by Irene Hannon
“Soon. I’m glad I came home for a quick shower, though . . . and to say good-bye. It’s the first time since the accident no one’s been there with your mom—but the nurse said it was safe to leave for a couple of hours.”
Sadly, it was. The deep coma showed no signs of relinquishing its grip.
“I wish there’d been an improvement while I was here.”
“I do too. But at least the drain relieved the pressure in her skull. That’s one worry we can put to rest.”
“You’ll let me know if there’s any change?”
“Of course. Are you going back to the shop tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“I envy you that.” His expression grew wistful. “We take routine days for granted, but they’re a blessing—one we only recognize in hindsight. I’d give anything to be returning to a normal workweek too.”
So would she.
But there wasn’t much chance her week would be anything close to normal.
Tell him about what happened at WorldCraft, Kristin. Keeping that kind of news from your parents isn’t going to help build a closer rapport after this crisis is over.
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans and curled her fingers into a tight ball. “To tell you the truth . . . I don’t think my week will be routine.”
He stopped adjusting his cuff link and squinted at her. “What do you mean?”
For once, her dad had listened to her with more than half an ear—and picked up the undercurrents.
“It’s kind of a long story. Let me try to give you the executive summary version.” She flashed him a stiff smile and launched into her tale, glossing over the details of her current involvement.
As she wrapped up, some of the color that had crept back into his face over the past two days evaporated.
“Good heavens, Kristin! We had no idea you were in the middle of such a horrendous situation. Why didn’t you tell us?”
She shrugged. “Mom had a big case . . . and you were traveling. I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Bother us.” He flinched, and a muscle twitched in his cheek. “Your mom was right. We’ve blown the whole family thing.”
“I got through it. Colin and Rick came around more than usual.”
And Luke.
But she wasn’t ready to share that.
“I’m glad they were there for you—and I’m sorry we weren’t.”
So was she . . . but voicing that would only heap guilt on her dad, and he was already under severe stress. Yet she didn’t want to lie with a perfunctory “it’s okay” comment.
A horn honked outside.
Perfect timing.
“My ride’s here.” She picked up her overnight bag.
“Kristin.” He crossed to her, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I want you to know that despite our shortcomings as parents, you’ve been . . . I think you turned out to be a fine woman. Your mom and I are both proud of you.”
Pressure built behind her eyes as the encouragement she’d longed to hear as a child finally arrived.
Funny how Luke had read the situation better than she, predicting that trauma might prompt her parents to rethink priorities.
“Thank you for that. It means a lot.” The horn tooted again. “I need to go.”
“I know. Have a safe trip.” He hesitated, then leaned over and gave her a one-armed hug.
It was awkward.
But it was a beginning.
“Take care of yourself, Dad.”
“I will.” He opened the door for her.
She walked through, her heart lighter than it had been three days ago when she’d stepped off the elevator into an empty corridor. No, her father hadn’t said the coveted L-word. And maybe, after her mom recovered, everything would return to the status quo.
Yet deep inside, she sensed she and her dad had blazed a new path this weekend.
Wishful thinking?
Perhaps.
For now, though, she would cling to that dream.
Because with everything else going on in her life, she needed a healthy dose of hope to sustain her.
Kristin had had a long, stressful weekend.
Even from a distance, buffeted by the crowd surging out of the gate area on Sunday night at Lambert Airport, Luke could sense her fatigue. The weary sag of her shoulders said it all.
And as she drew close, the shadows under her lower lashes and the faint lines etched at their corner confirmed his first impression.
Yet she summoned up a smile of greeting as she approached him. “I hope you weren’t waiting long. Our gate wasn’t ready and we had to sit on the tarmac for a few minutes.”
“I had plenty to keep me busy.” He lifted his cell, then slipped it into his pocket and leaned down for her bag.
“I can carry this.”
“My mother taught me better manners than that.” With his face inches from hers, he had to call up every ounce of his willpower to keep from giving her a proper welcome home.
One that involved lips.
As she gazed at him, a pulse began to throb in the hollow of her throat.
“You want to let go?” He arched an eyebrow.
“W-what?”
“The bag.” He gave a slight tug and hiked up one side of his mouth.
“Oh. Right.” She released her grip, soft color stealing over her cheeks.
“Let’s collect the rest of your luggage and get you home. I’m sure you’ve had a long day . . . and a long weekend.”
“There’s no luggage to collect. That’s it.” She indicated the overnight bag.
“Seriously?” He examined the small bag. Despite Jenny’s many stellar attributes, she had not been a minimalist packer. His wife had always taken two crammed suitcases on every trip they made, no matter how long they planned to be gone.
“Uh-huh. I spent two years in the Peace Corps, remember? I learned to cope with a bare-bones existence and travel light.”
“I’m impressed.”
“My dad was too. Whenever they go on a trip, Mom takes a bag this size just for toiletries and makeup. My makeup, on the other hand, would fit in one ziplock bag—another of the so-called necessities I learned to live without in Ethiopia.”
“You don’t need much to look beautiful, anyway.” The words tumbled out of his mouth faster than he could catch them.
Her color deepened. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He winked at her, and as he started toward the exit to the garage, she fell in beside him. “How was everything today?”
“The same. Thank you for the texts. It helped to know I had some moral support back here.”
“I bet Colin and Rick were in touch too.”
“Yes. I felt like I had a whole cheering section in St. Louis.”
“Even so, the past few days can’t have been easy.”
“No. But my dad and I actually bonded a little. It gave me hope our relationship might improve in the future. It’s just sad it took such a traumatic event to nudge that door open.”
“I’m glad some good came out of the accident. I’m over there.” He motioned toward his car.
She faltered. “Where?”
“The dark gray Accord.”
“I thought you drove a Taurus?”
“That’s my work vehicle.” He popped the trunk, stowed her bag, and held her door while she slid inside.
Thirty seconds later, he settled behind the wheel. “Are you hungry? We could stop somewhere and get some food if you like.”
“To be honest, all I want to do is go home and fall into my own bed. Yogurt and cereal will be plenty.” She angled toward him. “Tell me about the case. Your texts and phone messages didn’t mention it much. Does that mean there’s nothing new to report?”
“No. A lot’s been happening—but I didn’t see any reason to complicate your life while you were dealing with the situation in Boston.” He glanced over at her. “You certain you want an update tonight? I could fill you in tomorrow, after
you get a decent night’s sleep.”
“I’ll rest better knowing what you’ve discovered.”
Maybe not.
But Kristin wasn’t the kind of woman who put off dealing with hard stuff.
“Okay. I’ll give you a quick recap.”
By the time he finished telling her about the meetings with Bishara and answering all her questions, the quick recap had turned into a twenty-minute briefing and they were pulling into her condo development.
As he parked the car, she leaned back in her seat. “That poor man. Having a son held hostage and being forced to undermine the heritage you’ve spent your life protecting. He must be a basket case.” She studied him. “Are you going to agree to his proposal and try to free his son?”
“That decision had to be made much higher up the food chain than me or Nick—but yes, we are. Nick called to let me know an hour ago. Several high-ranking people had to weigh in on this, and it’s been a scramble over the weekend to get all the ducks in a row. But the consensus is that Bishara’s help is valuable enough for CIA operatives in Syria to attempt to locate his son and line up some special ops forces to stage a rescue after he’s found.”
“How long will all that take?”
“Possibly too long. As Bishara noted, since he’s been alerted to expect another pickup soon, the brain behind this knows the candles should be arriving any day. You said transit can take as long as eight weeks. That gives us, at most, ten days to play with. We’d rather not push it beyond that and raise suspicions about the delay.”
Her forehead puckered. “Can they find the son that fast?”
“I don’t know—but we can be working the early stages of our plan here while our overseas operatives are doing their thing. Ideally, we’ll be closing in on the head honcho after the son is located and our special ops forces are getting into position to snatch him. We can’t pull him out until we have our guy here or the leader will vanish.”
“The timing could be tricky.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“So how can I help?”
“The first priority is access to the shop to install some cameras and sound equipment. Preferably during off hours. Nick’s people will pose as electricians in case anyone notices their presence.”
“I don’t open until ten, so any morning would work. I can come early to let them in.”
“Nick’s targeting Tuesday.”
“That’s fine. Let me know what time and I’ll be there. Then what?”
“He’ll give us the date to put the candles on display. After they’re out, agents will be stationed in a van nearby, monitoring the audio and video. As soon as the marked candles are purchased, you’ll alert them by using a code word, and they’ll follow the person they see on the monitor. After all the candles are retrieved, your part will be over.”
“It seems like a simple job.”
“It should be.”
She cocked her head. “That doesn’t sound too definitive.”
No, it didn’t—for good reason.
There was risk for anyone connected to this operation, even if their involvement was peripheral.
“These are evil people, Kristin. Their focus should shift to other parties after the candles leave the store—but I can’t make any guarantees. Sometimes innocent people end up in danger.”
“Like Susan.” She swallowed. “And Elaine Peterson.”
“Yes.” He needed to share their suspicions about the death of a man she’d met and admired. He reached for her hand, gentling his voice. “And very likely Brother Michael.”
Her eyes widened as she absorbed the implication. “You think he . . . that he walked in on some shady activity in the workshop the night he died and was . . . killed?”
“I think it’s a reasonable scenario—but it’s too late to get a definitive answer. If the monks had called a doctor, he or she might have realized the head wound was too serious to have been caused by a fall. But I’m certain they saw no point in that. He was already dead, and they had no reason to suspect foul play.”
“Brother Michael . . . murdered. I can’t believe it.” Shock echoed through her whispered words. “Do the monks know?”
“Not yet. The CIA will deliver the news this week. Hopefully they’ll cooperate with our investigation.”
“I’m sure they will. They’re all heartsick about the destruction taking place around them. They’ll be devastated to discover they’re harboring a terrorist.” She exhaled. “I knew these people were evil, but after what they did to Brother Michael . . . and Susan . . . and Elaine . . . now it’s personal. I’ll do anything I can to help bring these monsters down.”
“Cuing the agents when the candles are purchased will be a huge help.” He watched her as he continued. “Do you have any concerns you might get nervous and tip off the persons picking up the items?”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she considered his question. “I don’t think so . . . but I’ve never been involved in anything like this.”
“Your theater background should help.”
“True—except no one in the audiences I played to was a terrorist.”
“Nick and I discussed putting an agent in WorldCraft as a clerk . . . but a new face could arouse suspicion.”
“Yes, it could—and I don’t want to take that chance.” Her jaw firmed, and he saw the conviction he’d been waiting for spark to life in her irises. “I can do this.”
“I have no doubt of that. Let me walk you to your door.”
She waited as he retrieved her bag from the trunk, easing closer to him after he took her arm for the short walk up the path. As if she’d missed him while she was in Boston and was glad to be in his presence again.
He could relate.
On the tiny porch, she fished out her key, opened the door, and took her bag. “Thank you for picking me up.”
“Thank you for letting me. Was Rick miffed?”
“I think he was relieved, to be honest. It’s a long drive from the camp to the airport, and this is his busy season. Besides . . . between the two of us . . . I prefer you as a chauffeur.”
“Glad to hear it. And I’m available anytime. I also work cheap.” Without second-guessing himself, he leaned down and brushed his lips across her forehead. “Bill paid.”
She looked up at him—and the longing in her eyes sent his pulse skittering. “What about the tip?”
He groaned. “You’re killing me here, you know.”
“Sorry.” She gave him a sheepish grin and backed up. “I know you have professional rules. Chalk my lapse up to stress and fatigue. I’ll have my emotions under control by tomorrow, after a solid night’s sleep.”
“Hold the thought, though—for down the road. Go on in tonight instead of waiting to wave good-bye. I know you’re tired.”
She hesitated, but in the end she did as he asked, gently shutting the door behind her and leaving him alone on the porch.
Better.
If she wasn’t within touching distance, he was safe from temptation.
Still, as he returned to his car, a pleasant tingle of anticipation raced through him. If all went well, in a couple of weeks this case would wrap up and he could leave her at the door with more than a simple kiss on the forehead.
But dozens of pieces had to fall into place between now and then—and the tiny margin for error in an investigation like this was sobering.
One misstep . . . one glitch in timing . . . one slip in communication . . . could lead to disaster.
Meaning unless this operation went like clockwork, more innocent people could die.
18
“We’ll be done in about ten minutes, Ms. Dane.” The FBI tech agent, dressed in jeans and a tool belt for his electrician role, looked up from below the checkout counter as Kristin passed.
“No hurry. I’m not scheduled to open for another hour.”
She checked on the other agent. He was adjusting one of the cameras concealed inside a c
olorful wall hanging a few feet away.
All of the devices they’d installed were tiny—and none were visible to the naked eye.
Juggling the newly arrived box of batik cushion covers from Zimbabwe, she started toward a display table in the center of the store . . . but pulled up short when a knock sounded on the front door.
Both agents froze for an instant, then went into action. The one on the ladder descended and stashed it in the back room, while the other came out from behind the counter, toolbox in hand.
“Any idea who that might be?”
“No.”
“We’ll be in the back. If someone noticed our presence, the story is you’re having some new outlets installed in the storeroom.”
He followed his colleague and closed the door between the two parts of the shop.
Heart hammering, Kristin set the box of cushion covers on the floor, crossed to the door, and peeked out around the shade.
Oh.
Exhaling, she flipped the lock on the door. “Hi, Ryan.”
“Good morning. Sorry to disturb you . . . but I could tell the lights were on inside and I wanted to make sure everything was okay. You’re not usually here this early.”
“I, uh, needed to have a couple of outlets put in the back room. The electricians had me first on their list this morning.”
“Ah. That explains it. I didn’t mean to overreact, but I’m still spooked after everything that happened a few weeks ago.”
“So am I. I appreciate your concern.” She forced up the corners of her stiff lips.
He tipped his head and scrutinized her. “You certain there’s no problem? You seem kind of . . . tense.”
So much for her acting ability.
“Just tired.”
“I bet.” Sympathy softened his features. “I popped in on Saturday, and Alexa told me about your mother’s accident—and your trip to Boston. I would have stopped by yesterday to see how she was doing, but I had meetings that kept me out of the office. Any updates?”
“Nothing’s changed. She hasn’t shown any sign of regaining consciousness.”
“I’m sorry. You’ve had a tough few weeks.”
And the next one wasn’t going to be any less stressful.
“The shop keeps me busy, though. That helps.”