going in blind.
She did know, however, that Drake had suffered extreme side effects. There was no mention of a physical disability, but that didn’t rule it out. He was confined to his home and had to avoid exposure to bright light, especially sunlight, at all costs. She decided that his eyes were likely the problem. Maybe his skin. Whatever the case, she would soon know.
The bottom line—and her only real concern at this point—was that he needed protection. And she was here to provide it. Noah Drake would be safe on her watch.
The boat sidled up alongside the rustic dock and Blue climbed out. She was glad now she’d dressed in jeans and walking shoes. The jeans were faded and comfortable and the black button-up blouse was her favorite.
The pilot plopped the two duffel bags she’d packed onto the worn planks. Blue thanked him and turned toward the shore. She shaded her eyes from the setting sun with her hand and searched the landing for the transportation Lucas had told her would be waiting.
An ancient pickup truck was parked about fifty feet back from the beach. At one time the vehicle appeared to have been some shade of green, though it was hard to say for sure now. Blue grabbed up her bags and started in that direction.
As she neared him, the thin man standing next to the truck pushed back his cap and scratched his balding head. “Miss Callahan?”
“At your service,” she responded, smiling a greeting in hopes of getting off on the right foot with the locals.
“Chester Parks.” He spat tobacco juice onto the ground, then squinted at her. “I’m s’posed to take you to the old Hatfield place.”
“That would be Mr. Drake’s residence?” she asked for clarification.
Reaching for one of her bags, Chester spat again and said, “Yeah. Long time ago it was a sugar plantation run by the Hatfields. Guess the name just stuck.”
Blue nodded her understanding and handed him the other bag once he’d tossed the first one into the back of his truck. Maybe the islanders weren’t as standoffish as Lucas thought. This guy seemed friendly enough.
“I’m eager to meet Mr. Drake,” she told him.
The second bag plopped down next to the first. Chester eyed her skeptically. “I imagine you’d be the only one eager for his company around here.”
Keeping the frown out of her expression, she prodded, “Why is that?”
“Well, I don’t mean to speak ill of nobody, specially if he’s your kin, but he’s an odd sort.” Chester rounded the tailgate to the driver’s side and opened the door, but hesitated before getting in. “He roams around all hours of the night like some kinda vampire. He don’t have no visitors ’cept that Mr. Kline. And—” Chester looked at her as if this was the gravest part of all “—he goes places God-fearing folks don’t go. Guess you’ll have to see for yourself.”
Blue slid into the passenger seat and wondered if Chester’s sentiments toward Mr. Drake were common among the residents. She supposed they didn’t understand his condition or the reclusiveness it dictated. It wasn’t her place to explain the circumstances. Drake might prefer his privacy.
Now that she’d had a chance to take a closer look, she noted that the “commercial district” offerings were as scarce as the population around here appeared to be. A bar, BullDog’s, and a large metal warehouse that advertised bicycle and what looked like golf cart rentals by the hour or day was just about the extent of it.
“There ain’t that many vehicles on the island,” Chester said when he followed her gaze to the golf carts. “Most folks walk or ride bicycles. Since I’ve got ol’ Bessy here, I run errands for Mr. Kline and a few of the other shut-ins. Been doing it ever since I came back from the navy in ’59.”
Blue acknowledged his chitchat with noncommittal sounds and nods at the appropriate
times. She’d learned long ago that one gleaned far more by listening. Chester would know the island gossip, so she allowed him to ramble on without interruption. There was no more talk about vampires, but pirates and smugglers appeared to be a big part of the island lore.
He’d mentioned Mr. Kline. Lowell Kline had been Noah Drake’s sole associate for the past year. That much had been in the report. No one else was allowed in the house. Chester had called him a shut-in. That led Blue to wonder if Mr. Kline ever left the house either. Blue couldn’t bear that kind of lonely existence. She loved feeling the wind in her hair and the sun on her face too well. She was a California girl through and through.
Chester shifted into reverse, the transmission grinding in loud protest, and turned around so that the truck pointed toward the one road.
Blue blinked, thinking she had to be wrong, then looked again. Yep, just one road.
“Most visitors rent a cart,” Chester rattled on. “They’re right handy for getting you where you’re going around here. Not that there’s that much to do or see. Most tourists flock to St. Simons or Tybee Island. We don’t see many of ’em here. Just a few curious Georges now and again wanting to see some of the old caves the smugglers once used.”
Forcing interest into her expression and uneasiness out of it, she nodded. “I guess it’s always this quiet around here then.”
“We like it that way.” He glanced in her direction as he shifted into second. “You’ll get used to it.”
Not wanting to hurt his feelings, she smiled and kept her thoughts on the matter to herself: not in this lifetime.
Jimmy Buffet’s “Cheeseburger in Paradise” emanated from somewhere, the bar maybe. She studied the joint as they chugged past it. To a degree it defied description, the kind term would be quaint. In Blue’s estimation it was a dump. A shack with a rusty corrugated tin roof and a couple of windows that had been boarded shut at one time or another. There was no way to tell if the damage had been caused by a storm or by rowdy patrons. Beer logos and a crude hand-painted sign displaying the hours of business decorated the weathered batten-board siding. One truck, a relative of the one Chester drove no doubt, two bicycles and a moped were parked in front of the establishment. Things were jumping at BullDog’s, she mused.