Книга - Mistaken Identity

Mistaken Identity
Shirlee McCoy


THE WRONG TARGETWhen Trinity Miller’s attacked by a man who mistakenly believes she’s Mason Gains’s girlfriend, the reclusive prosthetic maker is forced from seclusion to rescue her. And he soon learns someone’s determined to get information on one of his clients—information they’re willing to kill for. Now the ex-army pilot has to find a way to take down the men on their trail…and make sure Trinity survives. When Trinity arrived at Mason’s isolated home to convince him to help her friend’s son, her plans didn’t include going on the run with him. But Trinity must work with Mason to outwit their pursuers…or risk losing both their lives.







THE WRONG TARGET

When Trinity Miller’s attacked by a man who mistakenly believes she’s Mason Gains’s girlfriend, the reclusive prosthetic maker is forced from seclusion to rescue her. And he soon learns someone’s determined to get information on one of his clients—information they’re willing to kill for. Now the former army pilot has to find a way to take down the men on their trail...and make sure Trinity survives. When Trinity arrived at Mason’s isolated home to convince him to help her friend’s son, her plans didn’t include going on the run with him. But Trinity must work with Mason to outwit their pursuers...or risk losing both their lives.


Dear Reader (#uab3fe9cb-a13a-55a5-9e5f-780296644adb),

When I have goal, I go after it with dogged determination. This is great when my plan and God’s are in alignment. It’s tougher when what I’m striving for isn’t God’s best for me. In Mistaken Identity, Trinity Miller realizes that something she’s spent years working toward isn’t going to happen. She can’t understand why her dream isn’t part of God’s plan, and she can’t imagine anything better than what she had in mind.

Then she meets Mason Gains.

At first, he’s just a recluse who may be able to help her friend. But when a quick weekend trip becomes a life-and-death struggle, Trinity learns that God’s plan is much more wonderful than hers could ever be.

I hope you enjoy the seventh book in the Mission: Rescue series, and I pray that whatever path you walk, God’s love and faithfulness will guide you.

Blessings,

Shirlee McCoy


Trinity made it to the end of the corridor before Mason stopped her.

He didn’t put a hand on her. Didn’t tell her to stop. Didn’t remind her that she was part of a criminal investigation and that she couldn’t leave. She could have ignored any of those things.

“They think you’re my girlfriend,” he said instead. “The guys who broke into my house.”

“Why would they think that?”

“I thought maybe you could answer that question.”

“I can’t.” She started walking again. She wanted to pretend Mason’s words hadn’t changed things, but she couldn’t. She knew that mistaken identity could get a person kidnapped or killed. Or both.

“You can’t run away from your troubles, Trinity,” Mason said, stepping in front of her. “Where are you planning to run?”

“Telling you that would defeat the purpose of going into hiding.”

“Hiding from me isn’t going to be a possibility,” Mason said. “You’re either part of whatever went down tonight—”

“I’m not.”

“Or you’ve walked into something that could cause you a lot of trouble.”

“I can handle it.”

“You could have died tonight,” he pointed out, his voice sharp-edged with irritation. “If I hadn’t come home, you probably would have.”

She didn’t respond. There wasn’t much she could say. He was right. They both knew it.


Aside from her faith and her family, there’s not much SHIRLEE MCCOY enjoys more than a good book! When she’s not teaching or chauffeuring her five kids, she can usually be found plotting her next Love Inspired Suspense story or wandering around the beautiful Inland Northwest in search of inspiration. Shirlee loves to hear from readers. If you have time, drop her a line at shirlee@shirleemccoy.com.


Mistaken Identity

Shirlee McCoy






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Even in my suffering I was comforted because your promise gave me life.

—Psalms 119:50


To Sharon. You know why. I love you, friend!


Contents

Cover (#u96865aed-dc48-5010-b7bf-4888e848df9b)

Back Cover Text (#u67257035-e6c5-5f63-8434-9e5ce197b4c4)

Dear Reader (#u36fa717f-fa37-5288-89ce-b482ba6d2168)

Introduction (#u4d005f3e-98b9-5023-ac37-c7585750c3f9)

About the Author (#ue4053557-22dc-5085-9528-d3a4a198f7cb)

Title Page (#ua3cfa846-d6a4-50d9-b46b-e15116e5212d)

Bible-Verse (#u0460fe9d-2b6f-58e2-9b5e-8ae75697b3fa)

Dedication (#u2369a6d6-f5dd-51ad-806c-7f3e2d0cc434)

ONE (#ucedf7297-3d79-51fe-9128-17eaf00b6fa7)

TWO (#u3a9b5809-2604-599a-9485-11e7b26076da)

THREE (#u75a9f239-b40a-5085-b0c7-e0f81369e385)

FOUR (#u8167d517-2bbc-5f8c-8320-cb834feebe57)

FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


ONE (#uab3fe9cb-a13a-55a5-9e5f-780296644adb)

Trinity Miller didn’t scare easily, but she was scared now.

It wasn’t the darkness of the woods that stretched out to either side of the old dirt road that had her rattled. It wasn’t the full moon hovering over mountain vistas. It wasn’t even the silence in her old Jeep Cherokee that was getting to her.

It was the weird feeling she had.

The one that seemed to be telling her to turn around and leave. If she’d told either of her brothers about it, they’d have said she should listen. Of course, she hadn’t told Jackson or Chance what she was doing. They both thought she was on a weekend jaunt to New England to see the fall foliage, eat the crisp, ripe apples. Decide what direction she wanted her life to go.

All of those things were true.

There just happened to be a couple of tiny little details that she hadn’t offered. Like the fact that she was going to pay a visit to a man who was notoriously private. Like the fact that he lived in Middle-of-Nowhere, Maine.

Like the fact that she hadn’t told Mason Gains she was coming or asked permission to drive down the road that had been clearly marked with no-trespassing signs.

Yeah. She’d skipped a few details when she’d been explaining things to her brothers. They’d been too busy with their work and their families to notice she was hedging around questions and offering minimal details. Twelve hours ago, when she’d left her Annapolis home and headed north, she’d been happy about that.

Now, with fear sitting like a hard rock in her belly, she wouldn’t have minded having one or the other of her brothers sitting beside her.

Go home.

That’s what they’d have wanted her to do. Knowing them, they’d have found a way to send her packing so they could handle the situation themselves.

Whatever the situation was.

She frowned. It wasn’t like she was heading into a hostage rescue mission. She was going to talk to a guy who made prosthetic limbs for a living. How dangerous could it be?

Unless Mason Gains had a gun and decided to shoot first and ask questions later, Trinity should be just fine. She’d done her research, used her computer forensic background to find out everything she could about Mason. She hadn’t found any hint of violence, any indication that he’d been in trouble with the law. He’d served his country, gone to college, gone into business doing something that could enhance the lives of wounded warriors.

He was a hero.

Heroes didn’t shoot unarmed women.

She hoped.

If they did, there were sure a lot of places to hide a body around here.

At least Bryn knew where Trinity was. If she didn’t return home, she could count on her best friend to let everyone know where she’d been and what she’d been up to.

By that time, it would be too late, of course.

Trinity would be buried somewhere in the forest, her body concealed under layers of dirt, dead leaves and fallen pine needles. She frowned. That was not a good direction for her thoughts to go. Not when she was already scared.

“You shouldn’t be scared,” she muttered, breaking the eerie silence.

Sure, she was in the middle of nowhere. Sure, there was nothing but trees and mountains as far as the eye could see, but she’d been hiking in rougher areas. She worked search and rescue, and she’d been out on rainy nights and snowy ones, serving as a flanker for K-9 teams. She’d trekked through mountains and wetland, and she’d done it without even a shiver of alarm, so she had no reason to be sitting in her locked Jeep, her heart pounding with fear as she drove down a pitch-black mountain road.

She leaned forward to ease the tension from her lower back. She’d been driving for hours, just stopping long enough to gas up and move on. Mason Gains didn’t like being interrupted. He had important work to do, and he couldn’t be bothered with unexpected visitors. He’d made that clear in a couple of interviews he’d done. Both had been taped several years ago. Since then he’d been quiet, living and working—according to his company website—somewhere in New England.

It had taken just under two weeks for Trinity to figure out exactly where that was. For the first time in longer than she cared to remember, she felt like her expertise in computer forensics was paying off in a way that would really matter to someone she cared about.

In ten days Bryn’s son Henry would have surgery to remove his left leg. The cancer that was growing in his bone could almost certainly be stopped that way. So could his running dreams. An all-star athlete, he’d been training for Junior Olympics and Bryn had been told that he’d go even farther than that. Henry had his Navy SEAL father’s drive, but he didn’t have his father. Rick had been killed in Iraq when Henry was a toddler. Bryn had been working her butt off ever since, trying to be mother and father to their son.

This newest blow had shaken her, and Trinity was doing everything she could to buoy her.

This journey was part of that.

It was possible Mason would turn her away at the door. It was possible he’d refuse to hear her out. It was even more possible that he’d listen and then tell her what she already knew—he only made prosthetic limbs for veterans. He didn’t work with kids.

She’d still had to come. She’d had to try.

She’d just rather not die doing it.

She eyed the dark trees, the distant mountains and the road that stretched out in front of her. Not a light. Not a house. Not any sign of civilization. Maybe she should turn around; return when the sun came up.

“Five minutes,” she whispered because the silence was starting to get to her and the only thing she was getting on her radio was static. “If I don’t see something by then, I’m turning around.”

The wind howled, sweeping through the forest and swirling along the road. Normally, Trinity loved storms, but if one was blowing in, she didn’t want to be on a dirt road in an area with spotty reception. Even Jeeps could get stuck in mud or crushed by falling trees.

So, that was that.

She was turning around.

She’d drive the fifty miles to Whisper Lake and find the little bed-and-breakfast she’d reserved a room in. She’d get a good night’s sleep and she’d come at the problem fresh in the morning. Obviously she’d miscalculated the distance to Mason’s property. For all she knew, she wasn’t even on the right road. Aside from the no-trespassing signs, the road wasn’t marked. She had no idea what the street address for the house was. She didn’t even know if there was one. All she knew was what she’d found by accessing public records—Mason Gains owned two-thousand acres of land somewhere very close to where she was driving.

She slowed, trying to find a wide enough spot to turn around, and caught something in her periphery. A light glimmered through the trees to her left.

A window? It looked like it, and if there was a window, there had to be a house.

Her pulse jumped and she accelerated again, following the curve of the road through the trees and out into the open. The road ended there, stopping abruptly at the edge of a grassy field.

A mile out, a house jutted up against the blue-black sky, the forest pushing in behind it, crowding close enough that Trinity couldn’t see where the house ended and the forest began.

That had to be Mason’s house.

At least, she hoped it was his house.

If it wasn’t, she was about to walk across a field and knock on a stranger’s door.

Who was she kidding?

Mason was a stranger.

He wasn’t going to be happy to see her. She was going, anyway. She’d promised Bryn that she’d try, and that meant giving her best effort.

Hopefully it wouldn’t get her killed.

She shoved her phone and keys in her jacket pocket and got out of the Jeep. The early fall air already held a hint of bitter winter, the moisture in it biting and cold. Lights spilled out of several windows of the ranch-style house. She could see the details more clearly as she approached—the wrap-around porch, whitewashed and gleaming. The black door and gray siding. No shrubs or bushes butted up against the house. No trees. No fences. Nothing that would impede the owner’s view of the road and the field.

That didn’t make Trinity feel any more comfortable with the situation. Mason had served three tours overseas. He’d been a helicopter pilot and had seen his share of combat. It was possible that—like so many of the men and women he worked with—he had PTSD. If he did, he might be even less likely to appreciate a random stranger showing up at nine in the evening.

She walked up the porch steps, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket as she went. She didn’t know if she had cell reception, but she felt better holding on to the possibility.

She knocked, the sound echoing through the night. A bird startled from a tree, a critter scurried under the porch, but no one came to the door.

She knocked again, thought she saw one of the curtains in the front window move. Someone was there. She could feel him watching as she stepped back off the porch.

“Mason?” she called, surprised at the tremor she heard in her voice.

Nerves weren’t her style any more than fear was.

No response. Just the same silent house and that little flutter of curtain movement.

Someone was definitely in there.

Since he hadn’t shouted for her to leave or pointed a gun in her direction, she was going to keep trying to get him to open the door. Bryn was waiting for the mission-accomplished call and Trinity planned to make it. Mason Gains was the best at what he did. His prosthetic devices were used by some of the highest level athletes in the world. Getting him to agree to make one for Henry would lift the tween’s spirits and give him back the hope he’d lost the day he’d been told he was going to lose his leg. That was what Bryn wanted more than anything, and it was what Trinity wanted for her.

She walked around the side of the house. The windows were dark there, the moon the only light. The backyard was a tiny stretch of grass that bumped about against deep woods. To the right, a section had been cleared for a large workshop and a three-stall garage. An SUV sat in front of one stall, its windows tinted.

Washington, DC, license plate.

Mason must have visitors.

Good. He’d be less likely to shoot her and dump her body if there were witnesses around.

“Not funny, Trin,” she muttered as she walked up the three stairs that led to a small deck.

She planned to knock on the back door, but it was open, a screen the only thing separating her from the room beyond. A kitchen, maybe. She thought she could see the outline of a refrigerator in the darkness, see what looked like a table and chairs, and something else. A person? It looked like it. Not moving, just hanging back a few feet from the screen, watching her the way she was watching him.

She didn’t call out again, didn’t move closer.

Something was off. She could feel it in the frigid air and in the frantic pounding of her heart.

She stepped back, quietly, cautiously, eyes glued to person behind the screen.

The stairs were right behind her and she felt for them with her foot, afraid to turn away. Afraid that if she did, whoever was on the other side of the screen would attack.

She found the first step and moved down, her hair suddenly standing on end, her nerves alive with warning. The person didn’t move. Not an inch, but the air vibrated with energy.

Everything inside told her to run and, this time, she was going with her gut.

She swung around just as a quiet click broke the silence.

She knew the sound as well as she knew the sound of her mother’s voice. A gun safety being released.

She had seconds, and she used them, her feet moving almost before the sound registered. She leaped to the left, landing hard on thick grass. She stumbled, kept going, racing toward the trees as the first shot rang out.

The bullet whizzed past, slammed into a tree a few feet away, the trunk splintering, bits of it flying into Trinity’s face as she ducked and kept running.

The woods were there, and she dove into thick foliage, the sound of footsteps following her. A man called out, another answered, and she knew she was in bigger trouble than she ever could have imagined.

She’d ignored all the internal warnings, all the little shivers of doubt and fear, and she’d walked in on something she shouldn’t have.

Like an idiot.

Like a kid who didn’t know what she was doing or how to take care of herself.

Someone snagged the back of her jacket and she fell back, her phone flying from her grasp as she fought to free herself.

Elbow to a soft stomach, fist to a nose. She palmed the guy in the chin and finally broke free of his grasp. No plan except to escape. No destination but the forest with its thick trees and dark shadows. She had no idea where she was going or what she’d do once she got there. She just knew she had to keep moving.

She raced through heavy brambles, thorns catching on her skin and clothes, tearing at her hair. Blood seeped from a long scratch on her cheek, but she didn’t take time to wipe it away. She could still hear branches breaking, feet pounding, someone closing in.

Please, God. Please get me out of this, and I will always tell the entire truth instead of keeping little pieces of it to myself. I promise. Just help me, she prayed, bargaining in a way she hadn’t since she was old enough to understand how useless and silly it was.

God didn’t bargain.

He didn’t only come around when someone was in trouble, either.

He worked in His way and in His time, and Trinity was cool with that.

She wasn’t cool with dying.

She knew her eternal destiny, but she’d rather not have her body buried in the woods in Maine, her family spending the rest of their lives wondering what had happened to her the way they had always wondered what had happened to her older sister.

Behind her, someone called out, the voice deep and masculine. There was an answer from somewhere to her left, and she knew they were trying to pen her in, come at her from two sides. Or maybe even three.

She ran down a steep slope, nearly tumbling into a creek that burbled over rocks and old logs. She jumped over a narrow section, her feet sinking into mud on the far bank. She didn’t stop to smooth the prints away. She could hear her pursuer charging through the woods. Closing in. And she had no way of calling for help, no one flanking her, making sure she survived.

She was alone.

The way she’d wanted it, because she’d been tired of standing in the shadows of her brothers.

Now she wished they were here.

She wished she’d been more honest about her reasons for traveling to Maine and told them exactly where she planned to be. She wished a lot of things, but wishes were about as useful as umbrellas in hurricanes.

She sprinted uphill and found herself on a narrow path that skirted a ledge. A hundred feet below, dark water shimmered in the moonlight. A lake! And, beyond that, house lights. She wasn’t sure how far. A couple of miles away maybe. If she could make it there, she could knock on a door, find a phone, call for help.

If she could make it.

Someone barreled onto the path a few hundred feet to her left. She didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. She lowered herself over the ledge, grabbing tree branches to stop her momentum as she scrambled down. If she’d had all the time in the world, she could have made it, but time wasn’t on her side, and she was rushing, moving from one handhold to the other, not checking to see if they would hold her weight. She felt one give. The earth was moist from recent rain, the roots probably barely clinging to the side of the steep hill.

She kept moving, listening to the sudden silence. The thickness of it pulsed in the air, as alive and real as her terror. Had the guy pulled his gun? Did he have night-vision goggles? Was he aiming his gun at her?

She grabbed a pine sapling, her feet slipping in her haste to escape. The sapling gave, pulling away from the ground and tumbling toward the lake, Trinity tumbling with it.

And, she knew it was over.

If the fall didn’t kill her, the gunman would, and then she’d be another statistic, another tragedy, another sorrow for her family to bear.

* * *

Going to an old friend’s funeral hadn’t been fun.

Attending his own?

Not something Mason Gains intended to do.

He moved silently through the forest, following the trail of broken branches that led away from his house and workshop. Two-thousand acres of Maine wilderness usually kept people away. That was how he liked it.

Tonight, someone had infiltrated his sanctuary, trespassed on his property and fired a shot that he’d heard loud and clear as he was returning home. If he hadn’t had the windows down, letting cold air sweep away the memory of blood and gunpowder and death that had chased him from Afghanistan and Iraq, followed him across continents and through years of therapy, he might not have heard the gunshot.

But he’d had the windows down, cold air cooling the sweat that beaded his brow, and he’d heard it. He’d known exactly what it was, and he’d known it didn’t belong. This was private property bordered by a state park. No hunting allowed there. Even if there had been, it wasn’t hunting season, and he was certain he hadn’t heard a rifle. He’d heard a handgun. One quick, sharp, report and then silence.

He’d parked the truck on the side of the long driveway, partially hiding it behind a patch of thick shrubs he’d planted with just that purpose in mind. Then he’d taken off on foot, skirting the edge of the driveway, keeping to the shadows as he made his way to the house. He’d noticed the lights first. Then, the SUV parked near his workshop; the open back door, a light shining beyond it. He’d called the police, and then done a sweep of the exterior. There’d been a Jeep parked at the far edge of the field near an old logging road that no one ever used. No other vehicles. No sign of anyone wandering around close to the house. He’d gone inside. Quietly. Just like he’d been trained to do in the military.

There’d been one person inside the house, trying to push aside the built-in book shelves that served as a door to his office. It had taken about six seconds to disarm and apprehend the guy. Youngish with a beer belly and pasty skin, he’d blabbered on about not wanting to die. Funny how people were most remorseful after they’d been caught.

Or not.

He’d asked a few questions, made a few idle threats. Handguns were dangerous, and they were convincing. Mason always carried one, and the kid had spilled enough information to let Mason know that there were two other men. They were in the woods, hunting for Mason’s girlfriend.

There was one problem with that.

Mason had no girlfriend.

So...three unknown people were wandering his property.

The police were on the way, but Mason didn’t believe in waiting around for others to do what he could. He’d already tied up the kid and left him trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey, lying on the floor near the bookshelves.

Now he was going to find the other players in the game.

It shouldn’t be hard. They’d left a noticeable trail, and he was having no trouble at all following it. He eased through thick undergrowth, moving along the edge of the creek that cut through his property. There were footprints in the bank. Large boots and smaller sneakers. The woman who was supposed to be his girlfriend?

She’d headed up the embankment. He followed.

The steep rise led to a ledge that looked out over Whisper Lake. Beyond that, she’d have seen the lights of Whisper—the closest town. Just a pinprick on the map. Fifteen hundred residents on a good day, and exactly the kind of place Mason would have lived if he’d wanted to live close to civilization.

He shopped in the little grocery store there.

When friends came to visit, he took them to the tackle shop, the diner, the ice cream place. There wasn’t much in Whisper, but it was plenty to keep the residents happy.

A pretty little place, but it was nearly fifty miles away. No way could anyone reach it on foot from his property, but he doubted his unwanted visitor knew that. If she’d been running from someone, she probably hadn’t even cared.

He could hear sirens in the distance. Other than that, the woods were silent and still, eerie in their quiet. He’d bought the property for its solitude and for its view of the lake. He’d spent plenty of time sitting in the darkness, looking out over the water, praying for answers to questions he wasn’t even sure he could give voice to.

He hadn’t found any, but he still enjoyed the view.

He didn’t enjoy having people interrupt his work.

He had three prosthetic limbs to design and create. His team would be there Monday morning. Just like always. Mason had planned to return Sunday night but John’s funeral had been a sad event with a handful of mourners, no church service, no celebration of life. Just the graveside service and John’s wife, Sally, crying quietly. She’d wanted Mason to stay for a couple of days. She’d offered him a room in the single-wide trailer she and John had shared. She’d actually begged Mason to stay, but their Nyack, New York, home had seemed claustrophobic.

Or, maybe, it had been the memories that had penned him in.

It didn’t matter.

He’d returned two days early and someone was on his property.

Someone who’d been able to disarm the state-of-the-art security system. Someone who’d known there was an office behind the bookshelves.

That narrowed the list to maybe three or four people who worked for him, a close friend who happened to be the town sheriff and John.

He’d betrayed Mason once. It was more than possible that he’d done it again before he’d died.

Mason skirted the ledge that looked out over the lake, eyeing the foliage below, the dark water beyond it.

A small sneaker print was pressed into the path. He used that as his guide, easing himself over the ledge and finding his footing against the rock and damp earth.

He could see evidence of hands grasping branches—snapped twigs, scuff marks in the earth. Toes pressed deep into dirt.

She’d made it about halfway down when she’d fallen. He could see the uprooted sapling, the slide of her body in pine needles. He stopped, listening to the wind rustling in the leaves, the soft lap of water against the shore below him, the sounds of the sirens drawing closer. No branches breaking. No footsteps. He felt alone. Just like he should be.

He took out his light, aiming the beam down the steep slope. He could see the direction her body had taken, the dirt and rocks that had tumbled with her.

Near the bottom, the light fell on pale skin, light brown hair. Jeans. Jacket. A woman for sure. Motionless.

Dead?

He hoped not. She might be a trespasser, but she didn’t deserve to die for that. He tucked the light back in his pocket and the woman jumped up.

“Hey!” he called. “Hold on!”

She’d heard. He was certain of that.

She didn’t listen.

She ran toward the lake, moving quickly enough that he wasn’t all that concerned about her being injured.

He scrambled down the rest of the slope, racing across pebbly earth. She was yards ahead of him, illuminated by moonlight as she waded into the water and dove below its surface.

If he didn’t get her out, she’d die there, the cold stealing her strength and her life before she even knew it was happening.

He moved along the shore, his light dancing across the dark lake. She’d gone down, and she hadn’t come back up, but he could see the small ripples on the surface of the water, subtle signs that she was moving beneath it. He shrugged out of his coat, his handgun zipped into an interior pocket, unbuttoned the dress shirt he’d worn to John’s funeral and dropped that on top of it.

He waited until she surfaced, her head popping up as she gulped for air.

That was it. All the opportunity he needed.

He waded into the frigid water and went after her.


TWO (#uab3fe9cb-a13a-55a5-9e5f-780296644adb)

The water was freezing.

That wasn’t something Trinity had been thinking about when she’d decided she could swim to the lights that glimmered on the far shore. Houses. Businesses. People. She was thinking about the water temperature now. She was also thinking about how far the opposite shore really was. Farther than it looked. She was a good swimmer, but the cold was already affecting her muscles, and her movements were sluggish and slow.

She could turn back, but he was there—the man who’d been standing on the slope, shining his light down at her.

She didn’t know who he was.

She didn’t want to know.

She just wanted to escape him, find some place to hunker down and think through her options. She’d have to swim parallel to the shore and find a safe place to exit the lake. Preferably before hypothermia set in. At the rate things were going, that wouldn’t be long. She was already shivering, her teeth chattering.

Make a plan. Stick to the plan.

That was one of Chance’s mottos.

The problem was that he’d never explained what to do if the plan wasn’t working out. Probably because his plans always worked out.

Trinity’s? Not so much.

Look at her relationship with Dale. She’d had it all planned out. The two years of dating. The year-long engagement. The happily-ever-after.

Only, two years had turned into three and there’d been no sign of dating ever becoming anything more. That had made her worry that maybe Dale wasn’t as committed to forever as she was.

Turned out, he wasn’t.

It also turned out that she would have realized that long before the three-year mark if she hadn’t been so committed to her poorly conceived plan.

This plan? The one that had her swimming across the lake to safety? It was just as bad.

She glanced back at the shore. She was a few hundred yards from it. No sign of the guy who’d been chasing her. He’d probably realized she was going to die without any help from him. Maybe he was sitting in the shadows of the trees, waiting for her to drown and make his job easier.

She gritted her teeth to keep them from knocking together. There had to be a place that was safer than the beach, an area of thick foliage and deep shadows, but her eyes didn’t seem to be working well and her arms didn’t seem to want to paddle. Her legs felt heavy and she wanted to close her eyes and float for just long enough to regain her strength.

If she did, she’d die.

She was still coherent enough to realize that, but it wouldn’t be long and her brain would slow as much as her body had. She turned toward the beach, desperate to get out of the water before that happened. All thoughts of the man and the danger he represented were gone. She had more immediate things to worry about. Like freezing to death or drowning or—

An arm wrapped around her, and she was yanked back against a hard body, her arms pinned at her sides. She tried to scream, but all that emerged was a quiet squeak. Tried to fight, but she was trapped by a steel-like arm and her own weakness.

She kicked backward, trying to free herself.

“Stop,” a man growled.

But she kicked again, the icy water splashing up into her face.

“You want us both to drown?” he asked, dragging her closer to his body. They were heading toward the shore. She could feel that, and she knew the exact moment his feet touched the lake bottom, because he hefted her up like a sack of potatoes, tossing her over his shoulder in a fireman carry that forced every bit of air from her lungs.

She should have kept fighting, but the wind was howling, and she was freezing, her body trembling so violently, she thought she might shake into pieces.

Seconds later she was lowered to her feet. Gently. Surprising since she figured the guy was about to kill her.

“That was one of the stupidest things I’ve ever seen anyone do,” he said.

“Not as stupid as firing a gun at an innocent person,” she retorted.

“Equally stupid acts, lady. One will get you killed. The other could kill someone else,” he growled, grabbing a coat from the ground and pulling a handgun from somewhere inside it.

Her blood went as cold as her body was, and she took a step back.

“Relax,” he muttered. “If I’d wanted to hurt you, it would have been done already. It’s not like you’re in any shape to fight.”

“I could fight if I needed to.” Maybe.

“Hopefully, you won’t have to put that to the test.” He checked the safety on the gun, tucked it into the waistband of his pants and tossed the coat around her shoulders.

It was still warm from his body, and she wanted to pull it over her soaked hair and huddle under it until some of the warmth seeped into her. She was afraid if she did, she’d close her eyes and wake up locked in a basement somewhere.

Or, worse, not wake up at all.

“Maybe you should think about that next time you decide to fire a shot and then chase a person through the woods. Not many people are going to take kindly to that, and most of them are going to do exactly what I did and—”

“I wasn’t the one who fired the gun, and I wasn’t chasing you anywhere.” He lifted what looked like a white dress shirt, shook it out and pulled it on.

Unlike her, he’d been thinking before he’d dived into the lake.

His pants were soaked, but his shirt wasn’t.

She, on the other hand, was still shaking with cold, her wet clothes clinging to her skin. “Look, it’s freezing. How about we just call it a night? You go your way. I go mine. No harm, no foul.”

“That,” he murmured, “is a matter of opinion.”

“What’s that supposed to...?” Her voice trailed off because the moonlight was falling straight onto his face, and she knew him. Knew of him, anyway. Mason Gains. The guy she’d traveled six-hundred miles to see.

“To mean?” he finished her question as he tugged the coat closed and buttoned the top three buttons, his knuckles brushing her chin and her jaw as he turned the collar up around her ears. “It means that you’re trespassing, and I’ve called the police. They’ll be very interested in hearing your story.”

“My story is simple. I came to find you, and you chased me through the woods with a gun.”

“I already told you, it wasn’t me.”

“Someone chased me. I fell.” And she’d hit her head. The cold had stolen most of the pain, but she could feel it again, pulsing just above her right ear. She touched the area, felt warm blood.

“You’re bleeding,” he commented, and she wanted to say something sarcastic, because she was cold, she was scared and she was in pain.

She didn’t think that would win her any points, so she kept her mouth shut.

He sighed. “Come on. Let’s go back. The police should be at the house by now.”

“Good. Maybe they can find the guys who were shooting at me.”

“How many?” he asked, taking her arm and leading her along the shore. They weren’t heading the way they’d come. That was probably for the best. She didn’t think she could climb up what she hadn’t been able to climb down.

“At least two.”

“Did you see them?”

“No. I was too busy running for my life to stop and get a description of the people who were trying to kill me.”

Oops.

There she went with the sarcasm.

“Glad you’ve kept your sense of humor,” Mason muttered, stepping between towering pine trees, his grip on her arm firm.

She knew he was trying to keep her from running. She couldn’t say she blamed him, but she didn’t like it.

“No need to hold on to me,” she said, pulling her arm from his grasp. “I’ve got no idea where we are and no idea how to get to civilization from here. In other words, I have absolutely nowhere to go, so I’m not going anywhere but wherever you’re heading.”

“Thanks for the information. Now, I’ll give you some. If you run, I’ll catch you,” he replied. “So, how about you save us both the effort and don’t do it?”

“I already told you, I’m not planning on running.” Especially not now when the guy she’d been looking for was just a few inches away.

They hadn’t gotten off to a good start.

She could fix that, clear things up, explain all the reasons why he should hear what she had to say and listen to her reasons for being there.

They were moving steadily uphill, heading—she presumed—back toward Mason’s house. She expected him to ask more questions. She actually hoped he would. She just needed an opening, and she could explain the situation with Henry, tell Mason all about the young athlete, his cancer diagnosis and his upcoming surgery.

But Mason seemed content to stay silent.

She did the same, the sound of police sirens a constant reminder that she was running out of time. For all she knew, she’d be arrested as soon as she reached Mason’s house. She’d be tossed in jail for trespassing, and she’d never get an opportunity to say what she needed to.

She couldn’t let that happened.

She’d promised Bryn she’d give it her best. Walking mutely through the forest with the man who could help Henry? That wasn’t it.

“I’m Trinity Miller,” she said, her voice a little too loud.

Nothing.

Not even a hitch in his stride.

“I have a friend—”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Don’t I?” He turned abruptly, stopping short in the middle of the path. It was too dark to see his expression, but Trinity was certain he wasn’t smiling. “You have a friend who needs money, or an uncle who needs help, or you know a good charity I could donate money to.”

“Not even close.”

“Then why are you here?”

“My friend’s son has cancer. He’s going to have his leg amputat—”

“No,” he repeated and started walking again, his long legs eating up the ground so quickly she had to jog to keep up.

“You haven’t even heard me out.”

“I heard enough to say no.”

“I drove six hundred miles!” she protested, her teeth chattering on the last word.

She did not want to fail at this. She didn’t want to have to call Bryn to tell her that she’d blown their chance.

“I’m sorry you wasted your time.” He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded irritated.

“Look—” she began.

Somewhere to their right, a branch broke.

Mason grabbed her wrist, yanking her close to his side.

“What—”

“Quiet,” he whispered, his lips close to her ear. “I’m going to see who that is. You stay here.”

“We need to stay together,” she whispered back.

“It’s not up for discussion.” He pulled her off the path and dragged her into thick undergrowth. “Do. Not. Move.”

Three words and he was gone, slipping soundlessly away while she shivered in his coat.

* * *

Another branch snapped as Mason crept through the heavy underbrush. He followed the sound, honing in on the soft pad of feet on dead leaves.

Whoever was out there, he didn’t know much about being quiet. He also didn’t know much about staying hidden. Mason could see a flashlight beam bouncing along the ground a few yards away. The guy was searching, but he wasn’t even close to where Mason had left the woman.

Trinity Miller.

Interesting that she’d found him.

Most people who looked didn’t.

He had a house in Boston he rented out, and that was where people who were searching for him usually ended up. Somehow Trinity had ended up here. He wanted to know how. He also wanted to know why. She’d said something about a friend’s son and cancer, and he’d cut her off. He didn’t work with kids. There were too many memories there, but he was intrigued by the thought of someone going to such great effort to help a friend. Six hundred miles to see a stranger for a friend’s sake? That was a long way to travel.

If that was really the case, if she’d really driven that far, Trinity was the kind of friend everyone wanted to have.

If her claim was true.

There’d been a lot of activity around his house lately. A few days before he’d left for John’s funeral, government officials paid him a visit. They’d wanted information about one of his clients. He’d refused to give it. The military police had stopped by the next day, demanding that he release confidential information. Mason had refused again.

For all he knew, Trinity worked for the government or was part of the military, sent to do what the other two groups had not—gain access to information about Tate Whitman. Tate had served three tours in Iraq. He’d nearly lost his life there. Two years ago, Mason had fitted his prosthetic leg. Tate was an active guy. When he wasn’t teaching college counterterrorism classes, he was hiking, biking, running and lifting weights.

Unfortunately, he was also the key witness in a court-martial case that had the potential to bring down some very high-level military officials. He’d gone into witness protection six months ago. Apparently, he’d run from it soon after. Now people were looking for him, and that seemed to always lead them to Mason.

It wasn’t surprising. A computer chip Mason built into every prosthesis collected real-time information about the amputee’s movements and muscle strength. The information was sent wirelessly to Mason’s computer system. He used it to create the best prosthetic design possible for the individual. The system had a built-in tracking system that could be used to find the prosthetic if it was stolen or misplaced. In theory, it could also be used to track the amputee who was wearing it.

It would take Mason all of five minutes to figure out where Tate was. He wasn’t going to. He had client confidentially to protect. Plus, he didn’t trust people. Not much, anyway. If Tate had thought he needed to hide from the organization that was supposed to be protecting him, he’d had good reason for it.

It wasn’t Mason’s job to find out what it was. It wasn’t his job to turn him over to the military police, either. Eventually Mason might be subpoenaed. For now, he’d refused the request for information.

Yeah. No. He wasn’t taking Trinity’s story at face-value.

He stepped into the shadow of an old elm, the heavy branches leaning toward the ground and hiding him from whoever was approaching. He could still see the light, and he watched it as it crawled along a fallen log and passed Mason’s hiding place. Finally, a man stepped into sight. Tall. Lean. No weapon that Mason could see. That didn’t mean much.

The perp he’d disarmed had been stupid enough to carry his gun tucked in the pocket of his jeans. This one could be hiding a weapon anywhere.

The man passed, leaves crunching under his feet, his breath heaving. He might be lean, but he wasn’t in good shape. He sounded like a steam engine huffing and puffing his way through the darkness.

A man called out and Mason’s quarry flicked off his light, darting back in the direction he’d come.

Mason sprinted after him, not bothering to be quiet about it. He could hear more voices—several men and at least one woman.

“Police!” one of them called as lights flashed across a nearby tree. They were on the ledge, heading down, and Mason could have stepped back and let them make the apprehension. He was annoyed, though, and just angry enough to want the guy to be stopped sooner rather than later.

He followed the perp onto the path that led to the beach, tackling him as he tried to sprint to a small dock that jutted out into the lake.

“Who are you?” Mason growled as he patted the guy down and found an ankle holster and small pistol. “What are you doing on my property?”

He kept his knee in the center of the guy’s spine and checked the safety. “Did you discharge your weapon tonight?”

The guy remained silent, and Mason added a little extra pressure to his spine.

“You’re going to break my back,” the man gasped, finally struggling. “Get off me. I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Did you fire your weapon?”

The man shook his head.

“That a no?”

“You figure it out,” he gasped.

“I’d rather move on to another question. Where’s your buddy?”

“I don’t have one. I was out walking alone.”

“Walking, huh?”

“It’s not a crime.”

“It is if you’re on private property while you’re doing it. You have a permit for the pistol?”

“In my car. Let me up and I’ll go get it.”

“How about we just wait for the police and they can do it for you?”

They were charging down the slope, crashing through underbrush and thickets.

He glanced toward them, counting half a dozen lights flashing in the darkness.

“Drop the gun! Hands in the air!” one of the officers shouted and Mason did exactly what he’d been told immediately. No way was he going to take a bullet for this guy.

The pistol landed with a soft thud and officers swarmed closer.

“Facedown on the ground! Keep your hands where we can see them!”

Mason followed orders.

The perp was doing the same, staying prone on the ground, one arm straight above his head, the other...

Moving.

Subtly.

Reaching for the gun that was a few feet away.

“Don’t,” Mason warned, but it was too late, the guy lunged toward the weapon, lifting it as he tried to run.

Mason dropped to the ground as the first bullet flew, the police yelling commands, the scent of gunfire in the air. The crack and pop and zing of weapons being discharged, and for a moment he was back in time, lying on the hot sand of an Iraqi outpost while bullets whizzed over his head.


THREE (#uab3fe9cb-a13a-55a5-9e5f-780296644adb)

Five rounds fired in quick succession.

Law enforcement officers yelled commands.

And, then, silence. To Trinity, that was the worst sound of all—the emptiness and quiet filled with the echo of violence.

She stepped from her hiding place, searching for the path that would lead her back to the beach. She was almost certain that’s where the gunfire had come from. The police were there. That being the case, she should be safe enough.

She hoped, because she wasn’t going to keep cowering in her hiding place. Not while Mason faced down the men who’d been chasing her through the woods. She’d caused her own trouble, and she was going to get herself out of it.

Once she did, she’d concentrate on getting what she’d come to Maine for.

That was going to prove difficult since Mason had already refused to hear her out. He was angry that she’d trespassed, irritated that she’d gotten herself embroiled in a mess on his property and probably anxious to see her leave the area.

She had a weekend to change things.

A weekend to convince him to listen.

First, she had to make sure he was okay.

The moon had inched above the trees, and it glowed gold-green, illuminating the dead leaves and scrub that littered the forest floor. The path should be right up ahead, and she headed in that direction, moving as quietly as she could, afraid to break the ominous silence.

She reached the path and hesitated, her skin crawling, her pulse racing. Voices carried through the trees, drifting up from the beach. None of them frantic or excited. Whatever had happened, whatever the gunfire had meant, it was over, but Trinity still felt uneasy.

She stepped onto the path and turned toward the beach, skirting past giant pine trees that could have been hiding anyone or anything.

Sounds drifted up from the shore, men and women talking, a dog barking, radios buzzing with activity.

She thought about calling out, but she was afraid of who else might be listening. Not just the law-enforcement officials who’d converged on the property. There’d been at least two men in the woods and it was possible both of them were still free.

She shivered, her teeth chattering as she jogged toward the beach. The slope was easy, but her feet were numb and she could barely feel the ground beneath them. She tripped over roots, stumbled over rocks. Her foot got caught in a tangle of weeds spreading across the path and she fell hard.

Someone grabbed her arm, dragged her up.

She went fighting, swinging her fist toward a shadowy face.

“Let’s not,” Mason growled, snagging her hand before she could make contact.

“How did you get here?” she asked, taking a couple of quick steps back to put some distance between them.

“I walked. Now, how about you tell me why you didn’t stay where I left you.”

“I heard gunshots.”

“And that made you think you should jump into whatever chaos was happening?”

“The gunfire stopped. I heard the police. I figured it was safe enough to come out.”

“Just like you figured it was safe enough to swim in a lake that has a temperature hovering in the thirties?”

“For the record,” she said, “I wasn’t exactly thinking when I jumped into the lake.”

“For the record,” he replied, cupping her elbow and tugging her along the path. “I like quiet. I like peace. I do not like people bringing drama to my property.”

“I didn’t bring this. It was here when I arrived.”

“If you’d stayed away, you wouldn’t have walked into it.”

“If I’d stayed away, I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to meet you. Which was the entire purpose of my trip to Maine.”

“Normal people don’t travel six hundred miles to meet with strangers. Especially if the strangers they plan to meet don’t know they’re coming.”

“I never said I was normal.” She pulled his coat a little closer, using the movement to dislodge his hand from her elbow.

“If you’re not, then we have something in common.” He grabbed her arm, and this time she didn’t think she was going to maneuver away from him. “Because I’m not the typical hospitable rural resident who’d happily offer food and ride to someone who broke down in front of his house. I don’t like unexpected visitors, Trinity. Generally speaking, I ignore them.”

“I got that impression from the interviews you did a couple of years back.”

“I don’t like having my work interrupted,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “And, I for sure don’t like to be lied to, manipulated, or used.”

“I hope you’re not implying that I’m trying to do any of those things.”

“The timing of your arrival is suspect.”

“What does that mean?”

“The sheriff wants to speak with you.”

“If you’re trying to scare me, it’s not working. I didn’t do anything wrong, and I’m happy to speak with the sheriff.”

“I’m sure Judah will be happy to hear that.”

“Judah?”

“Dillon. He’s the sheriff. We’ve been friends for a long time.”

“Sounds like you’re still trying to scare me.”

“Why would I? Unless you’ve done something wrong, you’ve got nothing to be scared of.”

He’d given her an opening, another opportunity to try to tell him about Henry. She wasn’t going to miss it. “I already told you, I’m here for a friend. Her son has cancer in his right femur, and the leg will have to be amputated. I came to—”

“You can tell Judah. He’ll be able to fact-check.”

“Is there some reason why you don’t want to hear what I have to say?”

“Aside from the things I already mentioned? No.”

“Then maybe I should clear things up for you. I have no intention of lying to you, of using you or of manipulating you.”

“I noticed you didn’t mention not arriving unexpectedly, not bringing chaos and not distracting me from my work.”

“I didn’t bring chaos, and—”

“Tell that to the guy who’s bleeding on the beach.”

“Was he shot?” she asked, hurrying along beside him.

“Yes.”

“Was he one of the guys who chased me through the woods?”

“I have no idea. He did have a gun.”

“Is he dead?”

“Not yet.”

“Is he going to die?”

“How about we play Twenty Questions after you talk to the sheriff?”

She’d rather ask the questions now, but she had the feeling she’d pushed Mason as far as he was willing to be pushed. Any more questions and he might shut her out completely. That would make it a lot more difficult to broach the subject of Henry again.

She pressed her lips together, sealing in a dozen more things she wanted to ask.

Let him have what he wanted—silence and peace.

For now.

They reached the beach and stepped off the trail, heading toward a group of people standing near the water’s edge. Several more people were kneeling beside a prone figure. A man. Trinity couldn’t see his face, but she could see the dark blood spreading beneath him. A lot of blood. Too much. If they didn’t get him to the hospital soon, he’d die. The tense silence of the crowd said they knew it.

Someone stepped away from the group, walking toward Trinity and Mason with a long brisk stride that reminded her of her Chance. Her oldest brother had a way of commanding attention without even trying. This guy seemed to do the same. He met her eyes as he approached.

“Ma’am,” he said. “I’m Sheriff Judah Dillon, Whisper Sheriff’s Department.”

“I’m Trinity Miller.”

“From Annapolis, Maryland,” he said. “We ran the plates on your Jeep. You want to tell me what brought you to Whisper?” he asked.

“I came to see Mason.”

“He says he doesn’t know you.”

“He doesn’t. I wanted to speak with him about a friend.” She glanced at Mason. He was watching her dispassionately and didn’t seem inclined to verify her story.

“I see,” the sheriff said.

It was obvious that he didn’t. He hadn’t asked enough questions to understand her motive, and it didn’t look like he was going to.

“Sheriff—” she began, but he raised a hand, cutting her off.

“I’ll have a deputy take you to the station. You can warm up there. I’ll take your statement when I finish here.”

“I’d rather not—”

Too late, he’d already motioned to a young-looking deputy who seemed eager to do whatever the sheriff wanted. What he wanted was to get Trinity out of the way.

“Get her some coffee and let her wait in my office. We’ll make a decision about pressing charges after I figure out what’s going on,” he said as the deputy took her arm and started leading her away.

“Charges? For what?” she protested, suddenly understanding something her nearly frozen brain hadn’t been able to process before. They thought she was a criminal, that she was someone connected to the guy who was lying on the ground bleeding.

“We’ll make that decision later,” the sheriff repeated, already turning away and walking back toward the fallen man.

“But, I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“Ma’am,” the sheriff said, turning to face her again. “Trespassing is a misdemeanor offense. I don’t think I need to explain that to you.”

“But—”

He was moving again, and Mason was walking with him, the two of them talking quietly, probably discussing whatever trumped-up charges they planned to make.

Then again, she had trespassed. That wasn’t trumped up, and she couldn’t even say she wasn’t guilty if the sheriff decided to book her on the charges.

“This is all a mistake,” she said, but the deputy didn’t respond. He had his mission, and he seemed intent on it. Maybe he wanted to prove himself. He was young. Probably a couple of years younger than her. He couldn’t have been a deputy for long.

“It really is a mistake.” She tried again, and this time he did look at her, his dark eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

“It’ll all get sorted out. Right now, let’s just concentrate on getting you inside and warmed up.”

They’d reached the path, and she wanted to yank her arm from his, run back to Mason and the sheriff and explain herself.

But she thought that might cause more trouble than she already had, so she kept moving, stepping onto the path and glancing back.

Mason had stopped halfway to the crowd of people and had turned in her direction. His face was hidden in shadows, but she thought he might have been smiling.

* * *

Trinity looked like she was being led to the gallows, and she was eyeing Mason as if he were the reason for it. In point of fact, he was. He’d asked Judah to have her transported to the station. He hadn’t wanted to expend energy keeping an eye on her, and he was still uncertain of her status. She was either a criminal or an innocent bystander. Until he knew for sure which she was, he wasn’t giving her the opportunity to escape.

“You know I can’t hold her there for long, right?” Judah asked as Trinity and the deputy stepped onto the path and disappeared from view.

“You don’t need to hold her for any longer than it takes to get her statement. I just need her out of the way. I don’t want to deal with more chaos than I’ve already got.”

“You don’t have chaos. I do. It’s my town, my jurisdiction. My problem. I’ll take care of it. All you need to do is answer questions and stay out of the way.”

“You know that’s not going happen, right?”

“Yeah, but I thought I’d give it a shot. You really think Trinity has something to do with this?” He waved toward the fallen man. EMTs were lifting him onto a stretcher, and Mason thought he could smell the scent of blood in the chilly night air. His stomach heaved, but he ignored it.

“I’m not sure, but I’m not much into coincidence,” he responded and was relieved that his tone was even and controlled. He’d spent years learning to compartmentalize the past, keep it tucked neatly away so that he could be in traumatic situations and not panic.

“Me, neither. Which is why it strikes me as odd that your house was broken into on a night when you were supposed to be out of town. Who knew you were going to the funeral?”

“You and John’s widow, Sally. That about covers it.”

“And, Sally knew you were coming back tonight? I was under the impression you’d be away until Sunday.”

“That was the plan. It changed.”

“Because?”

“I attended the funeral out of a sense of obligation, but John and I weren’t exactly buddies these last few years, and I’ve never been all that fond of his wife. I thought she might need help settling John’s estate, but all she really wanted to do was sob in my arms. I decided to cut the trip short.”

“Was she happy about that?”

“She tried to convince me to stay. At least for another night. So that she didn’t have to face the empty house.” Those had been her exact words. When he’d refused to stay the night, she’d begged him to stay for a couple more hours. Through dinner. Or lunch.

“She knows what happened between you and John, right?”

“They were married when he and I were business partners. Seeing as how he signed over his share of our company in exchange for me not pressing charges, I’d say she does.”

“You should have pressed charges,” Judah said.

Maybe, but Mason had partially blamed himself for what had happened. He hadn’t wanted to deal with the financial aspects of the company. He’d left it to John, trusting him because they’d been army buddies and friends. He’d known John’s weakness—that he drank too much, partied too hard, sometimes hung with the wrong kind of people. He’d also known that John was a computer programming whiz. It was his program that allowed Mason to design the kind of prosthetics he created. John was also the one who’d had the idea of implanting a computer chip into the prosthetic limb. If he’d been honest, if he’d played by the rules, if he hadn’t cheated someone he’d called friend, he’d have died a millionaire. Instead, he and Sally had been living in a single-wide trailer in a run-down trailer park.

Mason tried not to think about that, tried not to wonder if he should have handled things differently when he’d found out about John’s crimes.

“Instead of pressing charges, I got his half of the company,” he said.

That had been the agreement.

The quarter of a million dollars John had syphoned from their business account had been a little more than half the value of the company. In exchange for not having charges brought against him and not having to repay the money, John had agreed to hand the company over to Mason.

“In my opinion, you let him off easy, but we’ve talked it out a dozen times. The past is past. What I’m wondering now is what tonight has to do with John and his widow.”

“Maybe nothing.”

“You really think that?” Judah eyed the EMTs who were carrying the injured man away.

“No. John and I were still working together when I had this house built. He knew I had a hidden office, and he knew I was keeping sensitive material there.”

“And you think he sent someone here to access that material?”

“Have you heard of Tate Whitman?”

“The name is vaguely familiar.”

“You know that court-martial case that’s been all over the news?”

“Bigwig army general accused of selling information that got half his battalion killed? Who doesn’t know about it?”

“Tate is the star witness in the case. He’s also one of my clients. He entered witness protection a while back. Last week, a couple of government officials came here asking for information about his whereabouts. The MPs came, too. Apparently he’s on the run.”

“And they think you can find him?”

“I can find him. I won’t. There are tracking devices in all my prosthetics, Judah. They’re part of the program that allows me to design the best possible limb for the client. It’s common knowledge among people who work with me. I’m contracted by several government agencies, so there’s no secret to what I do and how I do it. They want to track Tate using that chip. I refused to allow it.”

“Do you think the guys who came tonight are feds?”

“No. Their work was too sloppy.”

“Then what do you think?”

“If the MPs and the feds are looking for information about Tate here, they probably aren’t the only ones. If Tate doesn’t testify, it’s going to make the case against the general really hard to prove.”

“You think someone affiliated with the general knows you have the ability to track Tate?”

“It makes as much sense as anything else does.”

“If that’s true, the information could have come from one of your employees or from—”

“John? Exactly. He was my first thought. For the right price, he’d sell his own mother out.” He sounded bitter, and he didn’t like it. He’d forgiven John a long time ago. He didn’t trust him. He wasn’t friends with him. But he had forgiven.

“What about his wife? Would she do the same?”

“Sally? She’s an unknown to me. We were never friends, and I’m not sure what she’s capable of.”

“I’ll check her out. See what I can dig up. If she and John were passing information along, we can probably assume they were getting paid for it. I’ll get a warrant to access bank and cell phone records. It could take a few days, but I think I can prove probable cause.”

“I don’t know how much John shared with her. He might have told her everything about the way the prosthetics are designed, or he might have told her nothing. They had a rocky relationship most of the—”

A gunshot rang out, cutting off Mason’s words.

Seconds later a woman screamed, the sound chilling Mason’s blood.

Trinity.

It had to be.

He took off, sprinting toward the trees. He didn’t know the woman, he wasn’t sure of her agenda, but he didn’t want her hurt. He sure didn’t want her killed.

She’d made her way onto his property.

He needed to make certain she made it off. Alive. Unharmed. Capable of answering all the questions he needed to ask.


FOUR (#uab3fe9cb-a13a-55a5-9e5f-780296644adb)

“Don’t scream again. You hear me?”

Trinity heard. Loud and clear.

She was going to listen, because the guy had the barrel of his gun pressed to her jaw. She could feel the metal digging into her skin, but it didn’t hurt. Maybe it did, and she was just too scared to feel it.

“I said,” he growled, slamming the gun into her face, “did you hear me?”

“Yes,” she bit out, and he shoved her forward with his body, one arm around her waist, the other around her shoulder, that gun still pressed against her jaw. They were moving fast, and she was terrified of tripping and causing him to pull the trigger. She doubted he’d care if that happened.

He’d shot an officer of the law. He wasn’t planning to be caught. She wasn’t planning to be kidnapped. She needed to get back to the deputy. He’d been shot in the chest, but she hadn’t seen any blood. If he’d been wearing a Kevlar vest under his shirt, he should be okay, but she’d barely had time to feel for a pulse before she’d been dragged into the forest.

One scream. That’s all she’d had time for.

It didn’t matter. Between the gunshot and her scream, there was no way the sheriff hadn’t been alerted to the trouble. Help would arrive. Eventually. She just hoped eventually wasn’t sometime after the guy got her to his vehicle. She knew how these things worked. Once she was in a car traveling away from the scene, her chances of survival went from grim to none.

They moved through dense forest, branches and twigs snagging in Trinity’s hair and pulling at her still-wet clothes. She couldn’t feel the cold any more than she’d felt pain. Adrenaline was a gift God gave people to get them out of terrible situations. She hoped it would be enough to get her out of this one. Her family would be devastated if something happened to her. Her brothers would probably blame themselves. Her parents would, too.

She’d be safe in the arms of Jesus—just like the old song said—and they’d be left to move on without her. Only they wouldn’t be able to move on any more than they’d been able to move on after her sister had been kidnapped. They’d spend every holiday leaving a place at the table for her. They’d visit her grave and put flowers there. They’d wonder what they could have done to help her, and she wouldn’t be there to remind them that she’d made her own stupid choices and gotten her own not-so-great consequences.

Just thinking about it made her tear up. Of course, she’d thought this through before she’d decided to come, but in all her thinking, she’d never imagined getting into a situation where she might actually die.

The forest opened onto an old logging road, the dirt deeply rutted from years of heavy trucks hauling out logs. Even now, decades after the last load had been transported, the ruts were still there, deep, black lines in the packed earth. She stumbled into one, her ankle twisting, pain shooting up her leg. She went down hard, the guy’s hold loosening as he lost his balance, the gun falling away. No explosion of bullets. No violent report.

She didn’t think. She didn’t need to. She’d practiced the move hundreds of times with her brothers. She grabbed the guy’s forearm, yanking him toward her with enough force to send him flying. She was on her feet before he landed, darting into the trees, searching for shadowy areas to hide in. There were plenty of them. There were also twigs, branches, thorns, roots. She tripped and flew into a tree, bouncing off and landing with a loud crash that carried through the darkness.

She thought she could hear the guy coming after her, running through the forest in pursuit. She didn’t know who he was. She didn’t know what he wanted. She wasn’t going to wait around to find out. She also wasn’t going to try to outrun him. She was making too much noise and she’d be too easy to track.

She eased between trees, forcing herself to slow down, to be quiet, to urge a little calm into her frantic heartbeat. She could do this. She had to do this. Think. Act. Escape.

Except she wasn’t sure where she’d be escaping to.

The woods were dense, the foliage tangled masses of thorny brambles. She could get lost out here. She could lose her bearings and wander so far away no one would ever find her. Safe from the gunman and undone by her own terrible sense of direction.

She stopped, listened.

He was behind her, pushing through the thick patch of brambles she’d just run through. In the distance, men and women were calling out to one another. A dog barked and sirens screamed. Lots of help, but all of it too far away to do her any good.

She had to switch gears. Be smart rather than fast.

She moved silently, ducking under the heavy bough of a pine tree and grabbing hold of one of the lower branches. This would be an easy climb and a better option than fleeing. She scrambled up, perching on a thick branch and waiting as her pursuer thundered past. Rain dripped through the umbrella of pine needles, landing on her head and her exposed neck. She still had Mason’s coat, but her clothes clung to her nearly frozen skin and she shivered, the tremors shaking the branch and sending pine needles tumbling.

If he returned, he’d notice.

If he noticed, she’d be trapped. Nowhere to go but down, straight into his waiting arms. She could still hear people in the distance. She thought about shouting for help but the gunman might return before help arrived.

She waited another few heartbeats, listening as the voices drew closer. Nature was its own kind of song and she was hearing it in the drip of rain and patter of ice, her heartbeat the backdrop rhythm to which it all played.

She felt lulled by it and by the cold that had seeped through to her bones. If she waited any longer, she’d fall asleep in the crook of the old pine tree, her body slowly freezing as the temperature dropped.

Not a good image and not any more pleasant to think about than being kidnapped.

Her movements were sluggish as she climbed down, her efforts clumsy. Her fingers felt thick and stiff, her grip tenuous. She should have thought this trip through a little more. She should have consulted with her brothers. They would have insisted on coming along, and she’d have let them, because she loved them and hated to upset her family.

Should have. Could have.

Hadn’t.

Now she was alone—just like she’d wanted to be. She’d have to figure things out on her own. Just like she’d planned. She’d have to face things head-on. She’d have to do what she’d been telling her brothers she could for years.

Her feet slipped and she fell, her hands grasping a branch as she tumbled. She jerked to a stop, body dangling for a split second before she realized she was right above the forest floor. A quick drop and she was down. Breathless. Cold. Alive.

She just had to stay that way.

She wanted to walk back the way she’d come, but every direction looked the same. She’d spent childhood summers camping with her parents and brothers. She’d hiked parts of the Appalachian Trail with friends. She was used to rough terrain and thick forest, but she wasn’t use to navigating without a compass.

“You should have thought of that before you came here,” she muttered.

“Thought of what?” someone asked, and she jumped, whirling around to face the shadowy figure of a man.

She didn’t panic. She was too cold for that. She didn’t run, because her slow-moving brain finally recognized the voice.

“Mason,” she said. “I thought you were down near the lake.”

“I’m not,” he said. “I heard the gunshot. Where did he go?”

“There’s a logging road somewhere through there.” She pointed in what she hoped was the direction of the road.

“I know it. It’s actually to the west,” he corrected, gesturing in the opposite direction.

“He brought me there, so I think he might have a ride waiting.”

“That’s not what I wanted to hear,” he said, pulling out his cell phone and sending a quick text. “Judah will send some cars out, but the guy is probably long gone by now. If he’s smart. That’s up for debate.”

“He was smart enough to figure out how to get into your house,” she pointed out.

“I didn’t make it difficult to get in. Not for someone who’s trained to do it,” he said, not offering any details or giving any reasons.

“You don’t have a security system?”

“Yes. I also have cameras. Unless he wore a mask, he’s on the security footage.”

“The FBI has face-match technology. They can probably figure out who he was.”

“How about you let law enforcement worry about that. You have enough problems of your own,” he responded. “You’re in trouble. Probably more than you imagined when you came out here tonight.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“So maybe it’s time to rethink things and take a new approach to the situation.”

“I drove out to see you. I can’t undo that.” She started walking, and he grabbed her elbow, forced her into a one-eighty.

“My place is the other way,” he murmured. “And I’m not talking about undoing anything. I’m talking about coming clean.”

“About?”

“Your reason for being out here tonight.”

“I already told you my reason.” But she’d be happy to tell him again, because the more she told him about Henry, the easier it might be to convince him to help. “My friend’s son has cancer. He’s an athlete. A runner. Probably Olympic-level one day,” she continued in a rush, hoping to get the whole story out before he cut her off. “He’s going to lose his leg, and I promised his mother that I’d—”

“You know how easy it will be to check your story, right?” he cut in.

“I’ll be happy to give you Bryn’s number.”

“She’s the friend?”

“She’s more than a friend. We’re like sisters. I’ve known her for most of my life.”

“So she’d lie for you?”

“That would depend on the circumstances.”

“Let’s say the circumstances were you going to jail. Or not.” He pushed through thick brambles, holding a branch as she followed.

“That would depend on my guilt or innocence. If I were innocent and she knew it, she might lie to help me,” she admitted.

“I see.”

“No. You don’t. If I were going to make up a story to get myself out of trouble, it wouldn’t be one that involved my best friend. First, because I wouldn’t want to pull her into my trouble, and second, because I’d figure that you wouldn’t believe a word she said.”

“You’d be right about that,” he responded.

“You want a little more truth? I make my living getting people in and out of really tough situations. I know how to spin a story and how to plant plenty of evidence to make that story seem true.” It’s what she did at her brothers’ company. HEART was a hostage rescue team, a cohesive unit of men and women who reunited families and rescued people from terrible situations. Trinity was glorified office help. She did the research before missions, created travel plans and coordinated the missions from home. When there was trouble, she often contacted local authorities in places like South Africa, China, Egypt. Sometimes, she had to get team members out of really dicey situations. When that happened, she said what needed to be said to save their lives.

“I’m surprised you’re admitting that,” Mason said.

“I’m admitting it because I don’t have anything to hide. I came out here to try to help a friend. I’m hoping I’ll still be able to do that.”

He didn’t respond.

She wanted to try to get some kind of reaction out of him, but her teeth were chattering and she was shaking so hard she could barely walk. She wanted out of the woods. She wanted a nice warm room, to be wrapped in a nice warm blanket, far away from the icy rain and the guy with the gun.

Maybe adventure wasn’t her thing, after all.

She’d thought it was when she’d been sitting at the desk in her office in DC, pouring through internet files and old documents. But maybe the idea of going on rescue missions with her brothers had been as silly and childish as they’d always seemed to think. Maybe she really wasn’t cut out for this kind of thing, and maybe she’d be smart to acknowledge it. At least to herself.

Then again, maybe she was just frozen and tired, her thinking clouded by cold and fatigue. Maybe she’d done just fine escaping the gunman, coming up with a plan to keep from being kidnapped, proving to herself that all the hours of in-class, self-defense training had paid off.

She tripped and Mason’s hand shifted from her elbow to her waist. She couldn’t feel it. Not through the layers of cloth and ice.

“I’m okay,” she said as if he’d asked.

“Our ideas of what okay means are vastly different,” he responded.

“I’m alive. I’m moving. I’m...” She couldn’t think of any other positives.

“Freezing?” he supplied.

“I’m too cold to know for sure, but it’s a good possibility.”

She thought he chuckled but she might have been mistaken. Her ears were as cold as the rest of her.

“They’ll warm you up when you get to the police station. Hot coffee. Blankets.” He steered her through the woods without any hesitation. Obviously he didn’t need a compass, a guide, a helping hand.

“I’d rather go to the hospital,” she responded.

“You’re hurt?”

“I’m worried about the deputy who was shot.” That was true. She was worried, but she also thought she’d have a better chance of walking out of a hospital than she would the sheriff’s department. Aside from trespassing, she hadn’t done anything wrong. She knew that but she wasn’t sure the sheriff did, and she was certain Mason didn’t. She needed to find a place to go to ground, contact her brothers and get some help. Otherwise she might end up spending the night in a jail cell, being held on a trumped-up charge designed to keep her close until the sheriff and Mason could figure out what was going on.

“He’s going to be fine. He had a Kevlar vest under his shirt. Might have a few bruised ribs and a lot of bruised ego, but he’ll recover.”

“I’d still like to see him.”

* * *

Mason was sure she would.

He was also sure she was hatching an escape plan, trying to come up with a way to keep herself out of the sheriff’s office. That could mean she had something to hide or it could mean she was afraid.

“Good idea,” he said, and she stumbled.

He tightened his grip, his hand curved around her narrow waist. She was small but muscular and he figured she could move fast if she needed to.

He wasn’t going to chance a foot race. He could catch her, but maybe not before she led them both into more trouble.

“You think me going to the hospital is a good idea?” she asked. From the tone of her voice, he’d say she was surprised by how quickly he’d acquiesced.

“Yes. You can get checked out, make sure you’re not hypothermic.”

“I’m going to the hospital to make sure the deputy is okay. Not because I need medical attention.”

“I’m sure your family would want you to see a doctor.” He’d shot an arrow in the dark, wondering if it would hit its mark. She seemed like the kind of person who’d be all about family and friendship and love. He wasn’t sure what it was about her that made him think that. Maybe her story about traveling six hundred miles to help a friend.

“What do you know about my family?”

She stopped short and looked him straight in the eyes, and he knew he’d been right. She was all about family.

“Not much. Yet.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You told me a story about why you’re here. It makes sense for me to check it out.” He took her arm again, leading her back toward his house.

“By checking out my family?”

“Why not?”

“Because my family has nothing to do with this. If you want to confirm my story, call Bryn Laurel. She’ll tell you about Henry’s diagnosis. She’ll explain how upset she’s been, how desperate to give Henry some kind of ho—”

“We can discuss it at the hospital,” he cut in. He wouldn’t ask again, wouldn’t let her give him more of an explanation. Not about the woman with the son who had cancer.

He could imagine the mother.

He could imagine the kid.

He could imagine getting pulled into their tragedy, and he didn’t want it to happen. He’d been down that road before and it had nearly broken him. He’d seen a lot during his time in the army. He’d said goodbye to way too many comrades, but the hardest thing he’d ever done was watch his daughter suffer and then die.

Ten years ago, but it still hurt.

His relationship with his ex-wife, Felicia, hadn’t survived. They’d been too different. He knew that now. Then? They’d been high school sweethearts, and he’d been joining the army. Marrying her had seemed like the right thing at the right time.

Until it wasn’t.

Until months of separation and countless arguments and a beautiful baby girl who was suddenly sick and dying and gone.

He was a different man now. Older. Hopefully smarter. The past couldn’t be changed, though, and he couldn’t go back and offer Felicia the support he should have given her. He couldn’t try to grieve with her instead of leaving her to grieve alone. He wasn’t sure that would have saved the marriage. Felicia had been seeing someone else for months before their daughter’s diagnosis. Maybe, though, it would have helped him move on without the boatload of guilt he carried.





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