by Dinah McCall
Rosa Guitiero had worked for the Blaines for many years, and when she heard the doorbell, she quickly moved from the library, where she’d been dusting, into the foyer to answer the door. Her hand was on the doorknob as Evan Blaine came out of the breakfast room with his backpack slung over one shoulder. His thick black hair was short and spiky. His jeans rode low on his hips, and the T-shirt he was wearing bore a Make Love—Not War slogan on the front that Declyn abhorred. It was mostly why he wore it. Still chewing the last bite of the croissant he’d had for breakfast, he was looking up the staircase at his mother as Rosa opened the door. After that, it seemed that everything happened in slow motion.
Hooded men in black knit thrusting guns in Rosa’s face.
Rosa screaming in Spanish and then being shoved aside, where she fell into a corner.
Then an abrupt burst of gunfire.
Felicity staring in disbelief at the red blossom of blood spreading across the front of her white designer tennis shirt when the first bullet hit.
Evan shouting his mother’s name and then turning to run.
The anger on Declyn Blaine’s face turning to a look of utter disbelief as he dashed out of his office.
The echo of rapid gunshots, then running footsteps on fine Italian marble.
The violent impact of bullets ripping through cloth and then flesh as the shots lifted Declyn off his feet.
Evan’s fear giving way to a scream for help as the men gave chase.
They caught Evan at the doorway to the kitchen, rendering him unconscious with one blow.
The silence, after the sudden butchery, was startling. With one man carrying the unconscious teenager over his shoulder, they headed for the door. Another paused at the foot of the stairs and dropped a note beside Felicity’s body. They paused in front of Rosa, who was on her knees in prayer. One of them aimed a gun, but another spoke sharply and shoved his hand aside. Moments later, they were gone.
For a few disbelieving seconds Rosa crouched where she’d fallen, unable to believe what had just happened. And then her gaze focused on Felicity and the blood pooling beneath her body, spilling down the stairs. She staggered to her feet and stumbled into the hall, where she saw Declyn lying in the doorway of his office. It was then that she began to scream. She screamed until her head felt as if it was going to shatter as Felicity’s had done, and she might never have stopped had it not been for the grandfather clock in the hall. When it began to chime, the sound shattered her hysteria. Clasping both hands to her mouth, then stifling a moan, she ran for the phone.
The same day—New York City
Mercedes Blaine set aside her jeweler’s loupe, then straightened abruptly as she turned to face the two men on the other side of her desk.
“I like them,” she said briefly. “Consider the deal a go. When can I expect the first shipment?”
It was all the two South Africans could do not to clap their hands in glee. Landing a contract for their exclusive line of jewelry with Blaine Imports was a coup for their company.
“Thank you, Miss Blaine. We are so delighted! I will send the e-mail to our shipping office today. You can expect the first shipment before the end of the month, if that’s all right?”
She nodded and shook their hands while deftly escorting them to the door.
“Gentlemen…it’s been a pleasure doing business with you. If you’ll stop back this afternoon, my secretary will have the contracts ready for you to sign.”
The two men were so happy about closing the deal that they didn’t realize they were being hustled out of the office. Mercedes’ mind was already on her next appointment when Julia, her secretary, caught her eye. Mercedes looked past her to the two men in dark blue suits in the doorway. She frowned, wondering if there was a meeting she’d forgotten.
“Miss Blaine…these gentlemen are here to see you,” Julia said, then added, “They’re from the FBI.”
Hoping there hadn’t been some kind of irregularity or illegality with one of her foreign shipments, she smiled cordially as they both flashed their badges. The older one spoke for them both.
“Miss Blaine, I’m Agent Sugarman. This is my partner, Agent Clark. If we could have just a moment of your time?”
She smiled again. “Certainly. Won’t you please step inside?”
She stood back, waiting for them to enter her office, then followed them inside and closed the door.
She circled her desk. “Have a seat,” she said, and then sat down without waiting for them to comply. “Now, to what do I owe the honor?”
The look that passed between Sugarman and Carter made the hair rise on the back of her neck. Sensing that this was news she didn’t want to hear sitting down, she stood abruptly and leaned forward, flattening the palms of her hands on her desk.
“What’s wrong?”
Her question took them by surprise.
“Miss Blaine, I’m sorry to inform you that your father’s home was invaded this morning.”
“Oh, my God,” Mercedes gasped. “My family! Are they all right?”
Carter sighed, his expression filled with unspoken sympathy.
“No, ma’am, I’m sorry to say they are not. Your sister, Felicity, was shot and died on the scene. Your father has been hospitalized in critical condition, and your nephew, Evan, has been abducted, although as of this hour, no request for a ransom has been received.”
Mercedes stood behind the desk without moving, watching the man’s mouth as it continued to move, but for her, all sound had ceased. She tried to speak and instead felt her throat tightening with unshed tears. Felicity dead? Evan kidnapped? It couldn’t be! It still took a virtual act of congress for her to get past the security at the front gate, and she knew the codes. It didn’t occur to her that she’d all but ignored her father’s fate. They’d parted company in anger years ago, and she still could not think of him and what he’d done without getting sick to her stomach. She leaned forward, then started to shake.
Carter motioned to Sugarman, who got up and strode quickly to a wet bar in the corner of the room and poured a double shot of whiskey into a glass, then thrust it into her hands.
“Here, Miss Blaine…drink this,” Sugarman said.
Mercedes grasped the small glass with both hands and downed the amber liquid in one gulp, thankful that the quick burn gave her reason for the unshed tears scalding her eyes. She looked at Carter again, her voice shaking.
“Is there…are you sure there wasn’t a mistake?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Blaine, but there has been no mistake.”
“Sweet Jesus,” she whispered, and covered her face. “How did they get past Declyn’s security?”
“It’s a little unclear,” he said. “But they left a note.”
She looked up. “For ransom?”
“No. More of a warning…or, I guess I should say, a reason for the abduction.”
“What did it say?”
Carter checked his notebook to make sure he didn’t misquote. “‘An eye for an eye. A son for a son.”’ He looked up. “Do you have any idea what it might mean?”
A son? But Evan wasn’t Declyn’s son, and everyone knew that. Her stomach tilted. She didn’t know what it meant, but there was someone who might. The only problem was, she had no earthly idea how to find him.
“No. I don’t,” she muttered. “Who’s in charge of the investigation?”
“Agent Arnold Ruger. He’s expecting your call.”
“Please tell him for me that I’ll be there before the end of the day.”
“But…”
“This was—” Mercedes took a deep breath “—is my family. I won’t do this long distance.”
“Since we don’t yet know the full ramifications of the situation, there’s the possibility that your life could also be in danger. We recommend that you—”
“I’ll be fine,” she said; then her voice broke, and for the first time, tears spilled down her face. “Just find my nephew. Please. Find Evan an
d bring him home.”
“Yes, ma’am. We’re doing all we can, and we’re sorry for your loss. When you’re ready to go to California, we’ll be happy to escort you.”
“No. I’ll get there under my own steam, but thank you.”
A few moments later they were gone. Mercedes couldn’t let herself think about Felicity being dead. Not yet. For now, her focus had to be on the living. Grieving would come later, after she knew that Evan was safe and her father was going to survive.
There was a knock on her door; then her secretary peeked in.
“Miss Blaine…are you all right?”
Mercedes made no attempt to hide her tears. “No. Cancel all my appointments until further notice. I’m going to California. Oh…and get Senator Chaffee on the phone.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She hesitated, then couldn’t help but ask, “Are we in trouble?”
Mercedes sighed. “No, Amelia…the company is fine. It’s personal.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes. Charter a jet. I need to get to Los Angeles as soon as possible, but get Senator Chaffee for me first.”
“Of course.”
“Oh…Amelia…”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Please close the door on your way out.”
Wednesday morning: Arlington, Virginia
Sunlight came through the partially opened draperies, painting a warm stripe along the bare chest of the man asleep on the oversize sofa. One of his legs was slung over the arm, the other had slipped off sometime in the night and was resting, heel first, on the carpet below. His sleep was restless, his muscles jerking intermittently as he fought the demons of his life within his dreams.
His hair was long and black—as unkempt as the beard covering the lower half of his face. But even in sleep, it was the semiautomatic he cradled on his belly that attested to the condition of his mental state.
Outside, the sound of a distant siren pierced the serenity of sunrise. His eyebrows knitted across his forehead as the sound permeated the dream, mingling with his memories to add sound to the hell he was reliving.
A snow-white macaw swooped across Jonah Slade’s line of vision as he stood on the veranda of the hacienda. Heat permeated his body all the way to his bones, but after six months in the Colombian jungle, he’d become immune to all but the worst of it.
“Juanito!”
Long ago attuned to his undercover identity, Jonah turned abruptly.
“Sí, Padrone?”
Miguel Calderone exited through the French doors of his mansion, his usual swagger missing in his haste.
“Intruders come!” Calderone shouted, waving his arms and pointing toward the sky.
Jonah pivoted sharply, hiding his surge of emotion. If Calderone’s high-tech radar setup was on the up-and-up, he knew who the intruders were. His own elation came in realizing his contact in Bogotá had received his last transmission after all. Soon enough his identity would be discovered, but for now, it behooved him to run with the pack. He grabbed his assault rifle, running for cover along with the other members of the Calderone organization.
Calderone himself was like a bulldog, running back and forth on his short, stocky legs, barking out orders in both English and Spanish. His two sons, Alejandro and Juan Carlos, were already on the roof, along with more than a dozen of his best marksmen and a half dozen rocket launchers. They lined the roof like Roman candles on an American Fourth of July, waiting to be lit.
Jonah slipped behind an ornate iron screen, situating himself so that he not only had a clear view of the air, but of the area in which Calderone’s men were hiding. He squatted, resting the butt of his assault rifle against his belly, and silently cursed as a swarm of black gnats circled his head. Anticipation of what was coming made the muscles at the back of his neck crawl and his belly knot. There had been a time when he would have relished what was about to occur. But no more. He’d been under cover a long damned time. Maybe too long. Or maybe it was just that this lifestyle was getting old. Playing cops and robbers had been fun when he was a kid—it was what had gotten him into this business. But he wasn’t a kid anymore, and it wasn’t fun anymore. It was time to get out—to bring these men to justice and end the self-imposed isolation that he kept putting himself in.
The sound of approaching aircraft ended his musing. He tensed.
The shrill peal of a ringing telephone just above Jonah’s head brought him up off the sofa, shouting in Spanish, with his gun aimed. He did a quick one-eighty as he scanned the room, thinking he was back in Colombia, believing the firefight was still ongoing, believing that Agent Danny Cordell’s brains would still be splattered on the legs of his pants—feeling the kick of his assault rifle as he shot Alejandro Calderone between the eyes for what he’d done, unaware, until it was too late, that Miguel Calderone, who was already in DEA custody, had witnessed it all.
When it became apparent to Jonah that he was in his apartment, he turned, staring at the phone as it continued to ring. He was in no mood to talk, no matter who might be calling, so he let the machine pick up the call and strode out of the room.
He hadn’t been in his kitchen more than twice since his return, and his focus was on the coffeepot on the counter. But he stopped abruptly, wincing as he stepped on something sharp. Frowning, he bent down, feeling along the bottom of his foot until he came to the offending object, then pulled out a small, hard pellet from the bottom of his big toe.
“What the…?”
A single grain of mummified rice had cut into the flesh of his foot. He’d been back in his apartment for less than twenty-four hours, so it had to be at least six months old. A thin layer of dust was still evident on the chairs and tables, and there was a huge pile of junk mail on the floor near the front door, dropped through the mail slot with useless irregularity. He’d long ago set up a means of having his basic bills paid by bank draft, so that when he was gone, nothing seemed out of place. But he’d never been comfortable with strangers coming into the apartment while he was gone, no matter how dusty it got. Now that he was back, he could always call a cleaning service, but for now, the need for coffee was uppermost in his mind.
He tossed the bit of rice into the sink, then filled the coffeepot with water before opening the freezer. His groan was audible when he realized the coffee can was empty.
“Hellfire and brimstone,” he muttered, as he slammed the freezer shut, then headed for the small pantry and began digging through the meager assortment of cans and boxes, relaxing only after he found a small jar of instant coffee with just enough granules for one good cup. Unwilling to wait for the water to boil, he dumped the coffee into the largest mug he owned, shoved the cup beneath the hot water faucet, gave the mixture a couple of quick stirs as the cup filled, then took that first desperate sip. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t even hot. But it had caffeine and just enough of the taste he craved to make the day bearable.
With a soft moan of satisfaction, he rolled his head, easing the tension in his shoulders, then headed for the bathroom, drinking as he went.
It wasn’t until later, as he was climbing out of the shower, that he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He stopped and stared, then unconsciously dropped his arms, the towel hanging limply in one hand as he stared at the man looking back. It wasn’t the unkempt beard or long hair that was shocking. He’d almost always changed his appearance while undercover. But there was no way to disguise the lack of expression in his eyes.
Burnout.
He’d seen it before, but never in himself. Frowning, he turned away and reached for his coffee, downing the last of the tepid liquid in an angry gulp. When he was through, he opened the drawer below the vanity mirror, picked up a pair of scissors and started cutting at his beard. A short while later, he emerged clean-shaven from the bathroom, his hair pulled back in a ponytail and his belly grumbling for food. Shopping had been the last thing on his mind yesterday as he’d emerged from debriefing. He’d gone straight home, lo
cked himself in his apartment, then, before he could even get to the bedroom, passed out on the sofa from exhaustion. He wasn’t ready to admit, even to himself, that when he wasn’t on the job, he had a tendency to withdraw from the human race.
But if he was to remain a functioning human, he needed food, which meant breakfast at the local Denny’s and a trip to the supermarket down the street. He finished dressing in record time, then grabbed his car keys from a small table in the entryway. It was then that he remembered the phone call he’d ignored earlier. He stared at the blinking light on the machine, telling himself to ignore it, but too many years of following orders from the United States government prevented him from walking out without at least listening. Besides, it might be from Carl. His smiling face had been a welcome sight as he’d jumped out of the chopper to help put Calderone in irons, the first time Jonah had seen his friend in six months. He wondered what Carl was doing, then realized he didn’t care enough to give him a call. Instead, he punched the play button, listening as an unidentified female began to speak.
“That which was taken from me, will be taken from you.”
Jonah felt a moment of unease, then shrugged off his concern. Ignoring the vague, ambiguous message, he palmed his car keys and walked out the door. It wasn’t enough that the unsuspecting public had to endure telemarketing, but now it sounded as if religion was following suit. If television evangelists were moving to the phone lines, as well, then communication as the world knew it was going to hell.
Three hours later, he pulled back into the apartment parking lot and got out of with a sack of groceries in each arm. His ponytail had been replaced by a thick cap of black, spiky hair, barely three inches long. Changing his hairstyle had been a symbolic parting with the past six months, but already he felt pounds lighter as he strode toward the building.