by Julie Miller
"I couldn't. I thought I loved him."
"I know it's hard to ask of you, but…” He inhaled deeply, lifting his chest and squaring his shoulders on the exhale. "…try to hold on to a little bit of that faith in him. Will you do that for me?"
"Drew, you're not making any sense.”
"Just a little bit longer. Please."
Chapter Fifteen
Lucky's was a pretty dead place in the middle of the day. A few diehards had already found their way to the roulette table, and a couple of men in suits sat at the bar with a bowl of pretzels between them, nursing what Drew suspected was their lunch.
But he was interested in neither games nor sustenance. He wanted answers.
He removed his glasses and stuck them inside the pocket of his black chambray shirt, beneath his bomber jacket. It was a simple enough gesture, but it allowed him the unseen opportunity to unsnap his holster and check the position of his gun for easy access. Although he rarely used the weapon, he had a feeling he might need it today. And it always helped to put on a good show.
His intended audience arrived, right on cue.
"Cam." Buttoning his double-breasted blazer over a bulge that Drew recognized as another gun, Clayton Roylott strode out from behind the bar with his hand extended in welcome. Drew shook hands and let Clayton slap his shoulder as they greeted each other like old friends. "Good to see you again." The man was already steering Drew toward a secluded table out front and signaling the bartender. "Let me buy you a drink."
Drew slid into the booth across from Roylott and declined. "It's a little early for me. I stopped by to ask you a couple of questions."
Clayton rubbed his hands together in greedy anticipation. "Got a job lined up for me?"
Drew assumed a relaxed pose, leaning into the corner, guarding his back and appearing nonchalant. "You have a new boss now. I'm sure he has plans for you."
"What is this, some kind of joke? A test?" His silly grin betrayed a note of panic as he looked back and forth around the bar. "I did everything Moriarty told me. He said he got his instructions straight through you. That's why I was so surprised to see you before. I didn't think you were out working the field yourself anymore."
"That's right." Drew told the truth in a way that wasn't quite the truth. "I'm retired from that kind of work."
"So what's this about? Hey, you're not still mad about me hittin' on your girlfriend?"
He said nothing, letting Clayton stew a moment in fear of his wrath.
Correction. In fear of the Chameleon's wrath. Drew bit down on his lip to kill the smile that wanted to form. He'd wager he could give Clayton a heart attack right about now if he could simply reveal the truth. But he expected that complicated explanation would be beyond Roylott's comprehension.
"Cam?"
He would let him worry long enough to make him unsettled, reactive. More likely to let something slip. He pulled a photograph from his pocket, the one he'd slipped from Emma's purse earlier that morning. It was a picture of her pregnant with Kerry, with bits of autumn leaves clinging to her sweater and hair. A picture with a tall, dark-haired man standing behind her, possessively claiming what was rightfully his.
"Is this Moriarty?" asked Drew, pushing the photo across the table.
Clayton looked down, then up, his eyes wide with surprise. "What's he doin' with your girl?" He'd take that as a yes.
Drew pocketed the picture before Clayton's hands could touch it. "Tell me exactly what he hired you to do."
"You think he stiffed you? You know I’ll make it right, don't you?"
What a sycophant. He found it odd, this man's bizarre brand of conscience that made it a crime to flirt with his boss's woman, but said it was okay to bilk innocent people out of their hard-earned money and murder two-bit dirt bags like Stan Begosian. Drew wished he had the handcuffs from the glove compartment of his truck to slap on Roylott. This guy needed to be hauled in to do some serious time in jail.
But Drew had other plans for him first.
"Did he tell you to pay Stan Begosian ten thousand dollars to buy LadyTech Corporation stock?"
"Yeah. I paid him to deliver the disk, too."
"Do you know he tried to give that disk to the woman in this picture?"
"He said Emma Ramsey. Your lady told me her name was Emily." The similarity of names seemed to escape him. "You mean he's trying to do something to your woman?" Clayton backed up in his seat, waving his arms in front of him. "I swear I didn't know about that. All I did was hire the guy and transfer the funds."
Thank you. Drew wanted to say the words out loud. But an effusive thanks for confirming his suspicions would destroy the ultra-cool persona Clayton expected him to play.
He took a stab at tying together more loose ends. "Did Moriarty use contacts out of New York and Detroit to buy up LadyTech stock?"
"I don't know. He operates out of the Caribbean. But you knew that, right? He said that's where you hired him."
Drew remembered the jungle rescue at Moriarty's villa. His suspicions that the job had been orchestrated from the start fell into logical order. Jonathan had pretended to be Moriarty, had lured his old buddies in for the ‘rescue’ to reunite him with a grateful Emma. She, in turn, would welcome him with open arms and turn over what he hadn't yet bought of her company.
Drew's hand tightened into a fist at the idea of that madman touching Emma, kissing her, trying to take her to bed. He'd used her loyalty. Abused her vulnerability. But the anger coursing through him, firing his blood, cooled at the knowledge that Emma was strong. Her instincts had told her to refuse the man masquerading as her husband, and she had. What an amazing wife he had.
He relaxed his fist, but not before Clayton noticed it.
"Moriarty did stiff you, didn't he?"
"Let's say he's operating without my approval." Drew slid to the front of the booth, ready to leave. "I don't suppose you know where I can find him?"
"Don't bother. I found you."
Drew froze at the telltale click that preceded Jonathan Ramsey's low-pitched warning.
Despite the Sig-Sauer at his temple, Drew knew a stunning sense of calm. He knew the true enemy now. He could face him on equal footing for a change, without the brick wall of amnesia shielding him from the truth.
"Take his gun, Clayton."
Drew's host seemed as stunned as if the gun had been pointed at his head. He possessed a great deal of respect for—or more likely, a healthy fear of—both men. Clayton clearly didn't know which boss to follow. "I don't get it. If you two want to duke it out over some woman, maybe you'd better take it off my turf."
Jonathan groaned with displeasure. "Don't suggest anything to me. You're an easily manipulated idiot, at best." The gun stayed level at Drew's head, while Jonathan confounded Clayton even further. "What if I told you that woman was my wife? That 'Cam' here was trying to steal her. Would you be so eager to sit down and make nice conversation with him?"
Drew said nothing. He let Clayton wallow in his confusion. "What about retaliation?"
"I'm the only retaliation you need to worry about." Jonathan stepped back and pointed the gun at Drew's chest. "Now take his weapon and pull the car around front."
Several minutes later, with his hands tied together in the back seat of Clayton Roylott's limo, Drew turned to the well-dressed man still sporting his gun as an accessory beside him. "Isn't Moriarty a predictable name for a villain to be using?"
"I've pitted my wits against better than you before. It seemed like an amusing compliment to my abilities."
Drew remembered that ego. He'd profiled it himself. How many times had he tracked the man to his latest operation, only to find him gone without a trace? His ego might be the one thing greater than his cleverness. He filed that information away for a later opportunity.
He looked out the back window and noticed a black sedan following them. He put that information on file, too.
"Do you know what happened in the jungle on Tenebrosa?" He asked the
question as calmly as if they were going for a pleasant drive in the country instead of journeying toward his imminent execution.
"Oh, yes," said Jonathan. "And I gather you now know, too. Regaining your memory isn't going to help you explain anything, though, is it?"
The taunt hit its mark. Drew could feel the reality in his heart. He could know the facts in his brain, but unless he ran into a telepath, he had no way to communicate that truth to the outside world.
"How long have you known?" he asked, subdued but not defeated.
"That you and I are not who we appear to be? Almost from the first." Jonathan settled back in his seat and told the whole incredible story, knowing Drew was the only man on earth who would believe it, and planning that he wouldn't be alive to repeat the tale.
"Once I regained consciousness in a godforsaken hospital in the middle of nowhere, looked into the mirror and saw your face, I figured out what had happened. I contacted some friends, mentioned plastic surgery as a plausible excuse for the different look, and they accepted me back in my rightful position.
"I had a bit of a setback with your face, however."
Drew couldn't resist a touch of sarcasm. "Sorry for the inconvenience. I always liked the strong jaw line myself." He lifted his bound hands up to his chin, indicating the cleft in the middle of Jonathan's chin. "Your chin's easier to shave, though."
Jonathan found the comparison amusing. Then his focus returned. "I had perfected the art of working undercover. I never left any traceable clues. You, however, in your bumbling, patriotic way, had a set of fingerprints and a recognizable face. It took me a while to figure out how best to put your assets to use. And then I realized what an opportunity your wife presented to me. I've never been one to pass up an opportunity. Like the one I'm seizing today."
Drew no longer found the story entertaining. Every muscle in his body steeled with suspicion at the reference to Emma. "What are you talking about?"
Jonathan checked his watch. "Emma's lawyer should be picking her up for a late lunch right about now. She’ll be tied up in that meeting for an hour or more. Kerry is at dance lessons."
The implied threat boiled through Drew's blood. "You son of a bitch."
"I finally found something that little girl is good for."
Drew lurched forward, but the gun barrel rammed tight under his throat stopped him cold. He jerked his chin up and twisted away from the threat. He breathed in deeply, urging his body to remain unmoving even though protective rage thundered in his veins.
Jonathan pushed a button in the ceiling control panel, and the limo turned off the state highway onto a twisting gravel road. "My wife won't give me what I want. So I'll take it from her. And just in case you've planned to pull off some kind of miracle like you did on Tenebrosa, I don't want you around to interfere.” He laughed, but there was no humor to the sound. "I thought you were dead once, until I saw you face to face at my villa. My whole career, you've been an annoying inconvenience. Who'd have thought you would be leading my rescue."
"I did it for Emma." Drew wanted the bastard to understand there was no other reason in the world good enough to keep him alive.
"Well, then, she’ll be pleased when she hears I've gotten rid of that clever Chameleon forever." He leaned in, delighted with his own ingenuity. "And I know damn well that there's no evidence to prove that I'm really him—stuck in the wrong body."
"No physical evidence," Drew countered.
"What other kind stands up in a court of law?"
Drew was far more interested in proving the truth to Emma, in giving her the evidence of all that lay in his heart.
If he got the chance.
The limo pulled to a stop off the side of the road. Drew recognized the abandoned rock quarries that had long since filled with water and turned into deep man-made lakes. Now, with the recent cold snap, the lakes would be frozen over with a thin layer of ice. But someone could break a hole through the surface, dump a body into the water, and let Mother Nature hide the deed beneath a layer of newly formed ice.
The door opened beside Drew, and Roylott waved him out with a gun. Refusing his offer to help, Drew swung his legs out and stood beside the long car. A second man, a stocky thug who Drew recognized as Stan Begosian's escort at Lucky's, walked up behind him and held him at gunpoint while Clayton stuck his head back inside the limo to consult with Jonathan.
Clayton's voice was muffled, but the grim order came through loud and clear. "Shoot him. Tie him up, and throw him in the quarry. I don't want his body found."
Roylott straightened, uncomfortable with the task, yet unwilling to disobey. "Yes, sir."
"Jackson will drive you back to town in his car. Don't fail me."
Clayton closed the door, and the driver U-turned the limo around them. "Ramsey!" Drew shouted. Ten feet down the road, the limo stopped.
Jonathan's window opened automatically, and he looked out, curious to hear Drew's last words. Drew didn't disappoint.
"If I get my hands on you again… plan on dying."
Jonathan smiled at the threat. He angled two fingers at his brow and gave Drew a mock military salute, then rolled up the window and the limo pulled away.
When Clayton leveled his gun at his prisoner, Drew snuck a look at the man's Rolex. One p.m. "Let's go, Jackson."
The thick-necked man behind Drew jabbed his gun into Drew's ribs and prodded him forward. He fell into step behind Clayton. They formed an odd parade, two men dressed in well-cut suits and dress coats flanking a jeans-clad civilian wearing leather and long hair
He tried to see his watch beneath his sleeve as they climbed over a pile of debris rock and down into the quarry. But the twisting motion to free his wrist earned him a second jab in the ribs. Drew grimaced but kept walking.
Fortunately, he had dressed for warmth that morning in his black work boots. The lug soles gave him traction on the snow-covered, sometimes icy rocks, while Clayton struggled to keep his footing in his slick-soled loafers. Jackson huffed and puffed with exertion behind him.
When they reached a plateau of relatively flat stone some twenty feet above the water line, Roylott stopped. He glanced over the edge, then back at Drew and Jackson. "This is as good a place as any.” Clayton apologized, "Sorry about this, Cam."
Drew shifted to the balls of his feet and gritted his teeth in a false smile "Me, too."
He jammed his elbow into Jackson's gut, rammed his doubled fists into his gaping jaw. Startled by the attack, Jackson stumbled, dropping his gun into a crevice between the rocks.
Drew didn't wait for Clayton to make the decision to shoot. He lowered his shoulder and rammed him, knocking him off balance and sending his weapon flying off the ledge into the water below. Jackson ran up behind him, but Drew kicked out, hitting him in the chest with enough force to knock him off his feet. He crashed to the rocks, silent.
Clayton had squatted down, stretching his arm between the rocks to try to retrieve Jackson's gun. Drew looped his arms around his neck from behind and pulled up, strangling him with the knots that bound his wrists. Clayton's hands flailed in a token struggle, but within a minute, Drew had cut off his oxygen long enough for the man to pass out.
He didn't waste a moment checking for a pulse or savoring his triumph. He gasped hard, controlling his breath from the exertion, keeping himself from expelling too much oxygen and getting lightheaded. He ran to Jackson's crumpled body and searched through his pockets. He pulled out his keys and a pocket-sized hunting knife.
He paused only a moment to check his watch. One-twenty. "Damn."
Twenty minutes was a long enough head start for Jonathan Ramsey to get to Emma or Kerry first.
Drew hurried across the rocks, leaping where he had climbed before, trying to make up time.
Time.
The one element that had been stolen from him five years ago by an inexplicable twist of fate. Time with his daughter and friends. Time with the woman he loved.
He popped open the knife and sawed at h
is bindings when he hit flat ground. He'd cut himself free by the time he climbed into Jackson's car.
He had five years of a lost life that he intended to make up to those he loved.
But Ramsey had a twenty-minute head start.
Not Ramsey, Drew thought, starting the engine and spinning gravel behind his wheels as he raced onto the road.
The Chameleon. In Jonathan Ramsey's body. In his body.
The Chameleon had also had a twenty-minute head start on him down in the jungles of Tenebrosa. He'd run him down that time. He'd left the rest of his team behind when the opportunity had presented itself. He'd tracked the criminal down. Caught him in the heart of the jungle.
He'd blown himself to hell, losing everything.
In twenty minutes, he could lose everything all over again.
* * *
"Damn it, Jonathan, let her go! I'll give you whatever you want."
Emma's angry voice, tinged with a panic she refused to give in to, reached Drew through the trap door leading to the roof of the LadyTech building.
He climbed the ladder that took him from the top floor to the roof, cursing each rung as if it were a mile that separated him from Kerry and Emma. He'd wasted precious minutes calling Brodie and putting him on alert. He'd practically terrorized Kerry's dance teacher, demanding to know where his daughter was.
To hear that she'd been picked up by her father had eroded the last of Drew's cool reserve.
Finally, sheer luck and an insistent voice inside his head had steered him to LadyTech. "Up!" the voice had whispered, like an angel hovering at his shoulder. "Go up. Quickly."
He'd driven the car onto the front sidewalk and ran into the building. He'd mounted the stairs two and three at a time. Now, he caught the top rung and pushed open the trap door. An icy wind hit him as he climbed onto the roof.
But that was nothing compared to the chill of seeing Jonathan Ramsey holding Kerry by the wrist and dragging her perilously close to the edge of the roof.
He stopped and laughed when he saw Drew. "Well, look who's here. You just refuse to die, don't you?"