Forget Me Not

by Vicki Hinze

  Praise for

  Forget Me Not

  “Forget Me Not is edge-of-your-seat suspense. Each page left me breathless with anticipation for the next page. This book is non-put-downable.”

  —DEBBIE MACOMBER, #1 New York Times best-selling author

  “Written with equal parts grace and passion, Vicki Hinze’s latest thriller, Forget Me Not, delves deeply into a chilling world of twisted loyalties, amnesia, and the struggle of a woman to expose a terrorist plot. Romantic, suspenseful, and ultimately uplifting, this story proves that what is buried in the past never stays buried forever. A great read by a writer who continues to amaze.”

  —JAMES ROLLINS, New York Times best-selling author of The Doomsday Key

  “I literally couldn’t put down Forget Me Not by Vicki Hinze. The suspense kept me flipping pages until long after midnight, and I loved the plot twists. Highly recommended!”

  —COLLEEN COBLE, author of The Lightkeeper’s Bride and the Rock Harbor series

  “Vicki Hinze is a masterful storyteller who has woven unique and rich characters into a compelling, thought-provoking novel. Forget Me Not is a fabulous page-turner with incredible plot twists that will keep you guessing until the very end. Highly recommended!”

  —MARK MYNHEIR, homicide detective and author of The Night Watchman

  “Vicki Hinze’s Forget Me Not is a novel I couldn’t put down. The fast pace makes for a quick read; the story is full of action and intrigue, while the romance flows naturally from the plot. The message of God’s presence in our everyday lives provides an emotional uplifting long after the story ends. I highly recommend Forget Me Not.”

  —ROBIN CAROLL, author of the Bayou series and Deliver Us from Evil

  “The always-entertaining Vicki Hinze breaks new ground with this intriguing tale filled with nail-biting suspense, emotional turmoil, and heartfelt redemption. This novel celebrates the sturdiness of the human spirit and the healing power of faith. Don’t miss it!”

  —SUSAN WIGGS, author of Just Breathe

  “Forget Me Not took off like a bullet from a shotgun and gripped me all the way to the exciting end. With tight plotting, twists and turns, a sweet romance, and lots of action, I’ll be making room on my romantic suspense shelf for more books from Vicki Hinze!”

  —SUSAN MAY WARREN, award-winning author of Nothing but Trouble

  “Forget Me Not is a season of the television show 24 in print, with a long list of surprises, a good love story, and a great inspirational uplift. An excellent read!”

  —HANNAH ALEXANDER, author of A Killing Frost

  “One of the best romantic suspense novels I’ve read this year! The mysterious, intriguing opening hooked me right away, and Vicki’s characters made me root for them. I can’t recommend this book enough!”

  —CAMY TANG, author of Deadly Intent and the Sushi series

  To Kathy Carmichael.

  A good friend is a treasure.

  Thank you for being a good friend, Kathy.

  With blessings and love,

  Vicki

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, there are many to thank for taking a work from concept to novel, and only me to blame for flaws or faults found with it. I am particularly grateful for the contributions of:

  Kathy Carmichael and Debra Webb, for sharing their experiences and expertise.

  James Rollins and Allison Brennan, for their steadfast support in my International Thriller Writers board duties during deadline mania.

  Sandie Scarpa, my most magnificent assistant and research whiz, who, among other things, prepares the Readers Guides. I don’t pause often enough to express my gratitude, but I do always feel it.

  Julee Schwarzburg, who approached, encouraged, and devoted herself above and beyond the call to help me in all ways by asking the right questions at the right times about the right things. Your analytical vision is awesome.

  Steve Laube, whose skills and foresight are admirable and appreciated.

  The team at WaterBrook Multnomah, who made this adventure a fabulous experience.

  My family. Lloyd, Kristen and Brian, Ray and Erin, and all my grands: Thank you for knowing my every flaw and loving me anyway.

  To all of you: I am humbled by your generosity and so blessed to have you in my life.

  Come unto me, all ye that labour and are

  heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

  MATTHEW 11:28 (KJV)

  Prologue

  July 12

  You know what I want.”

  Hearing him behind her, she jerked and dropped her paintbrush.

  It slid across the canvas, streaking the emerald gulf water with a bold, jagged slash of white.

  “Gregory,” she said, her voice half croak, half whisper, her eyes seeing far beyond the easel and canvas in front of her.

  She had made this confrontation inevitable, but she hoped to finish one last painting before—

  “Well? Are you going to give it to me?”

  Shaking, she turned. He stood closer than she expected, towering above her and blocking both studio doors. The one to the deck overlooking the gulf was closer, but with his stride and reach—she didn’t stand a chance.

  Inevitable.

  Putting down her palette, she squared her shoulders and stiffened, unable to see past the bloodlust in his eyes. Would her response push him over the edge?

  Regardless, she had only one choice. Her mouth as dry as the sand between her and the surf, she hiked her chin and looked him right in the eye. “No.”

  “Reconsider—and think carefully.” His hands curled into fists at his sides, his face darkened to red, and the blood vessels in his thick neck protruded. “Is that your final answer?”

  How could anyone that angry sound that controlled? She darted her gaze from door to door, still seeking a way out. But there wasn’t one. No one would interrupt, would hear her scream. There would be no escape.

  She glanced to a painting of a young girl hanging on the wall. What more could she have done? The man was rich, powerful, and more manipulative than anyone she’d ever known. She had gone all the way to the mayor looking for help. Well, to his wife, Darla, but even she had to admit how outrageous her claims had sounded. Gregory Chessman did seem incapable of anything that wasn’t wonderful.

  Yet she knew better. She studied the painting, the innocence and promise in that beloved face. If he found her—and sooner or later, he would—then she, too, would die. That left but one option. One. And who knew if it would work?

  “I know the truth about you.” She injected her tone with confidence and a warning of her own. “If anything happens to me, others will know it too.”

  “You tried that and failed.” He grunted. “You’re a crazy woman. No one believes a crazy woman, not even an airhead.” He followed her gaze to the painting.

  Something inside him snapped. His face contorted and he closed the gap between them in a flash, clamping his fingers around her throat. Fury pounded off him in waves, rivaling the six-foot surf. With a throaty growl, he jerked, lifting her off the ground.

  She fought hard, kicking and swinging her frail arms, trying to break his hold, but she couldn’t make contact beyond his forearms.

  Her vision blurred, her starved lungs burned, craving air. Her limbs turned leaden.

  Then the brilliant light flooding the studio faded to black, and she knew no more.

  Gregory watched the life leave her eyes, taking pleasure in the fact that his would be the last face she would see. How dare she refuse him? Threaten him? The crazy fool.

  When the last spark of hope for revival passed and she hung limp and lifeless a foot off the floor, he dropped her.

  Her body crumpled in a heap.

  He didn’t look down, jus
t walked over her, knocked the aged painting off the wall, and then crushed it with the heel of his shoe. Three years, and the subject in it still taunted him. Still made him vulnerable to Alik Demyan. Gregory shuddered.

  Now she would suffer for both, for trespassing on his peace.

  The portrait lay tattered and torn, its brittle frame cracked. He went at it again, and kept at it until the painting was utterly destroyed.

  Though he despised dirtying his own hands, NINA would be pleased. No one had messed up this one …

  1

  Friday, October 9

  It’s a bad business decision.”

  Behind the wheel of the red Jaguar, she checked her rearview mirror, uneasy at being where she shouldn’t be after dark. “Maybe”—she braked for a traffic light—“but it’s a good heart decision.”

  The man on the phone grunted his true feelings; his words proved far more diplomatic. “I understand that position on some of your ventures, like your work building the children’s center, but I don’t understand it on this. We’re talking about a run-down beach house three states away, with exorbitant taxes and insurance, that you never visit. Retaining it isn’t logical.”

  Her aunt Beth had loved that run-down beach house, and they’d spent almost twenty wonderful summers together there. But maybe you had to grow up orphaned and denied the privilege of living with your last blood relative to understand the value of that.

  “It’s in hurricane country and eighty feet from the gulf,” she told her financial advisor. “Of course the taxes and insurance premiums are outrageous.”

  Two blocks ahead, a jazz funeral ambled down St. Charles Avenue. Bluesy music floated on the night. Not wanting to intrude, she flicked her little finger, tapping on the blinker, then turned at the corner and headed out of the French Quarter.

  Her uneasiness grew. There had been some police presence in the Quarter. Where she was headed, there wasn’t apt to be any.

  “That’s why you should sell it.” His sigh crackled static through the phone. “Look, it’s a good offer. Market value plus twenty percent is rare.”

  She looked down the deserted street. A group of teenage boys were hanging out in front of a half-gutted building. Yet another remnant of Hurricane Katrina; the kids had no place safe to go. She hoped to soon change that. In this neighborhood, being on the street at night wasn’t just unsafe, it was dangerous. “Now you’re upset.”

  “I am not upset.”

  If his tone got any stiffer, it’d make the trek from Atlanta to New Orleans without benefit of the phone. He was definitely upset. “Good.” She needed to get past this call and focus on returning to the hotel.

  Trash littered the sidewalk and clumped in a pile near a storm drain carved into the corner’s concrete. Smelly garbage, rain-soaked and muddy from that afternoon’s thunderstorm, assaulted her.

  Finger to her nose, she looked from the grungy walk back to the street. “Why are these ‘blind’ buyers offering more than fair market value anyway?”

  “You’ve refused their previous offers and they want the property.”

  “Yes, but why?” That just didn’t make sense. “Dozens of homes are on the market. Why not buy one of those? Why Aunt Beth’s place?”

  “Who cares? Just take the money and run.”

  She didn’t live her life that way. “See, that bothers me. When people hide who they are and push this hard, there’s a reason.” This property was in Seagrove Village. She couldn’t afford to forget that or not to be suspicious.

  “Their reason doesn’t matter. This is the perfect time to unload it.”

  “I don’t want to unload it.” Without the beach house, she wouldn’t have any personal family memories after age seven—a fact he well knew since he’d handled her estate from the time of her parents’ passing. How could he not understand?

  “If you’re going to ignore my advice, then why pay me for it?”

  She paid handsomely for it, but it was still a bargain. “You’re a very good analyst, and I value your opinion, but I make my own decisions. Since I’m accountable for them, that’s as it should be.” He should understand that; he’d taught it to her.

  She pulled up beside a car parked near a stop sign. Sitting stopped on dangerous streets gave her the willies. She wasted no time scanning for oncoming traffic, and then drove on.

  “Why are you so eager for me to sell?” Even before she’d reached legal age and he had gone from trustee and replacement guardian to financial advisor, he never pushed her this hard on anything.

  “It’s in your best interests.”

  “In your opinion, but not in mine.”

  “I know you make the final calls—and how you make them.” He sighed deeper, heavier. “You’ve prayed about this and it doesn’t feel right, so you’re not doing it.”

  Well, at least he understood that much. “Yes, prayer is my bottom line.” Saying the offer didn’t feel right would do, but it was an understatement. Down to the marrow of her bones, she felt certain she was supposed to keep the beach house.

  As certain as she was that she must never return to it.

  God’s reasons on both went far deeper than her own, and if and when He was ready to reveal them to her, she’d be eager to know them. Until then, she would act in trust. Follow His will.

  “There is another reason you should consider and aren’t.”

  “Oh?” His brittle tone had her stiffening. This wouldn’t be good news.

  “A man purporting to be an investigator showed up at your neighbor’s house this afternoon looking for you.”

  No. Not again. Please, not again. Fear streaked through her chest, squeezed. No sound came out of her mouth, so she waited on tenterhooks for him to continue.

  “You’re going to have to run again. NINA’s found you.”

  NINA? She had been running from men, not a woman. “Who is she?”

  “Not who, but what. NINA is the name of the group looking for you.”

  The men were a group? They had been scary; this was terrifying. “What kind of group?”

  “Nihilists in Anarchy.”

  She swallowed hard. “So the biological terrorist threat is still out there, and it’s bigger than I thought.” A group. An organized group. The taste in her mouth turned bitter. “I’d hoped if I disappeared … ”

  “It didn’t help. These are not fly-by-night thugs. I wish they were. NINA is a multinational organization—far too substantial to let one woman interfere with their plans.”

  Her muscles went tight, knotted, and the urge to cry swelled inside her. She blinked fast, fighting it. “I have to disappear again.”

  “If you want to live, yes.”

  Her nightmares were starting all over again, and growing worse. “Are they connected? The beach house buyers and these people?”

  “What interest would a major terrorist group have in a shack of a beach house?”

  “That was my question to you,” she reminded him.

  “None known to the FBI. I contacted my friend there and made a few inquiries—citing a hypothetical situation again, of course.”

  “And his advice remained the same,” she guessed. “That I should come in and get into Witness Protection.”

  “Actually, no. With this new development, he doubts he can protect you. His hypothetical advice is to get lost and stay lost somewhere far, far away.”

  “So he was already familiar with this NINA?” “Oh yes,” her advisor said. “They’re on multiple international watch lists.”

  Boy, had she fallen into it. “I told you the men after me were bioterrorists.” She’d overheard that much from that conversation that had kept her looking over her shoulder these past three years.

  “Bioterrorism is but one of the threats NINA poses.”

  “There’s more?” The news just kept getting better and better.

  “Much more, I’m afraid. NINA embraces the destruction of all political, social, and religious order. They reject morals and ethics as m
ere products of pressure. Life, to them, has no meaning. Good and evil are based on perspective, nebulous things. They even reject the significance of family.”

  Alien philosophies. Spooky ones. And wasn’t that just great? Having a duo of cutthroats after her hadn’t been bad enough. She had to run into an entire army of them. “Charming. How did you find out NINA was involved?”

  He hesitated and then sighed. “It’s safer that you don’t know.”

  Not from the FBI apparently. Two trucks blew past her. One had a back end full of wooden crates that wobbled. She tapped the brakes to put more distance between them, not trusting the ropes securing them to hold.

  “Did you tell your FBI friend that the men could be members?”

  “Of course not. You’d be pulled in for questioning and be at even greater risk. NINA would know the moment you entered the building—even my friend couldn’t deny it.”

  That was her take on the matter too, but it comforted her to know he had hypothetically discussed the situation with a professional, and he was in agreement. Clearly, he considered the men and the anonymous buyers two separate events—and they well might be. At this point, she had no way of knowing. “How did they find me?”