Also by Toni Anderson
Dangerous Waters
The Killing Game
Edge of Survival
Storm Warning
Sea of Suspicion
Her Sanctuary
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2013 Toni Anderson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance
PO Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781477805039
ISBN-10: 1477805036
To my daughter, Jamie, who is brilliant, beautiful, and kind.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
No one gave ex-cons the benefit of the doubt. Hell, his wife had made that clear the day she filed for divorce. Davis Silver stared at the numbers on the screen and it suddenly all made sense. All that benevolent “second chance” baloney blown out the hole.
These guys had reeled him in and made him a believer. Gifted him with that vastly underrated commodity—hope. Now these bastards were going to get away with stealing millions in charitable donations made to injured vets if he didn’t act soon. And he was the fall guy. The mark. The dupe. The asshole who’d believed in them.
He’d been so pathetically grateful to be hired as an expense accounts manager and kept on in this dismal economy. Not only was he an ex-con, he was decades older than the college grads who were so desperate to find work they’d accept payment in beer. Should have known.
He’d noticed an anomaly in his activity logs—not something a guy like him would ignore or take for granted. So he’d started following money: numerous small under-the-radar amounts, from business accounts to shell companies and then to five separate offshore accounts in Ireland. Transfers done using his access codes, and he’d bet his ass if he dug deep enough, the accounts would also be linked back to him.
He was not going back to prison.
No way.
He checked his e-mail—more reflex muscle memory than conscious thought—stalling for time while his brain figured out what to do next.
This whole deal had been one long con setting him up for the big fall. He’d put in four years of dedicated service—all those extra hours, the all-nighters during tax season. All the obsequious, sycophantic fawning. He ground his teeth. He could have fallen asleep over the keyboard and barfed all over the boss at the annual Christmas party and they still would have kept him on.
Sixty million US dollars and change.
His neck grew hot and he undid the top button of his white shirt. Strain made his fingers ache. He stretched them out. No way. He was fifty years old. No way was he going down for this. Last time he’d survived the joint because of one man. Next time he wouldn’t be so lucky.
The cubicles were dimly lit. It was late on a Friday night in the heart of downtown Chicago. Everyone else had gone home to loved ones or off to happy hour at Ernie’s. The boss’s office was upstairs, but Davis had seen him leave at five with Kujo, his head of security, whose real name was Kudrow. Kujo suited him better.
His eyes scanned the account numbers. What could he do? He took a screenshot and printed it out. An elevator dinged and his head shot up to look over the top of his cubicle. He blew out a sigh of relief when Rosalita, one of the cleaning crew, threw him a cheery wave before she started to vacuum.
Sweat ran down his sides despite the arctic blast of the AC.
Were they watching him? He glanced around, but cameras could be hidden anywhere. He had to act fast. If he left the money in place, it could be gone any second and, as a repeat offender, he’d go down for a damn sight longer than last time. No one would believe a word he said. His gaze caught a photograph on his desk and his heart gave a squeeze. Anna. His beautiful daughter. She’d never forgive him.
What could he do?
And, with a flash of insight, he knew. He knew exactly what to do. Shut down the organization and expose them for the frauds they were. He pulled up directions to the nearest FBI field office and printed them out. He checked the time on his monitor and feigned a yawn. Yawning men did not steal every penny from their crooked bosses’ offshore accounts. It took fourteen seconds to type in the numbers he’d memorized. A split second of hesitation before he pressed “enter” and “confirm” to become a multimillionaire.
It was a pity money didn’t buy the important things like love, happiness, or reputation.
He moved the money again, sideways this time, breaking the chain and putting it beyond the grasp of these heartless thieves. And if someone in law enforcement used their brains and figured out who’d set him up nine years ago? Well, maybe it was time. He took a second screenshot. Printed it out. Insurance, in case the feds didn’t believe him. Then he deleted the browser history, logged out, and closed down the PC. With shaking hands, he stuffed the two screenshots into a manila envelope and added a sticky note briefly explaining what he’d found. Then he scribbled an old but familiar address on the front. Dug out his wallet and rifled through the pockets until he found a couple of stamps. He couldn’t take anything with him other than what he normally carried, but he surreptitiously slipped the photograph of Anna into his jacket pocket. Then he sauntered out as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He was just another exhausted drone going home after a long week in the office.
“Good night, Rosalita,” he called as he pressed the call button for the elevator. “Have a great weekend.” Enjoy it because you’re probably about to be out of a job. Inwardly he winced, but this wasn’t his fault. He was catching bad guys and it felt great to be in the driver’s seat for a change. He tapped his foot, waiting for the doors to open. Then he got in and concentrated on the burnished metal of the steel wall. There was a vague hint of his reflection. Blurry. Indistinct. He scratched his scalp. Balding.
Life hadn’t quite gone as planned.
Katie…
He swallowed the memories. His breathing was overloud, raspy in the closed metal box. He tried to relax his face. God. After an eternity, he landed in the lobby and hurried out through the huge glass doors of the twenty-story building in the heart of downtown Chicago. He headed to the nearest “L” station.
He was boiling under his jacket, shirt sticking to his skin like warm wet tissue. His stomach growled. He placed a hand on his belly—plenty of time to eat in protective custody.
There was a mailbox on the corner of the street. He opened the flap, dropped the letter in, and hovered on the curb at the crosswalk. He turned in time to see two men run out of his building. They pointed at him and his blood hit his toes.
How the hell did they know so fast? Someone must have tried to move the money and realized it was gone.
He felt smug for about half a second.
Oh, shit. Frantically, he searched for a cab or a cop. Nothing. He looked back over his shoulder—they were only a hundred feet away
, hands diving under jackets as if they were reaching for guns. He dashed into traffic, dodging a blue truck and a bus. Horns blaring. Across another lane and brakes squealed. Shouts. The awful crunch of metal on glass as someone got rear-ended. Sorry.
He scrambled in his pockets for his metro pass and ran into the Clark/Lake station. He grabbed his cell in his other hand and dialed 911 with ice-cold fingers as he ran full speed.
“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”
“Someone is trying to kill me.” He had no doubt they would kill him just as soon as they got those account numbers out of him.
“Where are you, sir? What’s your name?”
“Davis Silver.” Ex-con. Thief. Righter of wrongs. First-class idiot. “I work for the Holladay Foundation. Someone’s been stealing from the company so I took it back before it disappeared forever. I want to come in. I need police protection.”
“Did you just say you stole money from the Holladay Foundation? Are you confessing to a crime, sir?”
“No! Yes.” Just help me! There was no time to explain. His feet felt pinched from running in cheap, too-tight shoes. He dashed through the turnstile. Headed for the subway. He searched for the next train arrival as he ran. Two minutes. Fear poured over his skin in a crackling wave. He swallowed as he heard sounds of pursuit behind him. Two minutes was too long. Why couldn’t it be like in the movies when two trains arrived at once and he darted between them at the last minute? He looked up, still talking to the emergency operator, searching for cameras. “I need assistance. I’m at the Clark/Lake ‘L’ and someone is trying to kill me.” He waved at the cameras and something whipped past his ankles. He hopped.
Shit! That was a bullet.
The distant rumble of a train shook the ground. Hurry.
He hung up as he hit the platform and ran, dodging behind the big square columns. His heart pounded as people scattered. He pulled up behind the last column, sank to his haunches in the grime. Clutched his hands to his chest almost in prayer. Anna. He had to explain this to Anna. Desperate, he speed-dialed her number. Swore when it went to voice mail.
Sweat pooled on his skin as he spoke into the phone. He could feel his pursuers creeping closer and closer. He squeezed his eyes closed. Oh, sweet Jesus, what if they went after Anna? She had to get out of there!
“Dammit. I’ve done it again.” Screwed up her life. Quickly, he told her where to run. Whom to trust.
Someone grabbed him by the shirtfront and hauled him to his feet. He dropped the phone, which landed with a clatter on the pavement. Wind and noise thundered through the tunnel as he stared into the cold black eyes of a predator.
Those eyes told him he was going to die.
Slowly.
Painfully.
No cops were going to rescue him. No feds would shake his hand or thank him for his service. He was going to be beaten and tortured. Then he was going to hand over those account numbers and die. They’d frame him just like they’d always planned. The same way someone else had framed him and stolen his life, his family, all those years ago. His actions had barely made them break a sweat. But a cornered man with nothing to lose was the most dangerous.
Some primal force had him driving both fists up into the man’s iron jaw. Surprise earned him enough freedom to stagger away, but momentum kept him going—straight into the oncoming train. The whole world went black.
Rand’s lips tightened and he picked up the cell phone from the worn-out floor and pocketed it while catching the eye of his partner. The situation had morphed from a shitfest to a total Charlie Foxtrot. He and Marco faded in separate directions, keeping their heads down as they exited the station. The General wasn’t going to be happy, but they couldn’t exactly put Davis Silver back together again.
Where was the envelope?
Davis had had it leaving the building, the little weasel, but not during the chase so he must have dropped it or mailed it. Hopefully it contained details about where he’d stashed the money. Sixty goddamned million swiped from right under their noses. Petrie was trying to trace it. From the sweat on the guy’s brow when he’d screamed at the computer in the office, Rand knew he wasn’t feeling optimistic about his prospects.
The General was not someone to screw with and neither was the US government.
He walked swiftly down the street, away from the offices in case some would-be hero decided to follow. Rand could get the fuck out, walk away, and sink himself into some dirt farm in Mississippi. But after all these years of blood, sweat, and bullets, where was the fun in that? He’d earned his money the hard way. Five GSWs to various parts of his body, a knife in the gut, malaria, dysentery, and a broken ankle from a piss-poor landing in the African jungle. Definitely earned every fucking penny.
He pulled Davis Silver’s cell phone out of his pocket and scrolled down to see who he’d been calling. Nine-one-one and a woman named Anna Silver. Wife? A muscle twitched in his cheek. He pressed redial and cocked his head to one side as it went straight to voice mail. He stared into the street for a moment before heading into a coffee shop and getting himself an espresso while he did a quick Internet search on her name and number.
Cauldwell Lake, just outside Minneapolis.
He slugged back his coffee and checked his wristwatch. They needed to know where Davis had funneled their money; otherwise they could forget their plans of early retirement. Never trust a goddamned thief.
CHAPTER 1
Anna let Peter take her hand and swing it gently as he led her up her curved garden path. It was dark, but her porch light shone with welcoming warmth. School had broken up and she was more than ready to start summer. She loved being a teacher, but without a much needed summer vacation she’d be a total raving lunatic.
They’d been to the movies to see the latest romantic comedy. The story line had been comfortably predictable, mildly amusing. Peter didn’t seem to mind chick flicks, which was a bonus, although she wasn’t really sure their relationship was going anywhere.
He was cute, though. Auburn hair cropped short enough to disguise the natural wave most women would envy. Guileless blue eyes and a smattering of freckles. He wasn’t particularly athletic or tall, which suited her fine because at twenty-six years old and five feet three inches she didn’t need towering height or abs of steel—at least not outside the movies.
The evening breeze swished her cotton dress around her knees. The scent of roses drifted heavy and succulent on the breeze. A robin sang.
She sighed. It was perfect. “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”
“It was my pleasure.” He raised her hand to his lips and gave her a look that told her he really wanted to kiss her somewhere else entirely.
Maybe it was time to take a chance. What the heck. They’d dated for six months and she’d been taking it slow, even by her snaillike standards. But experience bred caution, and she was exceedingly cautious. She took a step closer. His eyes widened as she wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned up to press her lips to his. His arms tightened for a moment before he returned her kiss.
There were no fireworks, but that was OK. She didn’t want uncontrollable passion—she didn’t want uncontrollable anything. She opened her mouth under pressure from his firm lips and tried to calm her pulse that pounded for all the wrong reasons.
Sweat on his palms seeped through the thin cotton of her dress, then his fingers dug into her skin. She pulled back, uneasy.
“Anna, come on. Let me in.” His voice was deep and gruff. He dove for her lips again and crushed them in what was probably supposed to be an ardent kiss, but was wet and full of hard enamel.
Fighting for calm, she tried to gentle the exchange, but he was having none of it. His hand cupped her bottom through her skirt, bunching up the material, exposing her legs to the summer breeze. His knee pushed against hers. She grabbed his biceps, digging in her nails in a message to slow down and back off. His hand rose to smother her breast.
No, no, no. She clamped her lips and legs shut
. He groaned, oblivious, consumed by lust, which might have been flattering had she reciprocated. His scent enveloped her. His heat washed over her, making her nauseous. Willing herself not to panic, she tried to turn her head away, but he used his other hand to grip her chin and then pushed her up against the door, his arousal obvious against her stomach.
For a moment fear made her freeze. Her heart hammered, lungs imploded as she struggled to escape. She finally tore her mouth free, blood sharp on her tongue, and shoved against him. “Let go of me, Peter. Now.”
He released her immediately and took a step back. A flush rode his cheekbones, confusion and frustration rushing over his features. “We’ve been dating for months but we don’t…that is…we never…” He ran agitated fingers through his springy hair. “We don’t make out, let alone have sex. So I thought maybe you were waiting for me to make a move. You know, take charge.”
“No.” Revulsion curled around her body like a constrictor. “You thought wrong.”
“Sorry.” He grimaced, then his lips curved into what was supposed to be an endearing smile. “I’ve messed up, haven’t I?”
Shudders ran down her spine. She wrapped her arms around herself and wished she was someone else. Someone stronger. Someone unbroken. “You need to leave.”
“Is it because I can’t have kids? You said it wasn’t a problem but—”
“It’s me, OK, Peter?” Her voice was loud. Shrill. “It’s all me. So just get your perfectly normal butt off my deck and leave me alone.”
“You’re overreacting.” His expression darkened and he moved forward an inch, but she shoved her palms against his chest and forced him back. “I made a mistake, Anna. You have to give me the chance to make it up to you.”
She turned her face away. “I want you to leave.”
He frowned and she thought she saw anger in his eyes. She braced herself for violence, but all she got was mild censure. “I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll talk about it, when you’ve had a chance to calm down.”
Dark Waters (2013) Page 1