Long Gone

by Marliss Melton

  Drake felt his agitation rising. “How do you know Milton hasn’t fled the country already?”

  Connor patted his cell phone. “Because his wife hasn’t called me yet.”

  Drake regarded his father in surprise. “His wife is in on this?”

  “She’s our lead witness.” Connor’s confident smirk faded. “Listen, I can’t waste another minute down here. I need you to take me to the airfield.”

  In other words, it was time to relinquish Skyler to the U.S. Marshals. Drake tightened his hold on her, every cell in his body protesting.

  “She’ll be safe,” Higgins promised.

  Drake hit him with a level stare. “You’ll answer to me if anything happens to her,” he threatened.

  Higgins inclined his head in acknowledgement.

  “Let’s give them a minute.” Connor gestured for the U.S. Marshal to join him by the door.

  Left alone, Skyler and Drake turned to face each other.

  He tried swallowing around the lump in his throat. “This isn’t what I wanted,” he protested.

  “I know.” She raised her hands to his broad shoulders. “But it’s better this way, Drake.”

  Possibly, but it was hard to convince himself of that.

  “What we shared today will give me the strength to keep going—” Her voice broke. “—without you,” she added, her tears overflowing suddenly.

  He locked his hands over hers and slid them to rest over his heart. “Don’t worry. I’ll wait for you, Sky,” he swore. “For as long as it takes.”

  “I love you!” she cried, throwing her arms around him.

  He crushed her to him one last time. “I love you more.”

  “Time to go,” Connor called from the door, his tone less abrupt than usual.

  Closing his eyes to savor the memory, Drake pressed a final kiss on Skyler’s lips.

  Then he stood up, jammed his feet into his shoes, grabbed up his possessions and headed for the door. He did not look back.

  After the Culprit was apprehended and incarcerated, the Centurions who remained would be exposed and prosecuted. Then Skyler would be free to live her life with him.

  Drake had to believe that. It was the only thing that kept him moving forward.

  **

  Bill Milton was in a pissy mood. He had spent his entire morning trying to rectify the mistakes of imbeciles. Was there no one else in this whole world capable of discretion and forethought? The idiocy of those he protected and those who worked for him now threatened his own future. It was everyone else’s damn fault he was being forced to bail out earlier than planned.

  He had done everything flawlessly.

  Snatching up his suitcase from the taxi that had picked him up at the movie theater and brought him to Ronald Reagan International Airport, Milton waved off the porter who stepped off the curb to help him. With his jaw jumping, he stalked through the automatic doors into the airport lobby and headed straight toward security with his carry-on bag, having printed off his boarding pass at a net café earlier.

  The airport was crammed with traveling business people. Bill hated airports. Having owned a private jet for a decade now, he had yet to encounter the post 9/11 security measures that plagued the average traveler. But flying out of the country on his private jet was what Connor Donovan expected him to do.

  Oh, yes, with a little probing, he’d discovered that Donovan was on a mission to expose him. His involvement with the Skyler Dulay fiasco down in Myrtle Beach last month was no coincidence. If Donovan caught word that his boss was leaving the country, he’d automatically assume he was taking his own jet. Hence, the necessary but distasteful use of public transportation.

  He’d told his wife he was leaving on a business trip. Armed with a passport identifying him as a German-American named Hans Steuben and wearing a convincing disguise that he had donned in the bathroom of the cinema near his home, he was confident of his ability to leave the country undetected.

  He hadn’t become Deputy Director of the FBI by being stupid.

  Stepping into line at Security, Bill double-checked his false mustache. As he bent over to unlace his shoes, he spared a thought for the life he was forced to leave behind. His fat, discontented wife could go to hell for all he cared. He would miss his dog and his fishing boat and the almost limitless power he’d enjoyed as the notorious Culprit.

  He placed his carry-on luggage onto the conveyer belt. But, hell, he had enough money in his Swiss bank account, padded by desperate Centurions, to buy himself a pack of dogs and a fleet of ships, so why waste time being sentimental?

  Fixing his eyes on the body scanner ahead of him, he shuffled forward in his socks.

  He asked himself if he was leaving the country prematurely. Surely Donovan, despite his suspicions, had little by the way of evidence to indict him, except that Ashton Jameson, who was being held without bond, was copping a plea and spilling everything he knew about the Culprit—not enough to name Milton outright, but enough to root a kernel of uneasiness in his mind.

  Yes, it was best just to leave now, while the leaving was good.

  Edging closer to the woman in front of him, Bill impelled her toward the full-body scanner before the TSA agent even waved her over.

  Then he’d be next. Once through security, he’d be on his way to France and then to Switzerland, free to live out his days like a king.

  A whispered conversation of two TSA workers was his first inkling that his plan was about to backfire. The larger of the two men raked the line of passengers with a narrow-eyed look while consulting a photo in his hand. Bill’s skin shrank. His sixth sense told him they were looking for him.

  Sensing a commotion behind him, Bill turned to see his nemesis, Connor Donovan, in the company of his son and a gaggle of rookies, all casing the line of passengers. His pulse spiked. What were they doing here? How could they have known that he was leaving town, when his wife was the only one he’d told.

  Averting his gaze, he assumed a placid expression while counting on his disguise to get him through security.

  “Next,” called a TSA agent, and Bill looked up to see himself being waved into the X-ray machine.

  “Put your feet on the shoe marks and hold your hands over your head,” said the agent.

  Bill suddenly remembered that his doctor had warned him to avoid all imaging technology in case the magnetic fields interfered with the proper functioning of his pacemaker. Should he say something? Right now, he couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself.

  With sweat beading on his brow, he stepped into the scanner, put his arms over his head and held his breath. His heart pumped unnaturally fast. Was it the imaging causing that to happen, or was it the fact that both Donovans were coming closer?

  The TSA agent touched a hand to the radio on his ear as if listening to what the X-ray tech was telling him. “Sir, do you have an implant in your body?”

  The question confirmed Bill’s guess. “Pacemaker,” he said shortly.

  Out the corner of his eye, he saw the younger Donovan’s head whip in his direction. “That’s him!” the young man cried, pointing.

  Bill’s heart galloped. The younger Donovan, with his tendre for Skyler Dulay had made him such an easy target for manipulation, but perhaps he had underestimated the kid’s instincts.

  “Er, I’d prefer to be patted down,” Bill informed the agent quickly. He tried stepping prematurely out of the machine.

  “Not so fast,” the TSA agent growled, blocking his path.

  “FBI. Everyone step back!” In one slick move, the younger Donovan produced a pistol. The crowd shrieked and ducked as all six special agents descended on the full body scanner. The TSA agent locked a hand around Bill’s elbow.

  Connor Donovan stepped up to him, his green eyes mocking. “Director Milton, you’re under arrest for the deliberate concealment of evidence pertaining to the crimes of the Centurion mob, for conspiracy to commit murder, and for extortion” he announced. “We’re taking you into cus
tody.”

  Bill feigned bafflement. “Who’s Director Milton?” He caught the eye of the TSA agent. “May I take out my passport?” he pleaded.

  The dark-skinned agent frowned and nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “Oh, come on,” the younger Donovan scoffed. “He’s the flipping head of the FBI Undercover Division. Of course he has a fake passport.” He lunged at Bill’s face, seized one corner of his false moustache and yanked it off. Some of the artificial skin smoothed over Bill’s cheek went with it.

  The crowd gasped in astonishment.

  Drake Donovan pushed his face into Bill’s. “I know it’s you, you son of a bitch,” he growled. “You told me about your pacemaker six months ago. But you can bet we’ll fingerprint you in custody just to make sure. We’ll even probe your ass looking for the arsenic you’ve probably hidden in it. There’ll be no killing yourself to avoid prosecution like Owen Dulay did. Now, turn around so I can cuff you.” He grabbed Bill and hauled him around.

  “You’re arresting an innocent bystander,” Bill insisted, struggling to free himself. He wound up with his ear plastered to a conveyer belt, his legs kicked apart, and his wrists in cuffs.

  With a rubber burn on his right cheek, he roared, “I’ll have you fired for this, Donovan! You’ll be sleeping on the streets, living on food stamps by the time I’m done with you!” To his chagrin, bystanders chuckled at his vociferations, which completely belied his earlier impersonation. He lapsed into silence as he was hauled to his feet and prodded forward, surrounded by a phalanx of special agents.

  “We’ll read you your rights on the way to jail,” the elder Donovan taunted.

  Meeting the man’s cool green gaze, Bill Milton experienced his first taste of chagrin, followed by fear.

  Epilogue

  Drake swung his black Acura ILX into his mother’s driveway. As he neared the garage, the beams of his headlights glanced over a powder blue Honda. It was parked under the old basketball hoop where Lucy used to beat the snot out of him whenever they played a pick-up game. The color of the car made him think of Skyler’s eyes.

  Damn it, it was useless. No matter how hard he threw himself into his work, he couldn’t get her off his mind for more than a minute at a time. How long could he live like this?

  Thumbing the button that sent the garage door rumbling open, he parked alongside his mother’s Buick and closed the garage behind him. He wondered briefly who his mother’s guest could be. Lucy wouldn’t be caught dead driving a car that frou-frou color, so he knew the car wasn’t hers. Besides, she and Gus hadn’t made any plans to visit home for Thanksgiving, as far as he knew.

  His mother wasn’t dating someone, was she?

  Between his job that had kept him down in Freeport for weeks and the effort it took not to obsess over Skyler, he was too exhausted to notice what Karen Donovan was up to these days. He gave a mental shrug, unable to whip up his curiosity long enough to keep guessing.

  God, he was tired. He wondered if, beyond the actual meal tomorrow, he could get away with sleeping rather than helping to entertain whoever their guest was.

  Dragging his briefcase off the seat next to him, Drake trudged into the house with it. Thank God his assignment in Freeport was over. Every time he saw a yacht, he thought of Jameson and what that scumbag had tried to do.

  The aromas of a basting turkey and pumpkin pie hit him in the face as he stepped into the kitchen. His mother, girded in a flour-sprinkled orange apron, turned with a smile on her face. “There you are, darling. You’re starting to remind me of your father, working so late.”

  Don’t ever compare me to him, Drake started to say but since his father’s efforts had put Bill Milton behind bars for the rest of his sorry life and uncovered key evidence against several Centurion elite, it was hard for Drake to whip up his resentment.

  “Smells good,” he said, dropping a swift kiss on his mother’s cheek.

  “I left dinner in the fridge for you,” she said. The smile hovering around her rosy lips snared Drake’s attention. It occurred to him that she looked nothing like she used to look when she was married to his father. She’d cut her dark hair into a short, sassy style that made her seem ten years younger. Zumba classes had toned her petite body so that she looked thirty-something instead of fifty-two. It had taken her almost three years to get over his father’s abandonment, but by all appearances, she was better now, and that was all that mattered.

  If his mother could move on with her life, then why couldn’t he? Because he’d promised Sky that he’d wait for her forever, and it’d only been two months.

  “Thanks. I’ll go change first.” He started to head for his basement apartment when he stopped to ask, “Whose car is that in the driveway, anyway?”

  “That belongs to my new interior decorator.” Karen’s brown eyes sparkled. She bit her lower lip to keep herself from smiling.

  Drake frowned in confusion. “You have an interior decorator?”

  “I’m redoing the living room and kitchen,” she announced with a wave of her hand. “Time for a new look, don’t you think?”

  “Right.” Either his mother had completely moved on or she was going through a midlife crisis.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she added, “but my decorator will be moving in with us.”

  “Mom,” he protested. “You don’t need to rent out rooms.” A sudden thought speared him. “Dad hasn’t been shirking on his alimony, has he?”

  “Oh, she’s not renting a room from me,” Karen assured him. “She’ll be staying in the basement with you.”

  “What?” His mother wasn’t making any sense.

  There was only one bedroom in the basement, only one bed, and she knew his devotion to Skyler. . . Wait a minute.

  “How rude of me,” she suddenly exclaimed, casting off her apron. “Of course, you’ll want to meet her first.” Grabbing his hand, she pulled him into the living area. “Sasha, dear. My son is home and wants to make your acquaintance.”

  A raven-haired woman stood at the picture window wielding a tape measure, her back to them. Drake’s heart suspended its beat as his disbelieving gaze recognized the slim, graceful outline of her hips. The hair color was different, but when she turned to look at him, the heart-stopping curves of her face confirmed his hopeful guess. “Sky!”

  Dropping her tape measure, she ran into his arms. They met in a crush of lips and chests and thighs.

  “Drake,” she breathed against his chin. He could feel her trembling in his embrace as he buried his nose in the hollow under her ear to inhale the scent of honeysuckle and gardenia.

  “It’s really you.” He pulled back just far enough to feast his gaze on her. “What are you doing here?” He tightened his hold on her. “Are you in danger?”

  She shook her glossy hair, as black as midnight, with eyebrows dyed to match. “I’m fine,” she assured him. Her eyes sparkled with news she was clearly dying to tell. “I’m free. Higgins said your father took down all the key players that Milton was protecting. WITSEC will continue to monitor my safety, and I still have to live under an alias, but I get to live my own life now.”

  “You’re serious.” He couldn’t believe his ears.

  “Completely serious.” She clutched him tighter in her excitement. “I’ve decided to use my degree in interior design. Your mother has looked at my ideas and she’s given me my first big job.” Uncertainty overtook her optimism. “I hope that’s okay with you.”

  He tossed back his head and laughed. “Okay? Okay doesn’t come close, babe.” He blinked back the tears in his eyes. “This is a dream come true.” Turning with her in his arms, he eyed his mother in wonder. “How long have you known?”

  “Just a couple of days,” she said with a shrug and a doting smile. “It was your father’s idea, actually.”

  “My father’s?” Stunned that Connor would do something as humane as help to reunite two lovebirds, Drake didn’t know what else to say. He teased his new, secure cell phone from his pocket, un
able to wipe the grin off his face as he looked at Skyler.

  “Hey, Dad,” he said as Connor picked up on the first ring. He met his mother’s gaze and said, “Mom says this was your idea.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t thank me yet,” his father cautioned. “I’m sending you overseas as a precaution. Of course, she can go with you.”

  Drake had thought he’d be working at Headquarters for the next year. “To where?” he asked, dreading the answer.

  “Somewhere in Spain. You’ll be briefed on Monday.”

  He heaved a sigh of relief. Spain was good. No wonder Skyler’s hair had been died black; it would help her fit in better in that Mediterranean region. “Skyler tells me you’ve nailed all of Milton’s favorites.”

  “Yes, I have. And every one of them is looking at life in jail,” Connor assured him. “I’ll tell you all about it over supper tomorrow.”

  But tomorrow was Thanksgiving. “Wait…” Drake glanced at his mother in surprise, but she turned away just then, slipping back into the kitchen. “You’re having Thanksgiving with us?”

  “That’s what your mother wants.”

  “Oh.” He had no idea what this meant, but his parents were old enough to figure out their own lives. “Okay. See you then.”

  “Yep.”

  As he put his phone away and reached for Skyler, he couldn’t fathom ever being estranged from her. But, love, he realized, had many different stages, and he couldn’t wait to go through them all with her and for them to know each other the way his parents did.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked her.

  She drew a shaky breath and let it out again. “Like this is all a dream? I don’t know, I’ve been so excited, so scared that I can’t keep anything down.” She laid a hand on her flat stomach.

  Drake glanced down as a thought skewered his consciousness. But her waist looked as trim and narrow as it always did. Nah, it couldn’t be.

  Still, anything was possible as evidenced by the fact that she was suddenly in his life again. It was like a shooting star had landed in his lap.