The Fugitive's Secret Child

by Geri Krotow

  This secret agent is back from the dead

  A Silver Valley P.D. romance

  Presumed a casualty of war, former navy SEAL turned undercover operative Rob Bristol is on the hunt for a ruthless Russian mafia leader. But when beautiful US marshal Trina Lopez captures him, he discovers there’s more at stake than their passionate past: they share a son! And to defeat a killer desperate to silence their family, Rob must risk it all.

  “Not happening.” Even through her chattering teeth, the tone of her statement was sharper than she’d meant. “I mean, something between us. After the kiss. The kisses. I don’t want to lead you on.”

  “Trust me, that’s the last thing I’d ever expect from you. The leading me on part. As for kissing you, hell, Trina, it’s been five years. We had amazing chemistry when we were together, and that’s not gone away.”

  “We had more than chemistry.” She wasn’t letting him off so easily. “If it was only a physical attraction, you going off the radar by allowing Justin to officially die wouldn’t be such a big deal.”

  “I thought you were married, Trina.” His quiet words weighed heavy with what sounded an awful lot like pain. Regret.

  “Not good enough, Rob. Even if I’d remarried, was still married, whatever. What we shared deserved more than you walking away when you saw me again.” She fought to keep her words aboveboard, fair. Her heart screamed at her conscience, telling her that if she were really fair she’d tell him about their son, how she’d really felt about Rob.

  * * *

  We hope you enjoy the Silver Valley P.D. miniseries.

  * * *

  If you’re on Twitter, tell us what you think of Harlequin Romantic Suspense! #harlequinromsuspense

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome back to Silver Valley! The Fugitive’s Secret Child was a natural fit for the SVPD series as we’re beginning a miniseries within the series. This time, instead of a crazy, lethal cult that plagued the town and our heroes and heroines in books one to four, the Silver Valley police are facing the effects of Russian organized crime as it stretches its tentacles into the otherwise picturesque, serene town.

  Trina is happy as a US marshal and the mother of five-year-old Justin, but her heart has never healed from losing the love of her life during wartime. She’d been a navy pilot and he was the navy SEAL she’d fallen in love with while supporting his missions into enemy territory. The darkest day of her life was when she was told that her future husband was KIA. But he left her with one gift—their son.

  Rob was in fact not killed but taken into enemy captivity, which he survived, and then went on to fight as an undercover operative. This lends well to his current job as a Trail Hiker agent. When he and Trina meet again, it’s surreal and yet the most right thing that’s happened to either of them since they were torn apart.

  There is so much happening in Silver Valley and it’s covered in detail on my website. Please visit gerikrotow.com/contact to sign up for my newsletter so that you don’t miss any exciting news. Also connect with me on Facebook—I’d love to see you there: Facebook.com/gerikrotow.

  Peace,

  Geri

  THE FUGITIVE’S SECRET CHILD

  Geri Krotow

  Former naval intelligence officer and US Naval Academy graduate Geri Krotow draws inspiration from the global situations she’s experienced. Geri loves to hear from her readers. You can email her via her website and blog, gerikrotow.com.

  Books by Geri Krotow

  Harlequin Romantic Suspense

  Silver Valley P.D.

  Her Christmas Protector

  Wedding Takedown

  Her Secret Christmas Agent

  Secret Agent Under Fire

  The Fugitive’s Secret Child

  Harlequin Superromance

  What Family Means

  Sasha’s Dad

  Whidbey Island

  Navy Rules

  Navy Orders

  Navy Rescue

  Navy Christmas

  Navy Justice

  Harlequin Anthology

  Coming Home for Christmas

  “Navy Joy”

  Harlequin Everlasting Love

  A Rendezvous to Remember

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com for more titles.

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  To Alex—you inspire me every day.

  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

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Snowbound Security by Beverly Long

  Prologue

  Winter wind blew off the Atlantic as he got out of his car across from the Norfolk, Virginia, address with the speed and agility of an eighty-year-old. At twenty-five, it sucked to be so fragile. He leaned against a wide oak tree and checked out the town house she’d purchased last year—he’d found that out on the internet.

  Two years was a long time to wait. Justin Berger wouldn’t blame her if she hadn’t. A five-month affair in the desert during wartime didn’t qualify as lifetime vows. Even if memories of their time together had gotten him through a year as a POW, several near-death experiences and torture by the enemy, and led to his eventual escape and rescue. It’d be different for her; she thought he was dead.

  He’d spent the last five months recovering in the best rehabilitation center on the planet, Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in the greater Washington, DC, area. Before that he’d been in Landstuhl, Germany, where they’d saved his life. The pain had been worth it. Torture with a purpose.

  He still needed the cane, and the doctors were certain his femurs and pelvis would never be completely pain-free when he walked. But he was young enough to bounce back and he had the ability to return to his life. A lot of his SEAL teammates didn’t. There was no person on earth he wanted to celebrate his survival with other than her.

  Finding her had been easy. He’d asked his higher-ups where she was stationed. Because of the top secret mission, an operation that had officially never existed, his assumed death and actual time as a POW were classified, too. He could have told his parents if he’d had any. A product of the foster system, he didn’t. He only had his brother, who he’d gained permission to inform he was still alive. He could tell her, too, and start life over as a civilian. If she still wanted him. His other option was to work for the CIA under a new name. It would make it nearly impossible for any future targets to research him and find out his full capabilities.

  Before he walked across the street, an SUV pulled into her driveway. His gut tightened; his throat closed against the immediate lump at the sight of Trina getting out of her car, her hair pinned up as part of her Navy uniform. Her face, the long, lean lines of her feminine body, was more beautiful than he remembered. If he thought his voice could reach her, he’d call to her, give a slight wave. Anything to connect.

  She opened the rear driver’s-side door and leaned in, probably for her laptop or groceries. Another car eased next to hers in the two-car driveway. A man emerged from behind the wheel. Tall, broa
d-shouldered, in a business suit and topcoat. Dread combined with months of fearing this exact scenario. It poured through his veins, temporarily paralyzing him on the spot. They wouldn’t notice him as the street was wide, with several cars parked along both curbs. The tree provided him excellent cover. Protection he hadn’t expected to need.

  He watched as the man walked over to Trina, who waited for him with a large bundle in her arms. A child, a toddler, dressed as a boy. In a bright green parka, with a cartoon hero ski cap, the little tyke clutched a construction truck in his mittened hand. The man took the boy into his arms and laughed, holding him overhead for a quick moment before hugging him to his massive chest and leaning down to kiss Trina on the cheek.

  She hadn’t waited. She’d found another and had a child. Trina had her own family now. He’d known it was possible, probable, but still, he’d have bet against it. Hoped she’d mourned for him, needed him. He was caught between the tragedy of his own sorrow and disappointment, and the darkly sick humor of having to struggle to stand upright, quietly, under the large oak tree. If she looked over she wouldn’t recognize his shattered silhouette; she’d only see what looked like an older man with a cane. But he didn’t want to take any chances that she’d see him. If she got the quickest glance at his eyes, she’d see without a shred of doubt that he was a man with an irreparably broken heart.

  As soon as they disappeared into the townhome, he arthritically folded himself back into his vehicle and drove away, refusing to look back.

  So it was to be the CIA job. Justin Berger had been dead to her, to the world, for two and a half years. Now it’d be forever.

  Chapter 1

  Three and a half years later

  Rob Bristol was pissed off, tired, hot and horny. Not all in that order, but close enough for government work. He shot back the rest of his electrolyte-enhanced water, keeping his gulps silent. As he stretched his neck with a couple of creaky turns of his head he remained vigilant, doing a 360-degree scan of his perimeter. Once settled back on his stomach, he wrapped his arms around his precision sniper rifle and adjusted the sight. His shoulders ached, as did much of his skeleton. Another reminder that his days as a top-secret operative were nearing their end, twenty years earlier than for most.

  “Gosh-damned boonies.” The Trail Hikers had once again sent him out to the most dangerous, remote operation the government shadow agency was involved with. In the continental US, anyhow. He couldn’t complain about his employer, though. Rural northern Pennsylvania was still better than Kandahar or the depths of a jungle on the worst day. It was his home country and he had quick access to anything he needed, from weaponry to foodstuffs. He enjoyed life as a civilian secret agent almost as much as he’d loved being a Navy SEAL or CIA agent. He dug the added benefit of being able to choose his missions these days. For the most part. He’d wanted to participate in another especially tricky op that involved travel to Ukraine and Russia. Claudia Michele, his boss and Trail Hikers director, had nixed it. She didn’t care that he’d already completed several successful missions against Russian organized crime in Eastern Europe and New York City. Said his talents were better spent in the former honeymoon capital of Pennsylvania, where a ROC crime boss was reportedly holed up. A mobster who’d eluded the FBI and all other law enforcement agencies.

  The irony of this mission, so very unromantic in what was considered a romantic area, wasn’t lost on him. Anger fueled his motivation to take down his target, the man who’d helped ROC bring the ugliness of high-stakes crime to this beautiful area. Rob’s weapon’s sight was trained on the one building on the planet that the world’s most sought-after crime bosses were operating from. He’d followed the dirtbag for the last six weeks. Dima Ivanov was the head of a major Russian organized crime group on the East Coast. Yuri Vasin was number two, Ivanov’s right hand. Ivanov led up to two thousand criminals and a plethora of illegal enterprises. The most recent was human trafficking, and that’s what had pushed the FBI to ask for Trail Hikers’ help. Several dozen underage girls had been smuggled into the US via the Canadian border in Maine and trucked down to the Poconos. From here they were about to be dispersed to the winds of the ROC sex trade.

  Time was of the essence.

  Ivanov was an old badger, but he wasn’t stupid. In his most recent photos he’d looked older, less energetic than the younger ROC member he’d been. Back when Rob had been with the CIA he’d trailed Ivanov to Russia, Ukraine and back without ever being detected by one single ROC member or any government officials. Rob had helped bring down an entire branch of the East Coast crime ring over a three-day period in the hot hell of New York City and Trenton, New Jersey, last year. It was during a summer heat wave that included power outages and heat-induced rage. He’d come face-to-face with Ivanov. Close enough that the criminal spat in his face as the FBI cuffed him and carted him off. Ivanov had gotten off on a technicality, thanks to the best attorneys money could buy. That was a year and multiple lifetimes ago, as far as Rob was concerned. He’d participated in countless missions since then.

  But this was his favorite. He’d majored in Russian in college and knew Russian history inside and out.

  Come on out, Ivanov. Rob forced his muscles to relax and drew upon years of experience as he waited for his prey. If he could disable the son of a bitch and his guards, allowing for law enforcement to come in and apprehend the criminals, he would. If not, he’d at least take out Yuri Vasin, who was responsible for ordering hits; nearly two thousand deaths were known. Countless victims’ bodies would never be found. One of Vasin’s main trademarks was leaving no trail of human remains. Vasin didn’t care about getting credit for a hit.

  Hot summer sun beat on the back of Rob’s neck and through his drab olive T-shirt and cargo pants. The Poconos were beautiful when snow covered, or drenched in green as they were now. But the July humidity was oppressive, soaking his clothes after only an hour on target.

  He’d thought Ivanov would have shown his face by now. There’d been no sign of him since last night, when Rob spotted him taking his last smoke break before bed, around nine o’clock. He knew Ivanov chain-smoked and had come out for fresh air, a risk when he had to know he was a wanted man. Ivanov and Vasin had been surrounded by guards. If Rob wasn’t on such strict orders from Trail Hikers headquarters in Silver Valley to keep collateral damage to a minimum, he’d have taken out both monsters and their thugs in that moment. His mission was to disable Ivanov and Vasin, call in other law enforcement agencies, or LEAs, and then get the hell out of Dodge. Typical of a Trail Hikers op, there were to be no fingerprints of his government shadow agency’s involvement.

  Rob liked to think of Trail Hikers as the helping hand for all other LEAs, national and local. A Trail Hikers agent enabled an FBI agent, state trooper, sheriff or local cop to come in and finish the job. And take credit for it.

  The real reason he’d gone with Trail Hikers instead of another shadow agency was for his mental health. After three years of ignoring the regret of not crossing the street to let Trina Lopez know he’d lived, he’d sought counseling six months ago. And discovered he still needed to finish what he’d tried to do in Norfolk. Trina was with the US Marshals in Harrisburg, and Silver Valley was only twenty minutes away across the Susquehanna River. He’d made the move to Silver Valley a month later, so that he could face her again, put to right the lack of initiative on his part three years ago. As far as he knew she was still with someone else, had her own family, but he still needed some kind of closure, if only to wish her well. It was for his own sanity.

  The beauty of Trail Hikers was that he could live anywhere in the country and work for them. He’d grown to like Silver Valley over the past several months, and it would be nice to stay, but he didn’t think permanently living that close to Trina would be healthy, even with closure.

  A gnat flew into his eye, and he swatted it away.

  He wondered why Ivanov was staying inside so m
uch today. Usually he liked to go for a walk, at least twice a day if not more often. That sense of dread Rob identified as his instinct waved a warning flag. Did Ivanov and Vasin know Rob was out here?

  Ivanov had puffed on his cigarette with Vasin and four other men around him, as if he knew he was hunted, that his enemy was close. Of course by now the criminal had to be downright paranoid, considering his constant need to be on the run. Add in his love of women, vodka and tobacco and he probably had at least the beginnings of cirrhosis and lung cancer. Ivanov’s mind and sense of trust in humanity were pretty much shot, Rob figured.

  That Rob understood.

  A glint of metal in the sun was his only warning before the building’s door opened. He took the safety off, positioned his fingers to shoot without hesitation.

  He waited. And waited.

  Nothing. The door was open, but nobody came out. With experience wrought only from years of tortuous situations, Robert ignored his annoyance, his impatience. He could outwait the best of them. As he watched, a tiny figure appeared at the edge of the doorway. An animal? Peering through the scope he discovered he was looking at a puppy.

  A dog? He’d seen a lot of strange things in his years as a SEAL, CIA operative and now Trail Hikers secret agent, but he’d never seen a dog, much less a puppy, around Vasin. Unless it was a guard dog with killer instincts. He hadn’t seen any sign of guard dogs or any strays around this compound of sorts. He swiped at the sweat on his nape, the bandanna around his head unable to keep it as dry as his temples as sweat streamed off him, making rivulets through his sunscreen. He sensed a slight breeze around his neck and shoulders and went still.

  “We meet again, Robert Bristol.” Hearing his name spoken by the all-too-familiar bass voice chilled him to the bone and made him grateful he’d heeded the CIA’s suggestion and changed his name after he’d been presumed dead as a Navy SEAL. The cold metal of a gun barrel pressed painfully into his temple. “Get up slowly, and leave your rifle. You won’t be needing it.”