Книга - Taken Hostage

Taken Hostage
Jordyn Redwood


A DEADLY RANSOMWhen neurosurgeon Regan Lockhart’s daughter is kidnapped, the abductors want to make a deal for the little girl’s life. If she wishes to ever see her child again, Regan must hand over the virus she uses in a radical cancer treatment. But bounty hunter Colby Waterson can't let her trade the cure, which is his sister's last hope. He's already lost a wife and baby and he won't lose anyone else. But when a mistake leads both him and Regan into the hands of the bad guys, the kidnappers up their demands. Now Regan must create a biological weapon or her daughter dies. For Colby, no case has ever been this personal. He'll need every skill he's got, because only he can save both his sister and the woman he’s growing to care for.







A DEADLY RANSOM

When neurosurgeon Regan Lockhart’s daughter is kidnapped, the abductors want to make a deal for the little girl’s life. If she wishes to ever see her child again, Regan must hand over the virus she uses in a radical cancer treatment. But bounty hunter Colby Waterson can’t let her trade the cure, which is his sister’s last hope. He’s already lost a wife and baby, and he won’t lose anyone else. But when a mistake leads both him and Regan into the hands of the bad guys, the kidnappers up their demands. Now Regan must create a biological weapon or her daughter dies. For Colby, no case has ever been this personal. He’ll need every skill he’s got, because only he can save both his sister and the woman he’s growing to care for.


All she could think of was her daughter.

“Do you think...”

Her voice trailed, but Colby knew what she didn’t ask. “I think Olivia is still alive,” he said.

“How can you be sure?”

“Because they clearly want you alive as well—which, to be honest, is what has me more worried.”

She nodded without pressing him. She knew that if the bullet they’d fired had been a real one, she would be dead.

That was when regular programming changed and the local TV news anchor came on-screen. According to the report, her nanny was dead. Then her picture was shown. “If you see this woman, contact local authorities immediately.”

Regan’s stomach felt like a boiling mass of acrid liquid. It was as if her life was now an overturned hourglass—each grain of sand taking minutes off not only her life but Olivia’s, as well.

Her nanny was dead. If they could kill her so easily...what did that mean for her daughter?

Would any of them make it out alive?


Dear Reader (#u20509d6e-778b-550c-85d8-a4af69833862),

Taken Hostage was inspired by two true medical stories I found very interesting.

Duke University Medical Center is actually in phase I clinical trials using a genetically modified poliovirus that is working in some patients to cure recurrent glioblastoma. Of course, the leap that a cure like this could be further manipulated into a bioweapon is (as far as I know) fiction.

The second was based on Italian physician Dr. Paolo Macchiarini who specializes in building tracheas (or windpipes). He is considered a maverick, but also some patients’ last hope at life. His compassion struck me after I watched a documentary called A Leap of Faith: A Meredith Vieira Special. What if this man went missing?

To what lengths would I go to find him if it was my loved one that needed him?

I always LOVE to hear from readers and can be reached via email at jordyn@jordynredwood.com or by mail at the following address: Jordyn Redwood, PO Box 1142, Parker, Colorado 80134.

Many Blessings,

Jordyn


JORDYN REDWOOD is a pediatric ER nurse by day, suspense novelist by night. She pursued her dream of becoming an author by first penning her medical thrillers Proof, Poison and Peril. Jordyn hosts Redwood’s Medical Edge, a blog helping authors write medically accurate fiction. Living near the Rocky Mountains with her husband, two beautiful daughters and one crazy dog provides inspiration for her books and she loves to get email from her readers at jredwood1@gmail.com.


Taken Hostage

Jordyn Redwood






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


And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him; and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.

—Ecclesiastes 4:12


For my friend and mentor Candace Calvert. Thank you for taking me under your wing and being a guiding light on my writing journey.


Acknowledgments (#u20509d6e-778b-550c-85d8-a4af69833862)

Thank you to everyone at Harlequin for all the hard work you put into these books. Special thanks to my editor, Emily Rodmell, for always being available to answer my questions and offer invaluable help during the writing and editing process.

Always a special thank-you to my friend and agent, Greg Johnson. Hopefully some big things will happen this year!

I couldn’t do what I do without the support of my amazing husband, James. If I have any ability to write romance, it is because you show it to me every day in both big and small ways. I’m the luckiest girl.


Contents

Cover (#ue54188d9-cdd7-5952-860c-29178c3c92d7)

Back Cover Text (#u222d3f00-6861-5487-91bd-9c2e9d59c08d)

Introduction (#u793f86a5-62af-50b5-93ce-819e912947e6)

Dear Reader (#u5629cea8-9de1-58c3-a52d-6c5601bdb901)

About the Author (#u381dba2e-9ad5-5490-b9ef-e5c3a7427fa1)

Title Page (#u79de25f5-2bcc-5166-8eb0-d47c181af42f)

Bible Verse (#u25290792-6649-5cf6-b229-5b167217bf50)

Acknowledgments (#uf5f45b50-acdc-5a36-9f25-9d0d7b84a11d)

CHAPTER ONE (#ucd92c345-7fa4-5460-9a02-7d43f2bcd33f)

CHAPTER TWO (#u3ec8afa7-d45c-5bfe-81e9-e6c690355a22)

CHAPTER THREE (#ufd27de6d-d003-5381-83bc-a56706f9d2b5)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u66a75fa1-3a2e-5ecc-9c7b-3451fed09edc)

CHAPTER FIVE (#u854db21f-95dd-5a85-b541-249391aecfd5)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


ONE (#u20509d6e-778b-550c-85d8-a4af69833862)

Ten bullets. Nine in the clip, one in the chamber. Checked twice.

That was what fugitive recovery officer Colby Waterson carried at all times to protect himself. Extra clips didn’t matter because it was rare to have time to reload. Especially when working alone.

However, today was not about hunting fugitives from the law. Today was about helping save his sister Sam’s life. Today was the day Colby Waterson was going to meet Dr. Regan Lockhart. The one woman...the only human being alive...who could save his sister from a brain tumor that had thus far refused to die at the hands of conventional medical therapy.

Colby thrummed the steering wheel of his crimson-red Ford F-250. Needles of anxiety wormed through his chest and his breakfast sat heavy in his gut. He glanced at his watch. If traffic kept this pace, he’d be on time.

As long as nothing happened. As if hearing his thoughts, the rains let loose, torrential and determined, momentarily obliterating his view of the road until he engaged his windshield wipers, which only moderately improved visibility.

I should have left earlier. Why did they schedule this meeting so early in the morning? It’s a crime to be up before sunrise.

The roar of an engine drew Colby’s attention out his driver’s-side window as a black GMC Yukon flew past him and then squeezed in like a sardine between Colby and the blue Toyota Sequoia he’d been trailing.

What’s the rush, big man? Want to make sure everyone sees your nice, shiny, new toy? Was the maneuver worth getting a whole car length ahead?

Colby eased back a few paces to increase the distance between him and the black SUV. As a bounty hunter, he was constantly on the lookout for trouble, no matter what his agenda for the day was. After all, good days often turned into the worst kind. Like hearing your wife has cancer on the same day she tells you she’s pregnant. And then losing both his wife and unborn child within five months. The event that marked his life was over a decade ago yet still always felt like yesterday.

The black Yukon sped up and began riding the bumper of the navy blue Sequoia. Heat spread in Colby’s chest and he glared at the back of the driver’s head between windshield wiper passes. There was no doubt—the guy was driving recklessly and the fresh onslaught of rain only provided a slippery surface for added danger. Hydroplaning was quickly becoming a risk. Trepidation caused Colby’s flesh to prickle.

Seriously, what is your problem?

The driver of the Sequoia sensed the invasion and began to pick up speed. As the car pulled ahead, the driver was a black silhouette, but it appeared to be a woman. Now there were two cars increasing their speed on a rainy highway.

The Sequoia switched lanes to the right, into the slow lane.

And the Yukon immediately followed her instead of passing, nearly kissing her rear bumper to get in front of the car occupying the same space on the road.

Colby gripped the wheel in his hand, his heartbeat in his throat.

Something isn’t right here. Whoever is driving that car is clearly after that woman.

Deciding the best action was to observe from a safer distance, Colby dropped back several car lengths and grabbed his phone. Getting the boys in blue seemed like the best option before someone got hurt.

Just as his thumb hit the nine for 9-1-1, the Yukon pressed ahead and slammed into the left rear bumper of the Sequoia, shoving the SUV a dizzying one-hundred-and-eighty degrees across three lanes of traffic. Colby’s heart stalled as the Sequoia arced in front of him, the woman’s hair flung to the side as her vehicle roared across the rainy road. Cars slammed on their brakes to avoid getting hit.

Colby instinctively knew exactly where the Sequoia was going to end up—on the shoulder of the fast lane, facing traffic. Colby braked hard and yanked his steering wheel left. The Sequoia struck the cement barrier and the woman disappeared from view. Colby punched his brakes, his heart hammering at the base of his throat, his bumper inches from the other SUV.

Without thinking, he released his seat belt and opened his door. It crashed into the divider after opening just a few inches. He scrambled to open the passenger door and that was when he saw two men shielded in black ski masks exit the Yukon with guns raised. Colby opened his glove box and grabbed his Glock, pushed open the door and half jumped, half fell out onto the road.

The loud pops of the two thugs firing their weapons sent Colby’s mind reeling back to Iraq. He hunched down, squared his stance and fired two shots from his Glock above their heads, causing the two to retreat to their vehicle.

Eight defensive chances remained.

He raced to the Sequoia and opened the door. The woman was just righting herself, bringing her hand up to stem the flow of blood from a cut on her forehead. She’d hit her head on something. At the moment, Colby didn’t care what it was. He simply wanted her out of the car and down on the ground.

Reaching over her lap, he disconnected her seat belt. She was disoriented, looking at him with a far-off, disconnected gaze.

“What...happened?”

“Ma’am, I need you out of this car. There are two men—”

Shots rang out and bullets punched holes into the navy blue paint. Colby turned and fired off three more shots to drive the black-clad men back to ground.

Eight. Seven. Six.

He then reached around the thin woman and muscled her out of her vehicle, settling her not-so-gently on the wet, black pavement. She stared up at him, her gray-green eyes distant, her styled red hair tangled.

That was when he recognized her. Dr. Regan Lockhart. The woman who was to save his sister.

Colby reached for his phone, which he normally kept in his back pocket, and remembered dropping it on his passenger seat. He glanced across the roadway. The only sound was the rain thrashing in his ears. His clothes were caked against his flesh. He couldn’t see the two men but, if he had to guess, he’d say they were maneuvering to outflank him. Colby heard sirens in the distance but it only took a second to fire a kill shot.

What did these men want with a neurosurgeon?

Not sure his plan was the best but out of options, he grabbed her arm and pulled her up over his shoulder. He squared himself back to the black Yukon.

Five. Four.

Two more rounds gone from his arsenal, but hopefully worth the risk to provide cover. He scrambled to his vehicle. As he reached the front of his truck, a round punched into the hood. He yanked open the passenger door, threw the doctor unceremoniously into the well of the passenger seat and scrambled across into the driver’s seat, reaching to pull the door closed, keeping his head as low as possible. His windshield shattered, spraying shards of safety glass over both of them. The showering crystals seemed to convince the woman to stay put.

He needed distance between them and these gunmen. He raised his Glock.

Three. Two.

At this point, he couldn’t risk any more blind shots. The last bullet had to be saved for a close encounter. Colby threw his truck in Reverse and stomped on the gas pedal, praying that no one was behind him.

* * *

Dr. Regan Lockhart’s ears rang from a combination of metal sheering against metal and the booms of guns firing. Her head pounded from slamming into the steering wheel and her normally logical thoughts swam in a sea of woodsy cologne and leather. The backward lurch of the truck caused her breakfast to roil in her stomach like sharks after chum. She pressed her hands into the gray-carpeted floor mat that was littered with glass and tried to lift her head up.

She felt a palm push at the back of her head. “Stay down!” a strong male voice ordered. Just as well, as the dizziness made it difficult to tell up from down at the moment and his hand on her head provided a steadying force.

What happened?

Sirens overwhelmed the ringing and her eardrums ached from the onslaught of honking horns. The truck jerked to a stop and the male occupant—the one who’d pulled her from her vehicle under a hail of bullets—jumped out. No longer hearing the sounds of shots being fired, Regan ever so slowly raised her head and found a vacuous hole where the windshield had been. She placed her arms on the black leather passenger seat now slick with rainwater, the glass tinkling musical notes as she brushed the shards off so she could push up without further cutting her hands.

Just as she was about to settle herself onto the seat, the passenger door opened and she got a good look at the stranger. He reached his hand out to her, his muscled arms visible through the buttoned-up shirt that clung to his chest from the rain.

“Can you move or should I help?” he asked.

She placed her quivering hand in his steady one. How was he not shaky from all that had happened? When both her feet hit the road, her legs withered, and he helped ease her gently onto the pavement, keeping his hand underneath her head until it, too, rested on a bed of gravel.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Who...are you?” Regan asked.

“Colby. Colby Waterson.”

Waterson. Something pinged in Regan’s memory. Inherently she knew that name was important.

“You need to stay down,” Colby said, hovering over her to keep the rain off her face. “The police are starting to canvass the area for the people who ran you off the road and tried to kill you.”

Kill? Had she heard that right?

“An ambulance is on the way,” Colby reassured her. “Do you want them to take you to Strang Memorial?”

So he did know her in some measure.

Regan pulled her hands up to her face and lightly tapped the wound at her forehead. Sticky—the time between blood freshly flowing and drying.

“You’ll need stitches,” he informed her. “Maybe a CT scan, but then again...you’ll know best. You’re the neurosurgeon and all.”

Regan desperately needed this world to slow down. Was this what it felt like for the patients she treated? For their families? She was still stuck on one of the first things he’d said to her. Had someone tried to murder her? She was used to life changing in a matter of seconds for other people. One moment she’d been listening to Bach on the radio while driving to the hospital. In the next her vehicle was run off the road and someone was shooting live ammunition—at her.

And then this man—someone who knew her—had saved her life.

Regan wanted to sit up but thought it best to defer to his judgment for the moment. She clenched her lips against the nausea. Concussion for sure—no need for radiation to determine that. All her limbs worked, though slowly, like her electrical impulses were swimming through molasses.

After blinking several times, her fuzzy vision began to clear and the first thing she zeroed in on was an intense set of sapphire-blue eyes. Impossibly dark and captivating. As her view of his face broadened, she took in his well-trimmed beard and brown hair cut short but not messy. More like expertly tousled. How could he look so composed after this encounter when her heart raced like a rabbit that had overdosed on caffeine? He took her hand in both of his to stop her shaking. His broad smile was disarming.

“What happened?” Regan asked. To her, her voice had never sounded so fearful.

Another series of whooping sirens signaled an ambulance struggling to break through the jam of halted vehicles and scared drivers.

“An SUV came up and ran you off the road but...”

Colby’s voice trailed. Something definitely troubled him. Regan’s chest caved. What could be worse than what had already happened?

“They used a certain maneuver to get your car to spin around like that. You have to be trained in how to do it. Those men who tried to hurt you aren’t amateurs.”

What did that mean? Regan shook her head. She hadn’t had an incident with another driver. Could this just be a case of mistaken identity?

As if reading her mind, Colby said, “This wasn’t road rage. I think they wanted to take you.”

Kidnap? Regan’s body poured more adrenaline into her blood. Could he be right?

“Why do you say that?”

“Because when I picked you up they stopped shooting except for one well-placed round in the hood of my truck. I’m guessing to try and disable it. It seemed like they didn’t want to risk hurting you. Did you know those men?”

“I...” Regan tried to process his theory through the cobwebs that spun in her mind. None of this made sense. She was a doctor. A healer. Who could possibly want to hurt her? “I didn’t even see them.”

Colby raked his hands through his wet hair. “And I didn’t have time to get a good look at their license plate.”

“How do you know me?” Regan asked.

“My sister is Samantha Waterson.” Colby tapped his hefty, black watch. “My family was going to meet with you right about now to discuss whether or not you’d picked her for your research protocol—to save her life.”

Regan bit her lip. After all that he had done for her, how could she say no?

“Why do you think they were experts?” Regan asked.

“Because I learned that exact maneuver when I served in the military. What they did wasn’t by accident.” He nodded behind her, and she eased up and looked behind.

A duo of police officers was walking toward them. He grabbed her hand again, his eyes imploring hers to understand his message. “The police aren’t going to find those men and they’re going to come back for you. Mark my words.”

Regan couldn’t connect a logical thought in her mind. Whoever this man was—this stranger, who had saved her life at great risk to his own, seemed to have intuitiveness in understanding the criminal element.

“How do you know they’re coming back?”

“I hunt criminals for a living. I know how they act...how they think.”

A patrol officer kneeled next to her. “I’m Officer Johnson. I need to ask you a few questions. Your name?”

Regan was still shaky and now the cold was settling into her bones. The rain lightened to a fine mist.

“Regan Lockhart,” she answered.

The officer glanced at Colby. “And you are?”

“Colby Waterson.”

And in that instant Regan knew she didn’t want to be separated from the one man who’d already proved he’d risk his life to protect hers.


TWO (#u20509d6e-778b-550c-85d8-a4af69833862)

Colby cinched the gray wool blanket the police officer had brought around Regan and then placed his hands on her shoulders to steady her tremors. “You’re okay. They’re gone. I’m not leaving you.”

She looked at him with grateful eyes, and he paused a moment to try to ascertain their exact color. Gray? Green? Right now as dark and brooding as the clouds that had released their payload of rain.

One of the responding officers handed Colby a basic first-aid kit. He popped open the tab and grabbed a package with a large square of gauze, removed it and pressed it gently to her cut. The rain mixed with blood and trickled down her face, making her injury appear more severe than it was. She winced at the pressure and covered his hand with hers in response.

“Sorry,” Colby said.

She shook her head. “I don’t know what to say. ‘Thank you’ seems hardly adequate.” Her teeth chattered, and Colby sent a dismayed look to the police officer.

“Any chance we could get her out of the rain?” he asked, his tone edgier than he wanted it to be.

Not only was she trembling from fear but the withdrawal of adrenaline from her system exacerbated her unsteadiness. Add that to the cacophony of voices around her and he was surprised she hadn’t shut down completely.

The black GMC had vacated the scene, and Colby gathered from police communications that no one had spotted it. Two paramedics carrying orange trauma packs weaved their way at a jog toward their position.

“Ma’am, can you describe to me what happened?” Officer Johnson asked.

A paramedic kneeled next to her. “Hi, I’m Leonard. What hurts?”

Johnson’s partner asked, “Did you get a look at the driver of the other vehicle?”

Colby’s chest ached and he could feel his blood just about to boil. He stood and motioned everyone back. “Give her some space,” he ordered. “This is what we’re going to do.” He turned to Johnson. Thunder boomed, and Regan huddled farther into the blanket. “First, out of this rain before it starts to pick back up again. Then, medical gets to take a look at her.” He pointed his finger at the officer. “Then a witness statement. Are we clear?”

All nodded, though Johnson narrowed his gaze in a who-does-he-think-he-is glare, but they looked in agreement enough to comply with his demands.

Colby held his hand out to Regan, and she took it willingly but stood too fast. Colby stabilized her with a quick arm around her waist before she fell back down. Regan gripped his arm tightly until her trembling eased. She stood straighter and gave him a gentle smile. Threads of her red hair stuck to the wound on her forehead, and he took his finger and gently eased them away.

He kept his arm around her waist until she was safely sitting in the back of an ambulance, on a gurney. Leonard took the blanket off her shoulders, pushing up Regan’s sleeve to take her blood pressure.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Shaky,” Regan responded, her voice clearer, in control.

Johnson stepped into the back of the ambulance and Colby traded places with him so he could get close. The officer would be able to get some of the information he needed just from listening to the paramedic’s interview.

“Is it all right with you if the officer is here?” Leonard asked.

Regan glanced at her watch. “Whatever speeds this up. I do have patients to see at the hospital. I’m late.”

Colby checked the time, as well. Had it been twenty minutes since this thing unfolded? It seemed like just a few had passed. “I’ll call the hospital and tell them you’re going to be delayed. Be right back.”

He stepped down from the rear of the ambulance and walked back to the scene of the crash. Something was going on here—something bad that involved this doctor. His gut was tossing up so many red flags that all he could see was red. The maneuver to push her off the road, in the middle of rush-hour traffic no less, cried of either desperation or determination. Both of which could have proved deadly. He found his cell phone among the shattered glass of his windshield on the floor of his passenger seat and dialed his mother.

“Colby? Are you all right? Where are you?”

Not even a hello. Ever since Sam’s cancer, his mother had been a prickly ball of hypersensitive worries, as if at any moment she knew the other shoe was going to drop. Actually, he had himself to blame. His military career had precipitously aged her even before Sam’s diagnosis.

Even though his mother was strong in her faith, she seemingly didn’t get a dose of the whole “not worrying” thing when God had made her. Maybe worry was an inherited gene as Colby struggled to let God control things, as well.

“I’m fine.”

“As in uninjured?” she pressed.

“Yes, not injured, but I’ve been involved in a little dustup on the highway driving in for Sam’s meeting.”

“Sam’s still in the ICU. These seizures just won’t relent. Her doctor’s not here yet.”

“I know. I’m with her,” Colby said.

“With Dr. Lockhart?”

“Yes...it’s hard to explain. We were involved in...an accident.”

“You hit her? Is she all right? Is she alive?”

The shrill tone of his mother’s voice caused him to ease the phone away from his ear. “Mom—”

“Colby, I’d never forgive you. We’ve been waiting to hear her final decision for weeks.”

He got it. He’d never forgive himself if he’d been the one to take away Sam’s only hope at living a full life.

“Mom, Sam’s doctor is fine, but it’s going to be a few hours before we can be at the hospital.”

“You’re staying with her?” his mother asked, her voice maintaining the same high pitch.

“It’s complicated. I’m going to make sure she gets to the hospital okay. Will you tell Sam’s nurse, so she can tell whoever else needs to know, that Dr. Lockhart is going to be delayed?”

Colby neared Regan’s SUV.

“She can’t call herself?”

Colby reached across the driver’s seat and found Regan’s purse, its contents strewed across the passenger’s floor mat. “She doesn’t have her phone at the moment. Please, Mom? I need to go.”

“All right. Be safe.”

Her classic sign-off. It was her habit never to say goodbye. Too much finality, he guessed. She’d once told him she’d only say it if she was sure he was never coming back. Maybe that was what military life did to families. Another reason why she rarely said, “I love you.” Even though she did fiercely.

His next call was to his associate, Daniel Green.

“Aren’t you at the hospital?”

“I should be. Listen, I need you to bring me your truck. And then stay behind and take care of two vehicles that need to be towed.”

“Wow, sounds exactly like how I hoped to be spending my morning. Is this what you meant by ‘other jobs as determined by the president’ when you hired me?”

“Exactly.”

Colby gave him the necessary information and disconnected the call. Colby’s office wasn’t far from there. If Dan hurried, it shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. If he came down the other side of the highway, he wouldn’t get stuck in the mass of cars on this side of the road.

Officers were on the highway taking measurements. Orange-and-white-striped cones had been set up, and two traffic cops directed the stream of angry morning commuters to the two lanes on the right side of the road.

Colby brushed the glass off and then sat in Regan’s driver’s seat. His knees didn’t immediately hit his chest like every other car he sat in after a woman had driven it, meaning she was likely just a few inches shorter than he was.

He reached down and began to gather up the items that had spilled from her purse. This was partly to be helpful but also an investigation. Those thugs wanted something from this doctor. Could anything in this car give him a clue as to what that might be?

He reached for her wallet that laid splayed open. The first picture he saw was of a young girl, perhaps ten years old. Her hair the same color as her mother’s, but her eyes were blue. He flipped through the photos. No photos with a male presence. He hadn’t remembered a wedding ring on the doctor’s left hand.

A child meant leverage, and all Colby could think was that he needed Regan to call her daughter to make sure she was okay.

He grabbed her black purse, snapped the wallet closed and put it inside. Under the passenger seat, he found her phone. When his thumb brushed the screen it displayed her most recent messages. Nothing questionable that would explain this predicament. He threw that in the purse, as well.

After that, he snagged the few items scattered about that were foreign to his hands ever since his wife had died from the same cursed disease that now ravaged his sister. A tube of lipstick. A compact with mirror. A nail file.

He brushed his finger against the fine sandpaper and thought about how chemo had taken away from his wife even the little things she’d enjoyed—like doing her nails. They’d become so brittle, her fingers numb from the chemo, that she hadn’t liked them to be touched. Her death had been his entry ticket into the military. It was easier to run away than face a lonely life without her.

Colby clutched the purse in his hand, stepped away from the SUV and then opened up the back passenger-side door. The seat was littered with several medical journals that had likely been tucked in a neat pile. He stood in the empty traffic lane and glanced up the highway, a smattering of cars ahead of him.

What did these events mean? Was Regan truly in danger? And if she was, what did that mean for Sam?

* * *

The tension in Regan’s chest eased when Colby stepped up into the back of the ambulance, her purse clutched in one of his hands. Her shaking had stopped and the chill was replaced with warmth from his gentle inquisitive smile.

“Everything okay?” he asked, his eyes only engaging hers.

“I keep telling the officer that I really didn’t see anything.”

“What about you, sir?” The officer turned in his direction. “What did you see?”

“I’ll tell you briefly what I know, but is there any reason to delay her medical care?”

The officer raised his chin at Colby in defiance to his testiness. “Aren’t you a bounty hunter?”

“Fugitive recovery officer.”

“Same thing, right?”

“We just prefer not to be called bounty hunters.”

Regan rustled through her purse and found her phone, pulling up a quick screen to text her daughter, Olivia.

Colby nudged the officer to one side. “Are you checking on your daughter?”

Regan’s finger froze against the cool surface of her phone screen. “How did you know I had a daughter?” she asked, her voice slightly off-kilter. What did she know about this man, really? Could he be involved with the people who had run her off the road? Simply offering her assistance as a ruse to gain her trust?

“I saw her picture in your wallet.”

“You looked through it?” Regan asked, wondering what he might have seen that she didn’t want him to.

“No. It had popped open. Everything spilled out of your purse, but I will say I didn’t find any clues.”

“Clues for what?”

“For why those men might have been after you.”

The officer turned Colby’s way. “So you don’t think this was an accident?”

“Not in the least. They used a specific maneuver to get her off the road. The only person they seemed to be shooting at was me. As soon as I picked her up to get her to a safer place, they fired less directly. They wore ski masks to cover their faces. I didn’t get a look at their license plate.”

“There are thousands of those black GMCs in the city.” The officer zeroed in on Regan. “Ma’am, do you have any idea why these men would be after you?”

Something broke inside Regan’s mind at that point. It was all becoming too much to comprehend. The accident. A handsome stranger saving her and continuing to provide assistance. It was the stuff of fairy tales and couldn’t be part of her trajectory, which was either men hurting her or them being professionally threatened by her success. Regan led the most boring life of anyone she knew outside of her groundbreaking research. Her life consisted of going to the hospital, seeing patients, going home and trying to give Olivia the last shreds of her energy. She’d never been involved in anything illegal—ever.

Unless...

Her phone pinged in her hand, causing her to jump and her thoughts to scatter. “My daughter’s okay,” she said to no one in particular.

“Good,” both the officer and Colby said.

Regan couldn’t help but roll her eyes. It was a contest of the most concerned male in the back of the ambulance. “Listen, I don’t know why these men would have been after me. If I had to guess, I’d say they had the wrong person. Is there anything else all of you need?”

The officer shook his head. “We just need to get your SUV towed off the road.”

“I’ve taken care of that,” Colby said.

“I’ll file an accident report,” the officer responded. “This case will be reviewed by a detective to see if assault with a deadly weapon charges should be filed, as well.”

Regan sat up. “That’s if you can even find these creeps, right?”

“We’ll take you to the hospital,” Leonard said.

Regan stood. Her vision blurred and she reached out blindly to hold on to something to steady herself when she felt Colby’s arm around her shoulders. She was surprised at how she liked the strength he offered.

“Steady now,” he cautioned.

“I’m not paying for an ambulance ride to get some stitches.” Regan opened her eyes and found Colby’s blue eyes searching hers.

“We’re both going to the same place. I’ll give you a ride,” Colby said.

“In your truck? The one that no longer has a windshield?”

“An associate of mine is bringing another vehicle.”

“Great.” She turned to the paramedic. “Looks like I’ve got a cheaper invitation.”

Even when she thought she should have hesitated, she didn’t. Given the slim chance Colby could be part of what happened, the police had his identifying information and he’d put himself in harm’s way for her. Likely the only reason he wanted to help was to ensure she stayed alive long enough to perform his sister’s operation.

The police officer handed her his card. “In case you think of anything. I’ll call you later today to update you.”

She plucked the card from his fingertips. “Great.”

Colby jumped from the back of the ambulance and reached his hand up to her.

The rain had stopped and she could see the sun trying to break through the gray in the distance. Colby waved to a man on the other side of the highway who stood near a white truck the same make and model as Colby’s.

“I forgot one thing.” He raced a few steps ahead of her and scrounged around in his car until he came up with a set of dog tags. “Now, we need to get to the other side of the road.”

Colby helped her climb over the cement median and waited for a lull in traffic before he pulled her, running, across the highway. Her pounding footsteps only intensified her headache.

Colby and the other man exchanged a few words before the man crossed the highway toward the ruined wreckage that remained of their vehicles. Regan climbed into the white truck and slid over to the passenger seat. Colby hung the dog tags from the rearview mirror.

She clipped the seat belt and fingered the metal rectangles. “A friend?”

Colby nodded and pressed his lips together, moving the truck into the river of cars.

“You were in the military?”

He glanced her way. A sad smile mirrored the grief in his eyes.

Regan hugged her purse. It really was the curse of every medical professional. It was her job to sit and ask those questions that no one else would ask—intimate details of a person’s life laid out in front of her so she could make the best medical decision. Sometimes it was just hard to know when to dial it back.

As if to cut her some slack, he answered her question. “Delta Force.”

“Are those tags from a friend of yours?”

“Mark. An old friend. I can’t risk losing them at some body shop when my truck gets fixed.” Pain etched his words.

“How many years did you serve?”

“Too many. Not enough.”

Great. Just what she needed. The strong, silent type. Of course, her ex-husband had been a violent, verbally abusive monster, so perhaps this was a move in the right direction.

What am I thinking? He’s dealing with a sister who has cancer. I’m a single mom. I have enough on my plate. He has enough on his. Lord, help me to focus on the right things here.

“Why did you leave the military?” Regan asked.

“Sam.”

His eyes glistened as he turned away from her, and her throat thickened at his quick emotional response. Clinically, she knew a lot about Samantha Waterson. Age twenty-eight. Grade four glioblastoma—the worst kind of brain tumor, resistant to surgery and aggressive chemotherapy. These patients sought Regan out when conventional medicine failed to destroy the malicious cells that replaced healthy tissue with dysfunctional ones.

Interacting with Colby personalized his sister to her in a way that was sometimes hard as a doctor to cross over—seeing the person instead of just the brain MRI.

“Had you decided whether or not you were going to take Sam’s case?” he asked without taking his eyes off the road.

“I never set up a face-to-face meeting until I know the patient is a candidate. A strong candidate. I actually have her on the surgery schedule for tomorrow morning.”

That was true. Regan had developed the policy after meeting with too many patients who weren’t an appropriate fit for the study. She’d pray, relentlessly, for help in making the right decision. Was giving false hope better than dealing with death? Regan wasn’t strong enough to decline treatment when families sobbed in front of her. What human could? It was the part of medicine she hated—her inability to defeat death.

“Good.” Colby nodded and wiped away a quick tear, sniffing hard as if to urge the other potential droplets of his fear to stay in their place. “I guess my one and only job is to get you to the hospital safely. Get you all fixed up and then on to save Sam’s life.”

His statement was like a knife to her heart. There was so much expectation in those few words and she didn’t want to disappoint him.

Because, like Colby, she wasn’t sure she’d seen the last of those men. Could he be a man she could trust if they came back?

She glanced back at her SUV as they merged into traffic—the passenger side completely mashed up against the concrete and all of the windows shattered. Now that most of her adrenaline had dissipated, she was becoming cognizant of the mild aches and pains that would bloom into full-body soreness and immobility in the next few days, and she didn’t know if she’d feel safe operating on someone’s brain tomorrow.

Her cure couldn’t work if the patient died on the operating room table.


THREE (#u20509d6e-778b-550c-85d8-a4af69833862)

Olivia wasn’t answering her texts.

It was nearly midnight before Regan left the hospital. First the car accident. Could it be called that? Was potential vehicular homicide a more accurate term? Followed by stitches in the ER and then patient appointments the rest of the day. Above all else, she didn’t want her personal circumstances to affect the care of her patients. So many patients were desperate to participate in her research protocol, which showed true promise in curing the most aggressive type of brain tumor.

And she was using a polio virus to do it.

The cost of that decision was getting home way past Olivia’s bedtime, and the last thing she needed was to worry about her eleven-year-old daughter and the growing distance between them.

Sadly, medicine taught doctors to assume the worst-case scenario first and then settle on the more realistic diagnosis once the life-threatening possibilities were ruled out. Simply, an unanswered text first meant someone had died—plain and simple. Or they were stranded in a ditch and near death. No other possibility was acceptable until that one was ruled out.

Adding to this certainty was that her nanny, Polina, didn’t answer her texts or phone calls, either.

Lord, just let them be safe.

Regan fingered the front of her phone to call up the screen and smoothed her thumb over the picture of Olivia. Regan hadn’t thought eleven would be a hard age to deal with, but it was turning into exactly that. Her usually joyful and optimistic child had turned surly and ambivalent. Were the hormones changing more than her body? Or was it something more, something that Regan couldn’t change, like being away from home so much? The clinical trial consumed nearly every extra moment she could spare. Scraps of her attention. That was what Olivia got. She wanted to change this, but also needed to provide for Olivia—for all that she thought she deserved.

Why hadn’t Olivia called? Regan’s routine with Olivia when she was at the hospital was to talk every night if she didn’t make it home by dinner. If Regan couldn’t take the time to chat, she would send a quick text. But her call went to voice mail—her text with a multitude of heart and flower emojis unanswered, like silent witnesses to the distance between them.

Regan tapped her fingers on the front of her phone, trying to disperse the anxious tingling of her fingertips. She was breathing too fast. It was making her headache come back in full force.

Slow it down, Regan, slow it down. Stop thinking like this.

It wasn’t the first time an evening call went unanswered—but it was rare.

As the garage door rose, Polina’s battered navy blue Chevy Cavalier was where it should be. Regan parked her rental car, grabbed her purse and exited the vehicle, but froze when she saw the door that led into her kitchen. It stood open—all the way. The interior of the house was as dark and deep as a water well. The garage light flickered off and Regan’s heartbeat raced as blackness and fear enveloped her.

It was quiet—too quiet.

“Olivia? Polina?”

A stillness like no human presence remained. Regan pulled out her phone and activated the flashlight, approaching the wooden steps that led into the house with measured caution. Her heart galloped in her chest.

As the light traveled up the door frame, a smudge of blood jumped out in deep contrast to the white. When Regan crested the top step, heavy black marks and chipped paint gave the door a distressed look that had not been present before. As Regan entered the mudroom and eased the door closed behind her, she nearly tripped on bottles of laundry supplies that sat scattered on the marble tile. The box of laundry detergent had turned over and spilled. Soapy white crystals spread out like a blizzard had raced through the room. On the backside of the door, dusty footprints marred the white paint in several areas, almost as if someone had planted feet there to prevent the door from being opened. They were too large to be Olivia’s. The tread marks seemed characteristic of the athletic shoes Polina often wore.

Regan stepped farther into the house, throwing on every light switch as she briskly walked by, flooding the darkness to keep her evil thoughts at bay. The desk in her kitchen had been ransacked. Her papers, bills and notes were scattered all across the floor. A few more steps and she crossed broken glass from strewed dinner dishes. She wasn’t sure at first glance if the red liquid splashed against her refrigerator was spaghetti sauce or blood.

Rushing up the tan-carpeted stairs, Regan headed straight into Olivia’s room.

And there was the bed, perfectly made.

“Olivia!” she screamed, her sobs the only answer.

She rushed across to hall to Polina’s room and was met by another neatly made bed. Regan crossed to the center of the room, looking for any clue that would explain their disappearances, her briefcase still clutched in her hand, her breath strangled by invisible pythons wrapping and tightening themselves around her chest.

Regan’s phone pinged—an incoming text. Her vision blurred from the onslaught of tears. She brought her phone to her face.

Whatever you do—don’t call the police. Go downstairs. You’ll find what you’re looking for.

Regan’s hands shook and she tumbled to her knees. Whoever had Olivia was watching her. Had they followed her home? Were there cameras? Or were they merely watching her shadow travel through the windows to determine her position in the house? Did they sickly observe and relish the fact that her life was changing forever? Were they here? Inside her home? She didn’t want to go downstairs. Had she missed them? Were Olivia and Polina’s bodies lying somewhere downstairs and she had run past them, hoping to find them sleeping peacefully in their beds?

Terror crystallized every functioning cell in a wintry ice Regan didn’t believe she’d ever be free from. Should she call 9-1-1? Was the text instructing her not to because the assailants were waiting downstairs? Her heartbeat echoed in her ears like a scream in a canyon. Who could she reach out to? Her career caused isolation. Her parents believed her ex-husband’s stories that Regan’s study of medicine had caused the demise of her marriage, and so they didn’t stay in touch, not even for Olivia’s sake. Sadly, Regan didn’t know much about Polina’s family, or if they could help her grope through this shock to find help.

Regan took several deep breaths to abate the tremor stealing the strength from her legs. She stood, shaky, and took the stairs back down, leaning heavily against the banister to stay upright.

As her feet hit the landing, she almost dropped to her knees again—the terror quickly leaching the strength from her muscles. Retracing her steps, she entered the kitchen, seemingly Olivia and Polina’s last stand, and found a card lying on her granite island—the bawdy fluorescent green almost mocking.

It was Olivia’s handwriting on the back of the envelope. Mommy.

Regan crumpled against the counter, pulling the envelope toward her. She slid her blood-drained finger under the envelope’s flap, ripped through the paper and removed the card.

A ransom note.

We have your daughter. In order to get her back alive, we need you to do the following...

* * *

Colby stood on the sidewalk in front of Regan Lockhart’s home. A mix of emotions hazed his thoughts. One, he was angry she hadn’t showed up for Sam’s surgery this morning. Two, he was disappointed because he had been looking forward to seeing her again. But, overwhelmingly, he was worried. Did the events of yesterday have anything to do with today? Had they been a precursor to a bigger event? A crime even?

In hunting fugitives, starting at home base was often the first step. Then Colby would check friends and criminal cohorts. There was always a place to start.

Time to find out what the doctor was hiding.

It hadn’t taken long to find Regan’s house. It was not as he’d expected it to be...a smallish, refurbished Craftsman home, not five minutes from the hospital. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Above all else, she had to open the door—even if it took a ruse to do it. He jogged up the steps and pounded three times on the black door.

“Dr. Lockhart!”

Colby quickly stepped back from the door. His plan was to put his foot in the crack as soon as she opened it, and if she didn’t quickly agree to return to the hospital, he was going to throw her over his shoulder and carry her there himself.

But as soon as the door opened and he began to advance, two metallic barbed instruments of torture hit Colby square in the chest and every muscle in his body contracted.

A Taser.

It felt like he’d just hit his funny bone, the feeling multiplying with lightning speed through every nerve in his body. He fell straight forward onto his face, his nose punching into the cement and blood popping from broken blood vessels. He inhaled the coppery-tasting fluid down the back of his throat as he struggled to open his mouth to breathe. Closing his eyes against the vertigo seemed like his only option.

“Mr. Waterson! What are you doing here?”

He felt Regan’s hands at his shoulder and waist as she pulled him over to his back, quickly plucking the darts from his chest. She was stronger than he’d imagined.

Did she really have to ask, considering the plight she had left Sam in? Colby tried to answer but the dizziness, even with his eyes closed, had him about to toss his breakfast onto Regan’s lap.

She laid a calming hand on his chest. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you scared me. Why didn’t you just tell me it was you?”

What could he say? I’m so mad about Sam’s surgery being canceled that I want you arrested and held until you can do said operation. I didn’t know if you’d even remember me. If you’d still trust me enough, considering what happened yesterday, to open the door.

“Can you sit up?”

Colby held up a hand to stop her, still afraid if he opened his mouth he couldn’t control what might happen next—both by his body or his language. Worsening his nausea was the blood he was swallowing. He looked up, focusing on the sky and the gray fall clouds brewing black with another threat of rain. Breathing slowly, he felt the dizziness abate and he placed his hands behind him and pushed up. Blood from his nose began to drip onto his shirt.

Regan reached forward and pinched his nostrils together. He winced from the pain, though it was markedly less than the full-body muscle soreness he now suffered, akin to lifting weights in the gym for twelve hours. It surprised him that she didn’t hold anything as a barrier from his blood when it was likely ingrained in her DNA to never do such a thing. That could mean she was willing to risk her life to do whatever needed to be done. Perhaps it was the same thing that made her a medical research maverick.

Never in his life had a woman surprised him like that. It was the last thing he’d expected from the lithe, uber-intellectual doctor. There was a definite fire within her.

After countless minutes, she released her fingers but kept a palm open underneath his nose to catch any stray droplets.

“Why are you here?” Colby asked, the words more angry than he intended. As he’d feared, she backed away from him, her trepidation filling the space. She was afraid of something. He softened his voice. “Why didn’t you come to the hospital for Sam’s surgery? Are you all right?”

Regan sat back on her heels and looked away from him, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

What could he expect from her? Why should she trust him?

He folded shaky arms around his legs, not sure he could stand without falling. “Whatever it is, I want to help. Not just for Sam but...”

For you, too? Was that what he was going to say? Was it more than desperation for Sam tugging at his heartstrings?

Regan gripped her thighs, her hands white with blue fingertips from the frigid breeze that blew and pulled dead leaves from skeleton branches.

Colby took a deep breath and the sharp, crisp air set his lungs on fire.

Silent tears fell down her face. What would cause a woman, who seemingly had dedicated her life to healing, to abandon a patient and her clinical trial? He’d asked himself this question over and over again because only when he knew the answer could he save her.

And save Sam.

“I’m here to help you so that you can still help Sam. If something happens to you, no one else will be able to do the surgery—or have the cure.”

Regan’s lips trembled and she pressed the back of her pale hand against her lips. Her silence wasn’t defiance at his request...it was fear.

Colby eased up to his knees and reached for the hand hanging limp at her side. He held it and rubbed the back of it with his thumb, hoping the friction would ease the chill. “Please...I can and will help you. Whatever it is. I’ll do anything to save Sam’s life.”

Her gray-green eyes took him in, measuring him with an intensity that caused his heart to skip several beats. Few women caused such a rise.

“Someone has taken my daughter, Olivia. As ransom, they want the modified polio virus. Your sister’s cure.” She raised an eyebrow...almost as a challenge to his resolve.

He stood, using her porch railing for support, and reached a hand out to her. “I think we need to go inside and talk. What you don’t know about me is that I’m used to finding bad guys...and it seems like some bad guys have your daughter.”

At first she wouldn’t do it—take his hand. He’d seen the look in women before who’d had less than ideal relationships with men, and he felt like he was asking the rabbit to trust the wolf. But then, ever so slowly, she reached out for him and took his hand. With his other hand, he clenched her elbow and pulled her up.

And in that moment, their eyes meeting, Colby wondered if he was trading his life for Sam’s.


FOUR (#u20509d6e-778b-550c-85d8-a4af69833862)

Regan trembled. It had been years since she’d had a man in her home. Colby’s inquisitive stare took in what remained of the home invasion that had snatched Olivia and Polina from what Regan considered a very safe house.

“When did you discover that they were missing?” Colby asked. He sat on her white couch, leaned forward and settled his elbows on his knees, his muscles still quivering from the effects of the Taser.

Hurting Colby added to the weight in her gut—so many misdeeds she needed to confess. What would he do when he found out what she’d done? Would he still help her?

“Last night when I got home. The house was a disaster—evidence of a struggle here on the lower level. When I was upstairs searching for Olivia and Polina, I got a text that told me to go back to the kitchen.”

“What did the text say?”

“It instructed me not to call law enforcement. To go back downstairs—which is where the ransom note was.”

“So they were watching you.”

Regan nodded. “I think so but from outside. I’ve searched the house pretty intently and didn’t find anything I would consider a camera or listening device.”

Colby glanced around. “Not exactly your area of expertise, either. Is the house unattended for long periods of time?”

Regan shook her head. “Polina is almost always here.”

“My guess is they had someone trailing you, but I couldn’t guarantee it was just that.”

The strength leached from her legs, and Regan sat next to Colby. Both stared straight ahead. Regan’s heart thundered in her chest. She needed to tell him before he made a commitment he wouldn’t back away from. At least, that was the kind of man she read Colby to be. Someone who wouldn’t walk away from a fight once he’d agreed to step into the ring.

“Let me see the note.”

Regan’s voice tightened. “I need to tell you something first.”

She stood without glancing back at him, walked to the front closet and pulled out the cooler she’d tucked into the corner under her full-length coats.

“What’s in there?” His voice was already full of suspicion.

“The modified polio virus. Your sister’s cure.”

“All of it?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes, all of it. Those were the instructions. We only manufacture enough for a few patients at a time. I stole it from the hospital early this morning. This is what the kidnappers want for Olivia’s life. This is what the ransom note is asking me to exchange her for.”

Colby leaned back into the sofa, somewhat deflated. “So you’re not going to give them an alternative—something they believe could be the virus.”

“I won’t do anything that will risk Olivia’s life.”

Colby raised his hands in disbelief. “But you’re risking everyone else’s life—everyone who is hoping that their lives could be saved by what’s in those vials.”

“She’s my daughter,” Regan cried. “I’m hoping I can somehow get Olivia back without giving up my life’s work—and so many people’s hope at a full life.”

“What was your plan, exactly?”

She shrugged and took a seat opposite him in a gray chair, holding the cooler on her lap.

The look on his face—contemplative. For several minutes he looked everywhere but at her. Was he considering dropping his offer? What would she do then?

“Do you understand how serious this is?” he finally asked her.

“Of course—”

“Not just for Olivia and your nanny, but for you, as well. For your professional career?”

The ends of her fingers tingled and she gripped the cooler tighter. “What do you expect me to do? Give it back before Olivia’s safe?”

“Regan, did the hospital give you permission to take what’s in that cooler?”

He was driving straight at the matter—with a red-hot poker. She shook her head.

“You’ve stolen hospital property. You’ve abandoned your patients. Your professional livelihood is at risk—I’d say holding on by a thread at this point.”

Her throat ached and she swallowed heavily. Of course, he was right. But what would her life be worth if her daughter was dead? Losing her medical license was the least of her concerns.

“Will you still help me? Or are you going to turn me in?”

Colby straightened and leaned toward her. “You’re trying to save Olivia. I’m trying to save Sam. But helping you may not accomplish my goal. The cure may be lost.”

There it was. Men had a bottom line that seemed to always align against her interests. Of course, it had been too much to hope for. A knight in shining armor. Someone she could trust to help her sort through this mess. What was he trying to do, exactly? Force her to do something she wasn’t willing to do—give him the one thing that would save Olivia? What would he do—take the cooler from her and return it to the hospital?

One thing she’d stopped doing a long time ago was begging a man to help her solve her problems. If he volunteered—great, but she wasn’t going to grovel. She had done enough of that toward the end of her marriage and all she’d gotten was an ex-husband who’d abandoned his daughter and two sets of grandparents who wouldn’t give her the time of day.

“I’m not giving this to you to give back to the hospital. So, if you’ve decided not to help me then you need to leave.”

Colby captured her eyes with his, a prison of blue that was somehow comforting. “Show me the ransom note. I need to know exactly what it says.”

* * *

Regan’s fingers trembled as she pulled the card from the envelope and handed it to him. It was simple in its request. The cure for Olivia. The exchange to happen in relatively wooded area at a park nearby.

Colby placed the note back in the envelope. “Why do you think they want this so badly? I mean, enough to take your daughter? It’s a very extreme measure. Why not just break into the hospital and grab it? Or pay someone at your lab a nice sum of money to merely give them a sample. Isn’t it fairly easy to replicate?”

“Not as easy as you might think.”

“I think the more important question is who wants it. Do you have any idea?” Colby asked.

“Desperate people will do desperate things.”

“Of course, but what does that mean in this context?”

“Could be other patients. Parents of patients. I haven’t considered this treatment yet for pediatric patients but I’ve been getting inundated with requests from parents to try it on their children.”

Colby shook his head. “This is beyond a group of desperate parents. There’s nothing else you can think of?”

She paused a little too long before saying, “I’m in the dark as much as you are.”

There was something there he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Deception took all kinds of forms. Bald-faced lying was one of them and her statement didn’t rise to that level. However, denial was just as powerful, and he wondered if there was something in her past she didn’t recognize as a threat or didn’t want to confess to him as a possible scenario.

Trust. She didn’t trust him enough—not yet.

“How did they get into the house?”

“When I came home, the door to the garage was definitely beat up.”

“Show me.”

He followed her slim frame through the kitchen to the laundry room. Definitely seemed like a last stand had taken place in the small room. Though somewhat picked up, soap crystals crushed under his boots as he examined the door. It was marred as she said—as if someone had put their weight against the door, through whatever means necessary, to keep it from opening. He grabbed a T-shirt from the laundry basket and opened the door. The doorjamb appeared untouched. Not pried open.

“Does your nanny leave the garage door open?”

“Her name’s Polina. And of course not.”

When he crossed the threshold into her home, the front door seemed untouched, as well. “Are there any broken windows? Other doors that lead into your home?”

“No broken windows. There’s only one other door that leads inside from the backyard.”

He followed her there, as well. Same story. Different door. The intruders hadn’t pried their way in.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“If it’s not Polina’s habit to keep the garage door open, then I would imagine she keeps the door leading from the garage unlocked. Most people do. Which means they opened the garage door to gain entry into the house.”

“How would they do that?”

“There are devices that can mimic a garage door signal. They’re not that hard to find...” His voice dropped. This whole scenario of hers didn’t add up. A group of desperate family members coming together to kidnap a child for a cure. Wouldn’t they also need the hand that delivered it? “Take me through the rest of the house.”

The main level left convincing evidence of a home invasion. He took in the desk—the drawers opened with such force that the wood had fractured. File folders open on the desk. Some with knife slits through the middle.

“Did you keep any information about the virus here?”

“No. Only at the lab and...”

“And?” Colby pressured.

“It’s not important to what’s happened here.”

Colby let the comment slide but her refusal to expand added to his level of belief that she wasn’t fully disclosing her thoughts on what had happened.

“Anything upstairs?”

“It looked undisturbed.”

“Let’s have a look, anyway. Now that you’ve passed the initial shock you might see something that you hadn’t noticed before.”

Upstairs, they stood in the middle of Olivia’s room, seemingly undisturbed.

“Do you notice anything?” Regan asked.

Colby couldn’t push the thought from his head. If they were prepared to hold Olivia for ransom, and they were professionals, wouldn’t they plan for some contingencies? Unless they thought Regan would capitulate immediately and she’d have her daughter back tomorrow night. Two days to accomplish what they’d ask for. But what if she hadn’t?

“Look through her clothes. Do you see anything missing?”

Regan opened Olivia’s closet and first peered up. “Her suitcase is missing.”

Colby motioned to her dresser. “How much clothing?”

She stepped over to the dresser and paused, her fingers clutched on the knobs of the top drawer. “What does it mean if her clothes are gone?”

“It would probably be a good sign. That they were wanting to provide for her needs and not just wanting to...”

Regan nodded. Colby didn’t need to speak out loud what both of them knew. She pulled the top drawer open, snapped it closed, and then yanked open the other drawers. After pushing them all closed, she turned around and fell against the dresser, her hands covering her eyes.

Colby didn’t know the right response. Women crying always befuddled him and the two of them had been thrust together into a situation that required emotional comfort but needed logistical thought. They had to be strong. To think first. Plan.

But something within him, something that had been missing since his wife’s death, stirred briefly and he raised his hand to place it on her shoulder.

She dropped her hands and so did he before he made a gesture that might be misinterpreted.

“Many of her clothes are missing.”

Colby peered at the bottom of the closet. There was an empty basket. He didn’t see another clothes hamper. That meant the empty drawers would be a good indication of how much they’d taken.

“What’s left of her clothes? Are they still folded on the inside?” Colby asked.

“Yes, why?”

“It makes me think Polina packed the suitcase, then, and not the intruders just riffling through in a hurry to grab a few things to tide them over.”

“Then Polina should have clothes missing, as well?”

“Let’s check.”

Before leaving Olivia’s room, Colby peered out her window, which gave a front view of the street. The roads were empty. No signs of a vehicle he would consider suspicious for surveillance. Then again, why would they need to watch Regan when they controlled her by having the one thing she considered most precious?

Inside Polina’s room a different story had been written. Her suitcase remained in the closet. Her drawers appeared full. A small amount of clothing was in the laundry basket at the bottom of the bed.

“What do you think it means?” Regan asked.

Even though they both knew.

Things didn’t look good for Polina’s survivability.

“Let’s go back downstairs. Look at the note again. Develop our game plan.”

Once downstairs, Colby grabbed the note and sat on the couch. Regan sat next to him, peering over his shoulder as he examined the contents. Her closeness made it difficult to concentrate and he scooted a few inches away from her.

“First thing, we can’t operate out of your house. Once the hospital discovers the virus is gone, the cops are going to be on your tail.”

“It will probably be more than the local police,” Regan said.

Colby turned to Regan. “Meaning?”

“I think the hospital would potentially report it to Homeland Security.”

“It’s not a lethal virus. Right?”

“Right. But that doesn’t mean...”

“Mean what? It’s like there’s something you don’t want to say. Whatever you’re thinking, you need to say it. Keeping something hidden from me won’t help us solve this.”

“Viruses can always potentially be manipulated into something more virulent. Or, at least, someone could try.”

Colby’s chest tightened. That had to be it. Definitely a more plausible explanation than her rogue desperate parent theory. There was more there. He was sure of it. But for now, if that was all she was willing to disclose, he’d go with it.

What it meant? That their enemy could be that much more nefarious.

“We need to find a hotel somewhere close to this park. Scope it out tonight before the drop-off tomorrow.”

“I need to exchange these vials for something completely benign. I need to protect what’s here.”

“So you never intended to give it to them? Why take it?”

“Don’t you think it was wise to make them believe I was somewhat complying with their plan?”

“Probably.”

“However, if it comes down to Olivia’s life, I can’t say I won’t choose that path.”

Tears flowed down her cheeks, and this time he couldn’t help himself. He reached up and thumbed them off her face. Heat raced up his arm from that one touch. “Let’s not think worst-case scenario. Not yet. We need to keep our heads in the game.” Did he say that for her benefit?

Or more for his own?

“I know someone with a private lab who wouldn’t ask too many questions if I asked him to store it. He could at least give me something that resembled what’s in the cooler.”

“Vial wise or biologically, as well?”

“Both.”

She picked up her cell phone. Colby snatched it from her hand. “You can’t use this.” He powered it down. “And I probably shouldn’t use mine.”

“How would they know you’re helping me?”

“It’s not going to be a reach. I stormed out of the hospital saying I was going to look for you. We need to assume the authorities know we’re together—and that mind-set will hopefully prevent us from leaving clues behind. Do you have cash on hand?”

“Not much. A couple hundred dollars at most.”

At least Colby planned for such contingencies such as needing to be on the run or at least off grid for a period of time. “Don’t worry. I’ve got some additional resources we can tap into.”

A car door slammed. Both of them sat up straighter.

“Are you expecting someone?” Colby asked.

Regan shook her head.

Colby motioned her down onto the floor. He then army-crawled to the front window, lifted the lower edge of the curtain and peered out.

A nondescript black SUV. One man stood by it—dressed in tactical gear.

Not good.

He turned back to Regan. “We need to go, now.” His voice was low but with as much urgency as he could muster without yelling at her.

She scrambled toward the cooler and picked it up, grabbing her purse that sat next to it.

“Back door?” he whispered.

She motioned to the back of the house. They crawled to the door together. He looked through the window. Didn’t see anyone...not yet, at least. There was a wooded lot just beyond her property. That was where he’d hidden his motorcycle. Probably not the best mode of transportation but easy to conceal, which was why he’d chosen it—not imagining he’d be pulling Regan behind him for an escape. He merely hadn’t wanted her to see him coming.

“We need to run for those trees as fast as we can.”

He saw Regan glance down at her shoes. Modest high heels, but high heels nonetheless. He thought about asking her to take them off but she was likely comfortable in them and she’d need the barrier to keep her running across rocks and sticks. “You’ll be fine. Just keep your head low.”

He motioned her to the side, unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door an inch. Nothing happened, which hopefully meant they’d beaten them to the back door.

The doorbell rang, followed by three successive knocks. “Dr. Lockhart! I’m with the military! We have a few questions for you!”

Colby grabbed her arm. “On three.”


FIVE (#u20509d6e-778b-550c-85d8-a4af69833862)

Before Colby could begin to count, Regan heard the tinkling of breaking glass followed by an eardrum-rupturing explosion. Abandoning the count, Colby pushed her forward, and Regan lost her footing, tumbling forward and losing her grip on the cooler. He snatched it up and grabbed her hand, pulling her to a standing position.

“Run!”

They ran pell-mell into the tree line, Colby holding the cooler with one hand and Regan’s hand with the other. She gripped her purse against her shoulder with her other arm. He wove through the trees like an expert off-trail skier, pulling her behind him. A canister landed in front of them, Colby immediately picked it up and chucked it to the side. It began to smoke in the distance.

Tear gas.

Bullets tore through branches and leaves rained down on their heads. Colby pulled her down into the underbrush, dirt flying into her face as he positioned himself prone and looked into the wake from where they had come.

Two men were stalking them, walking forward slowly. They were off to the right and the direction they were heading had them in a trajectory that wouldn’t intercept where they were hiding. However, if they moved, they would certainly alert them to their presence. Colby fingered through the dead leaves and produced a fragmented bit of black plastic.

“Rubber bullets,” he whispered.

Regan nodded. From her years of physician training, she knew rubber bullets were less lethal but could still produce significant injury if the victim was hit the right way. However, the tear gas and use of less lethal ammunitions meant these men were more interested in detaining them than in killing them.

Regan reached for the cooler and pulled it close to her body. The two men continued to veer right, in the direction of the spent tear gas canister, when another man broached the tree line.

Colby inhaled sharply, his hand tightening around hers. “I know that guy.”

They both remained prone, covered well by a grouping of waist-high bushes. “From where?” Regan whispered.

“The military. Delta Force. We served together.”

“Maybe we should just surrender then,” Regan said.

Colby shook his head. “Never surrender until you know the intention of your enemy.”

Why had Colby called a man he’d served with the enemy? Particularly former comrades.

A car engine roared to life as someone pressed on the accelerator with the car in Neutral. Regan reflexively rolled her eyes. There was a gentleman who lived on the street behind her who repaired cars out of his garage. This daily occurrence was usually annoying, but now Regan might need to bake him cookies because it drew all three men off in a run away from them.

Colby patted her back and motioned in the other direction. They hustled, half bent over, Colby taking the lead. After several minutes they came to a small clearing in the trees where Regan spied what was non-affectionately known as a death machine in medicine.

A motorcycle.

Regan pulled away from Colby. Even if their lives were in danger, she couldn’t imagine getting on the back. It was black with burnt orange metallic accents. New or at the very least idolized. He took her purse and the cooler from her hands and set them on the ground. Taking off his black leather jacket, he handed it to her and then muscled her purse into a small saddlebag. Without instruction, she put it on, swallowed up by the heavy fabric and the scent of his cologne. Colby grabbed the black helmet from the seat and handed it to her. She held it in her hand like a foreign object.

“Put it on,” he ordered.

It seemed ridiculous to argue and Regan tried to push from her mind the hundreds of surgeries she’d performed on brain-injured patients from crashing on these bikes.

“Where’s yours?”

“That is mine. I didn’t think I’d be taking you with me.” He straddled the bike and pulled it upright. “Regan, hurry. Pick the cooler up. It’s not going to take them long to figure out they went the wrong direction.”

She handed him the cooler and pushed the helmet over her head. Definitely too big, but it would afford some protection if she fell off or they crashed. Colby motioned her forward and tightened the strap under her chin, which only mildly improved the situation. He grabbed her arm and helped her up. The passenger seat, if that was even the correct term, was perched higher than Colby’s seat and it forced her forward, the front of her body against his back.

Colby kept the cooler pinned between him and the front of the bike. “You’re going to need to reach around me and hold the cooler in place so I can drive.” He clasped her hands and pulled her forward so she was snuggled tightly against his back. Her fingers felt the cool plastic handle and she gripped it tightly.

The motorcycle roared to life when suddenly something sharp hit Regan square in her midback. She gasped, released the cooler from her hands and began to fall off the bike to the left. Colby turned and grabbed her before her body was introduced to the ground. Regan patted her lower back and brought her hand up. No blood.

As Colby steadied her, his eyes narrowed, and Regan turned to see what he’d zeroed in on. Regan glanced back.

They’d been found.

Regan resituated herself on the bike, thrust her arms forward, found the cooler again and held it tightly. “Go!”

The motorcycle surged forward, Colby taking a deep right turn, kicking up dirt and grass. Regan closed her eyes, her stomach in her throat. The vibration of the engine tingled every nerve in her body.

“Don’t let go!” Colby ordered.

One thing she knew—if she let go of Colby in that moment, she would die.

* * *

Colby turned into the parking lot of a run-down highway motel and stopped the engine. He held the bike centered, allowing Regan to climb down before he set the kickstand in place. He couldn’t help but smile as Regan walked, legs slightly wider, to shake off the muscle tiredness of sitting on a bike for over an hour. She pulled the helmet off her head, her red hair spilling onto her slender shoulders.

She turned back to him with a smile on her face and a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “I might have to change my mind about these things.”

“Fun, right?”

However the smile melted from her face as soon as she closed the distance between them, her hand reaching behind her.

“Take off the jacket. Let me look,” Colby said.

Regan eased the jacket off her shoulders and handed it to him. Colby pushed himself off the bike, set the cooler on the ground and laid the jacket over the bike seat. He walked around so she wouldn’t have to move anymore.

“Show me where it hurts.”

Her hand reached behind her and her fingers tentatively traveled up the middle of her back. “Here. Is it bleeding?” she asked.

Through the thin material, silk if he had to guess, there wasn’t any blood seeping through. “No blood.”

She exhaled. “Good. Bruising?”

Colby gingerly raised the fabric until he saw the lower outline of a purple bruise and then pulled the shirt back down. “Yes, you have a bruise.”

“How big?” Regan asked.

Colby took a step back and held his breath in an attempt to get his heart to stop hammering against his ribs. “I don’t know. It looks nasty, but not as bad as it could have been. The jacket saved you from a bigger injury.”

Regan turned to face him. “You’d make a lousy doctor,” she said, a frown on her face.

“And you’d make a lousy bounty hunter, so we’re even.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know—hiding out at your own house with the goods you stole from the hospital, for one. For two, opening the door on the first knock.”

Regan crossed her arms. “Point made.”

Colby surveyed the scene around him. He didn’t see anyone suspicious and he hadn’t seen anyone following them. As soon as they’d fled on the bike, he was pretty sure he’d gained enough distance before their pursuers could even get in a vehicle to track them.

What was odd? No police seemed to be too interested in their presence. If local law enforcement had a BOLO, Colby and his bike would be easy to spot.

Were the police looking for them? And if not, why not? Why a military presence? Was it as Regan had said—Homeland Security? And if so, why was Nicholas Abrams, a man he’d served with as part of Delta Force, hunting Regan?

“Colby?” Her voice broke into his thoughts.

“Yes.”

“Is your plan to stand out in the open in a parking lot all day? Because, if it is, I’m beginning to doubt your bounty hunter skills. Particularly with this bike out for all to see.”

She was right. He was letting too many things distract him.

And the thing that was distracting him the most, he was tied to for the foreseeable future.

After parking the bike at the rear of the building, Colby pulled Regan’s purse out of the saddlebag. They went inside and purchased a room with the cash she had. Once inside the less than ideal room that sported a queen-size bed and a pull-out couch, Colby used the room phone to call Dan to have him drop off a beat-up vehicle they often used for surveillance.

“I don’t know if I like being your porter, but I’ll like getting to take your baby for a ride today. Orange Crush—isn’t that what you call it?” Dan asked.

“Just make sure you’re not followed and bring me one of the bags I have locked in the safe.”





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