Dead Reckoning

by Stanalei Fletcher

  His forearm tightened around her throat. Gasping for air, she pulled and scratched at his leather-clad arm. She was no match for his height and strength. He could hold the choke until she blacked out, then tie her up and take her wherever he wanted.

  Her head felt ready to explode. A dark, ugly fear filled her mind. She was going die. Her family…her real father, didn’t even know where she lived. Their last words to each other had been in anger. Not once had she phoned to tell him she was sorry—or that she’d finally succeeded in her new job.

  Petre’s hold was relentless. Her throat burned. She struggled with the little strength she had left. In response, his hold tightened. Warm blood from his wound soaked into her shirt, plastering it against her back. Gray spots swirled in front of her eyes, but she couldn’t give up. Giving up meant death.

  With one last effort, she threw herself into his huge body, hoping the knife wound had weakened him. He grunted, but his hold didn’t change. Her vision blurred and blackness closed in.

  Then, she felt his knees buckle. A spark of hope glittered inside her. He started to sag atop her. Realizing he was falling the wrong way, she tried to spin free, but he toppled heavily, taking her with him. Her head struck the wall—fireworks exploded behind her eyes. As they crashed to the floor, his choking arm fell away, but his weight pushed the air from her lungs.

  ****

  Kellee came to with a deafening roar in her ears. She tried to shake the muzziness from her brain and sit up. Something—no—someone pinned her down. The overwhelming stench of body odor left her gasping and magnified the horrendous pounding in her head.

  She tried to remember where she was, what had happened. Then, like a fractured movie reel, events rolled through her mind.

  The muscular, leather-clad man. The knife!

  But she was still alive. A sob escaped.

  Stay calm—Dad would admonish her—stay focused. Except her father had sent this man.

  No, that wasn’t right. Katya’s father had sent Petre. And Kellee had killed him. Another sob broke free.

  What if Katya had been waiting for Petre? Had Kellee saved her look-alike from being kidnapped? Or was Katya stranded somewhere in the hurricane, and Kellee had just destroyed the girl’s chance to reunite with her father?

  No. Kellee wouldn’t go there. That goon wasn’t anyone’s hero. She squeezed her eyes shut—tried to settle down—using breathing exercises she hadn’t practiced since leaving the dead-end assistant’s job at her father’s security agency.

  Five counts in—five counts out. In… Out…

  The panic eased a little, and she turned her attention to escaping Petre’s dead weight. Arching her back, she tried to push off from her stomach, but he barely budged. Trying another tactic, she began creeping along the carpet. Her knees and elbows burned from the friction. For every two inches of progress, his body dragged along an inch.

  The lights in the apartment living room flickered, then went out. A faint illumination came from the glow of a battery-powered clock perched on the table beside the front door. The roaring tempest grew louder. The temperature in the apartment had dropped. For a moment, Kellee didn’t understand why, until she saw the flimsy curtains tangled in a tree limb that protruded through her broken front window. The hurricane had grown much worse during the time she’d been blacked out.

  Focusing on the clock light, she buried her fear of the dark, and concentrated on a single objective.

  Escape.

  Another scent mingled with Petre’s body’s odor, and permeated the air so thick she could almost taste it. The smell of blood made her gag, but she refused to throw up. Pressing upward, she finally freed her legs. Once on her feet, she ran her hands along her body, feeling damp stickiness on her clothes. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw the black smear on her hands. Petre’s blood. Holding her breath, she waited. Watched. He didn’t move.

  Dashing to the table, she noticed the time on the clock. At least thirty minutes had passed since Petre had burst into her apartment. She reached for her phone wallet, then remembered she’d tossed it somewhere across the room. With no power and no lights, she’d never find her wallet. Her shoulders sagged. A relentless voice in her head shouted for her to get away. Find someone to help her.

  She stopped short of opening the door. Wind shrieked through the apartment. The storm had worsened. Did she still have time to make it to the evacuation center for help? Going outside now seemed insane, but she didn’t want to stay here with a dead man, either.

  A hand grabbed her ankle. Her stomach clenched in terror. Looking down, she made out the white of one malevolent eye glaring at her. Petre was still alive and had dragged himself across the apartment to get her.

  “Katya.” A guttural growl rumbled in his throat. His face was set with ugly resolve.

  “No! Get away from me!” She kicked his arm with her other foot until he let go and his head dropped limply to the floor. Gasping for breath, she backed against the door. The storm might be deadly, but staying inside with a killer was suicide.

  She groped for the handle. The wind tore the door out of her grasp and banged it against the wall. Rain whipped inside and immediately drenched her shirt and shorts. Without a second thought, she stepped into the storm. A furious gust stole her breath as an otherworldly shriek pierced the night.

  The wind. Only the wind.

  The reassurance didn’t quell her racing heart or ease a sickening dread jelling in her middle. She had to face the hurricane head-on with no protection.

  Shoving her fear aside, she lowered her chin and headed down the stairway. Her running shoes skidded on the wet, slippery concrete. She grabbed the wrought iron railing in time to prevent a tumble to the ground below.

  Wind clawed at her blouse, lifting it away from her body, exposing her to the storm. She reached the ground level, ran to her car. No keys. They were still in the apartment, with all her other possessions. She glanced at the door. She wasn’t returning—not with that man still there…waiting.

  If she couldn’t go back or take the car, she needed to find shelter. Now.

  The gale roared like an out-of-control locomotive through the narrow breezeway between her apartment building and the one next to it. She ran from door to door, pounding, testing locks, shouting for someone to let her in.

  No one answered. Everyone had evacuated, exactly as they were supposed to. All the doors remained secure—deaf barriers to safety.

  She was alone. Saturated to the skin and barely standing. And out of options. Looking up at the dark stairway to the apartment, she wondered if Petre had given up. Unwilling to take the chance that he’d follow, she opted for more distance.

  The apartment complex’s laundry room was about twenty yards away. It shouldn’t be locked and might offer temporary sanctuary. Not wasting any more time, she shielded her face, leaned into the wind and ran for all she was worth.

  Rain surged in sheets of opaque gray against the waning light. Her shorts pasted against her legs like a second skin. The cutting water pelted her until, mercifully, her exposed flesh grew numb.

  Over the wail of the storm, she thought she heard her name. She spared a glance behind her. No one followed. Only trash, broken tree limbs, and other debris tumbled through the passages between the buildings.

  Once she turned the corner toward the laundry room, the wind eased a little. The adrenaline that had spiked during her escape began to seep away. Her legs trembled from the strain of running, and constant shivering racked her body. She’d only gone a few more steps when an ominous sound rumbled ahead. Squinting into the night, she saw a wall of foaming water plowing straight at her.

  “No!” She cursed between clenched teeth. Changing direction, she sprinted for another stairwell. With luck, the second-story platform would be high enough to avoid being swallowed by the surge.

  As she reached the stairs, churning water gushed under her feet. She braced herself along the wrought iron handrail as the current’s force st
opped her from moving forward. Water rose to her ankles, then her knees. In desperation, she leapt for the top landing that would put her above the flood.

  And missed.

  With flailing arms, she grabbed the railing. Her body jerked to a sudden stop and her head whiplashed, striking the sharp corner on the concrete landing.

  Then the world went silent.

  Chapter Two

  The shadow of the Northstar Security Firm building barely reached the parking spot where Egan Maddox sat in his battered pickup truck. Despite the early September warmth inside the vehicle, a prickle of gooseflesh appeared on his forearms as he stared at the headquarters of the elite Washington, D.C., security agency.

  On the surface, the single-story structure surrounded by green shrubbery seemed like an ordinary office building. Just a short distance from the nearby rail yard, this building was as unique in its location as in its purpose. Egan turned a critical eye toward the roof where various radio antennae and satellite dishes stood in silent testament to the activity that took place inside.

  He’d made a mistake thinking he could simply return to work as if nothing had happened between him and the director, Byron O’Neal. The heaviness in his chest told him he wasn’t ready. Driving away now would rectify that mistake.

  As he reached for the ignition, his peripheral vision caught movement. He hesitated, looked at the building again, and spotted a silhouette in O’Neal’s corner window. The director’s uncanny sixth sense must have locked on the instant Egan drove through the security gates. The clamor of the truck’s rusted suspension wouldn’t have given him away. Northstar’s windows weren’t only bulletproof—they were soundproof as well.

  Egan let out a breath. He was already here. And he wasn’t a coward. In spite of his uncertain feelings for the man at the window, he owed O’Neal the courtesy of answering his summons in person.

  Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades, dampening his shirt, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t here to impress. However, until he got this meeting over, he wouldn’t know why he’d been called in. Especially since he wasn’t due to return to work for another three weeks.

  He slid the keys out of the ignition, reached outside the truck’s open window and thumbed the latch on the door. It protested with a screech as he stepped onto the hot asphalt, which had been softened by the late afternoon sun. As humid as it was, the District could really use some of the rain pounding the South this summer. He squinted at the cloudless sky. It didn’t look like they would get any today.

  Although the truck was a relic, it had been his brother’s, and Egan kept it purring like a kitten. He wasn’t giving a thief any chance to steal it. He rolled up the window and locked the door, despite the fact that the firm’s perimeter was surrounded by twelve-foot-high razor-wire fencing, guarded around the clock. Northstar maintained security measures that would put the Pentagon to shame.

  He took his time crossing the parking lot, not so much in deference to his still healing leg, but delaying the inevitable. When he opened the front door, a rush of air-conditioning greeted him. Five steps inside the foyer brought him to a chest-high counter that doubled as a reception desk and defense barrier offering a message to Northstar’s elite clientele that balanced somewhere between we-welcome-your-business and stop-or-we’ll-shoot. Not sure of his welcome, Egan could almost feel the gun barrel sighted on his forehead.

  The guard, Hicks, looked up as Egan approached the counter and offered a friendly smile. “Good to see you again, Mr. Maddox.”

  Approaching his late sixties, Hicks stayed as fit as all the agents. A stickler for the regs, he never broke protocol by using the agent’s first name or failing to check ID before allowing anyone to pass into the inner sanctum of the firm.

  “Hey, Hicks.” Egan slid his badge across the counter. “How’s the family?”

  Hicks took Egan’s ID and discreetly checked it against a list on a computer monitor. “Maggie’s going to give us our first grandchild in December.” The guard’s face beamed with pride.

  Egan had felt that way when his little brother was born. The thought stabbed, and he shoved it away and returned the smile. “Congratulations. Boy or girl?”

  Hicks grunted. “Maggie doesn’t want to know until it’s here. Figures nature intended it that way. My wife’s already bought every color of baby clothes on the shelves. Liked to nearly break the bank.”

  Egan chuckled as Hicks handed back his ID. “Better hide the credit cards.”

  Hicks’ expression sobered a little but remained friendly. “Looks like Mr. O’Neal is expecting you and here I am, jawing away. I’ll let him know you’re here.” He slipped his finger below the desk and hit a button. “Go right in.”

  Egan didn’t bother to tell the guard that O’Neal already knew he was here. Instead, he said, “Thanks,” and tucked his ID badge into his wallet.

  Egan experienced an odd sensation of homecoming as he passed through a second set of glass doors. Along the far wall, the name of the company and its straightforward mission statement stood out in gold lettering: NORTHSTAR—GUIDED BY THE TRUTH.

  He grunted and stretched his leg to ease the ache from the green-stick fracture he’d received seven weeks ago while saving O’Neal’s truth. The hell of it was, Egan still believed in that mission statement. He’d completed his last assignment the way it should’ve been handled and, for his efforts, received a two-month leave of absence to recuperate and reevaluate his attitude.

  He wasn’t sure of his continued employment after his leave of absence, but having given Northstar seven years of his life, it felt good to be back. Then again, maybe O’Neal was tired of waiting for him to make up his mind and had decided to fire him.

  Considering the possibility of a formal dismissal, Egan bypassed the open office space and headed for the conference room. If O’Neal was lowering the axe, Egan preferred to keep the incident private—unlike the last time he and O’Neal butted heads. That day, nearly everyone in the building had seen what an ass Egan had been.

  The hallway leading to the director’s office was empty. Why wasn’t O’Neal standing there waiting for him? Maybe Egan was mistaken, and it hadn’t been O’Neal’s shadow he’d seen in the window. He almost turned around to leave but stopped himself and entered the conference room, instead. Neutral ground was always a good tactic.

  The room hadn’t changed during his absence, not that he’d expected it to. Sinking into a cushioned chair, he rested his palms on the expensive cherry wood table. Other than the lab, the conference room exhibited the only obvious extravagance Northstar indulged in. Most of the firm’s profits were funneled into the latest surveillance technology and generous salaries.

  Regardless of the circumstances surrounding his absence, he’d been on the receiving end of O’Neal’s generosity during his convalescence. He no longer knew where he stood with the director, but Egan would never dispute that Byron O’Neal knew how to take care of his people.

  “Egan.” Allison Richards, one of Northstar’s uber-talented lab techs, peeked into the conference room. The hall lighting gleamed off her long, dark braid that swung over her shoulder as she stuck her head around the doorway. “There you are.”

  “Hey, Allison.”

  She smiled and walked into the room, her slender arms stretched out in greeting. “I see you’re getting around without the crutches.”

  She seemed pleased to see him and that dulled some of his anxiousness. He stood and gave her a quick hug. “Yeah. Not running any races yet, but I’m back on my training schedule.”

  “Good. Then I won’t feel badly about taking your money after the Super Bowl again this year.”

  Egan couldn’t help but smile. One of the things he liked about Allison was how she hid her brilliant, deductive mind under a geeky demeanor. When she’d announced she was running the office football pool, most of the agents had been lulled into thinking she knew nothing about the game—to the tune of about a hundred dollars. “Your secret’s out. It won’t
be as easy next time.”

  “Just you wait and see.” She smiled warmly.

  First Hicks and now Allison. Both seemed glad to have him back. Maybe that homecoming feeling was a good omen.

  “Byron asked me to find you.” She nodded toward the end of the hall. “He’s waiting for you in his office.”

  Or not.

  He followed Allison to the director’s office. Seeing the solid oak door conjured up a memory that still burdened him more than his argument with O’Neal. After all these weeks, the encounter with O’Neal’s daughter, Kellee, continued to haunt him. He scrubbed a hand over his face as though it would erase the way he’d coldly used her to get back at her father.

  “Egan?” Allison’s probing voice broke into his self-recrimination. “Byron’s waiting.”

  He gave her a sidelong glance. She frowned, proving that he hadn’t hidden his feelings as well as he’d thought. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door without knocking and entered.

  O’Neal stood but didn’t offer his hand as Egan closed the door. “Have a seat, Maddox.” He gestured toward the visitor’s chair.

  Egan glanced down and noticed the chair’s crooked armrest, a reminder of his volatile outburst during his last visit to this office. He wondered why O’Neal hadn’t replaced it. Looking at it every day had to remind the man of their final words.

  Shoving aside the unpleasant memory, he sat and waited for the director’s opening gambit. Instead, O’Neal turned and faced the window.

  Approaching retirement age hadn’t slowed the director a bit. Tall, lean, and with as much energy as any of his agents, he managed the elite private security business more like a coach than an owner. Today, his shoulders looked more rounded and the hair on the back of his head more gray. The director turned and stared at a picture on the credenza. Worry lines bracketed his mouth.

  Egan looked at the picture. It was the one he’d taken not long after joining Northstar.

  Katherine O’Neal, Byron’s wife, had invited Egan to join their family on a picnic in Rock Creek Park. In the picture, O’Neal lovingly draped his arm over his wife’s shoulder. Kellee and her brother, Riley, were crowded beside their parents, laughing as Egan snapped the photo. He’d felt welcome, almost part of the family. It was the last family picture before Katherine had been killed seven years ago.