by Lisa Hughey
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Epilogue
Dedication
Books by Lisa Hughey
About Lisa
EXCERPT FROM BETRAYALS
Excerpt from Stone Cold Heart
Burned
by
Lisa Hughey
Copyright
October 2014
Lisa Hughey
ISBN: 978-0-9903793-3-1
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written consent from the author/publisher.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead, or places, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Acknowledgments
You’d think with every book written things would get easier, but that isn’t always the case. Zeke and Sunshine gave me some fits along the way and took way longer to tell their story than I would have liked. When Zeke first appeared on the page in Blowback I fell in love with this guy, and I was thrilled when it turned out that Sunshine was the perfect girl for him.
Thank you to my editor Megan McKeever for steering me in exactly the right direction and for loving these characters as much as I do.
Huge thank you to Kim Killion and Jennifer at The Killion Group Inc. for cover designs, Facebook banners, formatting, and overall design advice!
Thanks to my super critique partners, Adrienne Bell and LGC Smith, for quick turnaround reads and helping me make the book stronger and our weekly Panera coffee klatch, er, writing dates.
And finally, a gazillion hugs and kisses to Cecilia Gray for our hotel writing marathons with lots and lots of room service.
Prologue
October 20, 1995
Rural Kansas
He was yelling. Again.
I stared out the window from the attic of our old farmhouse and tried to block out the shouting. A full, bright orange moon hung low in the dark blue night, lighting up the sky like it was daytime. Rain, rain, and more rain, that’s all we had lately. ‘Cept tonight was clear.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I squished up my face and wished on the moon.
Tomorrow was my birthday. I was going to be seven whole years old and I wanted a pair of roller blades so bad. With Grammy and Grampy coming, I might just get them. They were coming ‘specially to celebrate my birthday. And he was angry.
I hid in the curtain of my long hair, the color of midnight Grampy always said, as if I could disappear behind the strands and he couldn’t see me. I clutched my Lunette doll from the Big Comfy Couch to my chest, snuffling the soft strands of her hair along my cheek, comforted by the familiar smells from before, when daddy was alive. Before he moved in.
Boom-boom, boom-boom.
My heart thumped, ringing in my ears, drowning out the sound of Mama pleading, sobbing.
“Claire is too old for dolls,” he shouted. “We need to get rid of her.” But he wasn’t looking at Lunette when he said that, he was glaring at me with his angry face.
But Mama defended me, letting me hold on to the only toy left from Daddy.
She was paying for it now.
The screen door slapped shut and he pounded down the wooden stairs and stomped toward the barn. His hands were clenched tight and his shoulders shook. The leaves rattled in the trees and swirled in a mini-whirlwind through the yard.
The rumble of Grammy and Grampy’s shiny new car, a Caddie-lack, struck my ears at the same time the moonlight glinted off the silver bumper as they ambled up the drive and alongside the raging creek.
Relief swept through me. I loved my Grammy and Grampy. When they visited, everything was okay.
I felt loved and protected and safe.
A crack of thunder shook the house, except...the sky was clear. A movement from the door of the barn drew my gaze. The long barrel of my stepfather’s rifle, the one he used for shooing foxes when they came ‘round the chicken coop, disappeared into the open doorway.
I saw the tire pop. Heard a loud screech. The car rolled like a somersault over and over until it disappeared over the edge of the road and into the creek.
Boom. Upside down, the car bounced and bobbed. The water in the creek roared. Their car rushed away from me, away from us. He stepped into the shadow of the doorway. I watched him turn, and I could feel him staring at the attic window. Right where I was sitting. He lifted the rifle barrel toward the window and pointed it straight at me. Then he shook his head sharply, and pivoted toward the creek.
I could hear myself screaming, throat raw, hurting as I ran down the stairs. Wanting only the comfort of Grammy’s arms.
I ran into the kitchen, and saw the stark terror on Mama’s face, the horror. Suddenly another boom sounded.
“He did it. He did it,” I screamed, unable to say anything else, as I threw myself at Mama.
“Hush.” Mama clamped a hand over my mouth so tight. It hurt.
Mama never hurt me. Not like him.
With her other hand, she grabbed our coats off the hook in the mud room. “You’ve got to hush.”
The car had gotten trapped on a tree root, bright yellow flames licked at the sky. Fire. How could the car be on fire in the water?
We watched from the window. Tears ran silently down Mama’s face, her eyes puffy, her nose running. He went over to the burning wreckage and looked down, still holding the rifle. Then, Mama tugged me toward the back door, toward the garage and our only car.
Mama pushed the car out of the garage, and said a quick prayer of thanks for being on top of the hill. She hopped in the driver’s seat, and let the car coast down the hill.
His shout echoed furiously when he discovered we were leaving. Mama twisted the key and the car started with a cough.
“He’s coming,” I whispered, clutching Lunette tightly.
He sprinted toward the car. “I won’t let you go,” he screamed. “You can’t escape. I will never let you go.”
Mama jammed her foot down and the car leapt forward. “Buckle up, baby.”
And we ran.
One
October 20
2:30 am
Cambria, California
Active Measures (ak-tiv mehz-ers) n. Political warfare conduc
ted to influence the course of events.
Zeke Hawthorne paddled out into angry waves of the Pacific Ocean, staring morosely at the black froth and the opaque, shiny rippled surface. He let the swells and wake rock him.
Five thirty in the morning East Coast time and he’d been awake almost twenty-four hours. By all rights he should be sound asleep. But he couldn’t settle.
He’d been in California for all of twelve hours. And his thoughts were dominated by the mess he’d left behind in D.C.
A red badge.
He should be getting ready for the office right now, Crypto City, the National Security Agency’s ultra-secure complex in Maryland. He should be thinking about his day, mentally arranging his files and getting ready to analyze data, maybe playing with bumping up the security on his encryption program, searching for patterns, searching for a traitor.
Except, even if he were there instead of in California, he couldn’t actually go anywhere in the office except the commissary, cafeteria, and the gym.
He’d been under watch after he confessed that he’d been kidnapped and lost a period of time. He’d been told to keep clean and stay out of trouble while they investigated the circumstances and the intelligence fallout from his kidnapping.
But instead of staying out of trouble, he had helped one of the few friends he had. And Zeke had placed himself clearly in the sphere of one of the most wanted people in the United States. Even if he hadn’t known it at the time.
Staci Grant was practically public enemy number one with her name and face being splashed all over the news a few days ago. Instead of staying squeaky clean while they investigated his background and recent movements, he’d had contact with her. Dammit. To remove himself from any more possible infractions and rule breaking, he’d hopped a plane for California because of a half-assed request to come watch over some hippy-dippy granola girl who, if she did have any problems, he wouldn’t be able to save anyway.
Nice. He was throwing his own personal pity party.
With that totally depressing thought, the greasy In-N-Out burger and animal fries he’d inhaled from San Luis up to Cambria congealed in his stomach. A hot ball of emotion nearly choked him as he stared at the empty beach, ringed by a strand of eucalyptus trees and highlighted by the moon rippling over the black waves of the ocean.
The beach was closed.
In theory.
But he’d snuck onto enough beaches as a surly teenager that the skill had come right back. So here he was paddling through the angry surf with a board borrowed from the motel he was shacking up in. Surfing at night was crazy.
Surfing at night on a deserted beach with no swim buddy or spotter was downright insane.
That was him. One step over the cray-cray line.
He watched, holding back, analyzing the wave pattern, calculating the surge and swell of the ocean as he waited impatiently for the perfect wave. The ripples aligned. Further out the swells grew larger and larger, preparing for their journey to shore.
He positioned the board, aiming for the beach, and eyed the waves smashing against the sand. Seagulls squawked from above. By their concentrated dipping and whirling, he figured they’d found a late night snack.
The frigid cold of the water seared him, making him acknowledge the stupidity of not wearing a wetsuit. He knew better. He’d grown up on the West Coast. Already his feet and legs were numb from the glacial, hypothermia-inducing water.
He tried to concentrate on the waves instead of the sick worry about his situation.
He’d been red-badged.
Unlike Stephen Crane’s Red Badge of Courage, a red badge at the National Security Agency meant disgrace. Shut out from accessing any critical information until they could determine if national security had been breached.
Red-badged. The kiss of death for an NSA employee. Restricted access and a giant red rectangle hanging around your neck like a big fat scarlet A, so that everyone in the complex knew...and stared...and whispered behind their doors, in the bathrooms, in the gym.
Had he been talking to a person of dubious background? Had he had internet contact with a questionable source? What had he done to get his clearance yanked? And would he ever get it back?
How the hell had he come to this?
The background check on his security breach could take weeks and he was already going crazy with the inactivity. Not to mention, it was always there at the back of his mind, hovering...what if he never got his clearance back?
What if the chemicals he’d been injected with, a DNA-altering drug and its antidote, had messed him up in some definable way and his career at the NSA was over?
He loved his job. Loved the importance of it, the true value of it. Sure, maybe he had started under a cloud, but once he’d been there, the excitement, the true thrill of working for the NSA had seduced him.
And then when his career was threatened, he’d panicked, not wanting to admit to anyone that he’d been compromised. He had just never really thought beyond his own simple desires.
For a genius, sometimes he could be pretty damn stupid.
He’d arrogantly assumed that because he had an immunity to Sodium Pentothal that his kidnappers wouldn’t have been able to extract any information from him.
The evidence proved otherwise.
According to the information the NSA had now, he had given away his encryption program. He’d given classified, extremely sensitive information to radicals. And he didn’t remember doing it.
Zeke let the power of the water, the surging, swelling, sheer force of the tide, grab hold of the board.
The bitch was angry tonight. The mood of the ocean was a complete mirror of his own. As if all the turbulence and turmoil swirling inside him manifested in the ferocious magnetic pull of the current, determined to drag him under, to make him pay for his foolishness, for his mistakes, for his arrogance.
The thunderous force built below him, alongside him, as the seawater gathered might and speed. With a quick jump, his feet found purchase on the board, and he crouched, arms out, knees bent, balance uneasy.
The fine mist of frigid water on his face, the salty brine in his nose, the muted roar of the wave as it started to crest all thundered through him. His heart pumped, triumph hurtling through his veins, as he mastered the physics of beating nature.
He kept his balance on the board, the fiberglass solid beneath his feet, the power of the water challenging his muscles, he rode the freaking cold water like a penguin on an iceberg.
The gulls still dipped and squawked, seeming to move closer to the beach, as if following something. One came particularly close to his head, and instinctively he ducked.
Dumb.
His Grandpop would have smacked him upside the head for that one.
As he straightened his body, lifted his head up, he saw a silhouette on the beach. A woman, her face in shadow, her body limned by moonlight, she stood sentinel.
But the sudden movement had thrown off his balance, and his arms tipped, one up, one down to maintain his position on the board. The adjustment was too late.
His left hand swooped up, connected with the wave over his head, sucking him into the swell of water. His feet lost purchase on the board, and he began a tumbling free fall into the drag of the water. He tucked his body, and covered his head, hoping to minimize the bruises and beating he would take from wiping out.
He couldn’t see anything, lost in the froth and dark black water, until suddenly the wave dropped him with a thump.
Pain, sharp and brutal, arrowed through his head.
And then...nothing.
Two
October 20
2:40 am
Cambria, California
I wandered along the sandy beach, careful to stay far away from the angry waves punishing the shore. A trail of seagulls followed me, diving and fighting over the crusts of bread I tossed.
The full moon hung high in the clear night sky, provoking the memory of another full moon as I tried not to recal
l the nightmare from thirteen years ago.
When life had changed irrevocably.
I wasn’t even sure why I was here. The anniversary of my grandparents’ murder loomed ever present in my mind.
The deliverer, my stepfather, was a demon in my memories, and water the method that killed them. And yet, like the temptation of a siren, the pull of the ocean beckoned to me. A terrible, terrifying lure.
Steely fog rolled in, misting my face and soaking my cream cable knit sweater. The lace hem of my brown skirt, damp from the sand, brushed at my ankles, while I curled my toes into the cold, wet sand and stared out at my lifetime nemesis.
The ocean moved like a slithering serpent, curling toward me then drawing away, taunting, scaring me with allure. The frigid chill of the receding tide was a promise or a curse or a portent—I was never sure which.
Would I ever be able to break the fear?
A deep unease spread through me and involuntarily I retreated from the water still some sixty feet away. The sense of impending doom had been growing for the last few days. A low frequency of turmoil that disturbed me at some hidden level and disrupted the inherent calm I had fought diligently for, upsetting the balance I struggled to maintain.
And I didn’t know why.
Nothing had changed. Mama and I had been settled in Cambria for nine years without any sign of discovery, without any hint of danger. Yet suddenly I felt as if danger was as close as the surf on the shore. I had safeguards in place, electronic alarms if my stepfather ever traced Mama, and human warning systems, the good old-fashioned gossip alerts from living in a small beach community. If any stranger in town asked about either of us, I would know by the time they left the shop where they made the inquiry.
A towel lay in the sand near the receding waves. The tide was moving out. Some tourist had left their belongings behind again. Except...the towel was dry. If the tide had come and gone, the towel should be soaking wet. A pile of clothing, t-shirt, sweatshirt, and running shoes lay discarded on the chilly sand. Next to the towel was a brick of wax. Surfboard wax.
Surely no one was crazy enough to surf on a cold Fall night like tonight?