Gone

Agent Undercover...Identity Exposed

The FBI: Special Crimes Unit series continues

FBI agent Sam Sheridan’s mission is to take down a human trafficking ring and save missing teens—until he witnesses a kidnapping. Blowing his cover, Sam rescues Ella McIntire. But she’s not safe yet. While searching for the truth about her cousin’s death, Ella came too close to a dangerous secret. And now only Sam can protect her from the men determined to silence her.

Aside from her faith and her family, there’s not much SHIRLEE McCOYenjoys 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.

Also By Shirlee McCoy

Love Inspired Suspense

FBI: Special Crimes Unit

Night Stalker

Gone

Mission: Rescue

Protective Instincts

Her Christmas Guardian

Exit Strategy

Deadly Christmas Secrets

Mystery Child

The Christmas Target

Mistaken Identity

Christmas on the Run

Classified K-9 Unit

Bodyguard

Rookie K-9 Unit

Secrets and Lies

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Gone

Shirlee McCoy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08460-4

GONE

© 2018 Shirlee McCoy

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2020-03-02

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Sam glanced in the rearview mirror again and saw distant headlights. He accelerated, anxious to get off the two-lane road and onto the highway.

“What’s wrong?” Ella asked, looking out the back window again. “Is that them?”

“Probably.”

The distance between the two vehicles was closing. He floored the old Chevy, racing toward the entrance ramp to the state highway.

Headlights streamed into the Chevy, their pursuers edging closer. Someone leaned out the window and fired a shot. He felt the quick tug of a blown tire, fought to keep the truck under control as he flew onto the ramp.

A hundred yards ahead, an emergency turnaround split the wide median between the north and southbound lanes of the highway. He didn’t brake, just spun onto the road, bounced across the median and sped in the opposite direction.

The other driver missed the turn, his brake lights flashing as he tried to stop. It would take a few minutes for him to recover and backtrack.

Sam had to find a safe place to pull off, and then he needed to make a call to his boss. She could put a team together and be in the area in a few hours.

All he had to do was make sure he and Ella survived until then.

These things I have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.

—John 16:33

Dear Reader,

I hope you’re enjoying the FBI: Special Crimes Unit series as much as I am! Writing these stories has given me an opportunity to explore some of the darker aspects of life. It has also given me an opportunity to explore the most beautiful. Every day, I read news reports about the terrible things that go on in the world. These things challenge me to be kinder, to worker harder and to extend more grace. The world needs more of what God has offered—peace and restoration. Through His abundant grace and mercy, we learn to offer the same to those around us. In Gone, Ella and Sam have both been through challenges in life. Their faith is what pulls them through, guiding them to have hearts of forgiveness and love. I hope and pray the same for you, my friends. May the journey you’re on always lead you to peace, forgiveness and grace.

I love hearing from readers. You can reach me at shirlee@shirleemccoy.com or visit me on Facebook or Instagram.

Blessings on your journey,

Shirlee McCoy

To Jude, Caleb, Seth, Emma and Qian. You are my heart, and I am exceedingly proud of the people you have become.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Bible Verse

Dear Reader

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

ONE

She woke to darkness so thick she thought she’d been buried alive. She shuddered, listening to the silence, trying to remember where she was, what had happened, who she was. Her mind was as dark as the place she lay.

She shifted, trying to ease a throbbing ache in her shoulders. Movement was difficult; her wrists were bound behind her back, her ankles bound, too. She should be terrified. She realized that, but all she felt was a strange numbness and the need to close her eyes and sink back into oblivion. Frigid air seeped through her clothes and settled deep into her bones, making her teeth chatter and her body shake. She’d freeze if she didn’t move. Even that didn’t scare her like it should.

If Ruby were here, she’d tell you to snap out of it.

The thought flitted through her head, and a million memories flooded in. The late-night phone call from the Damariscotta police telling her that Ruby had died. The frantic trip to Maine to identify her cousin’s body. The hours spent praying desperately that the police were wrong. The realization that they weren’t.

The grief that was still lodged beneath her sternum, throbbing in her heart.

She’d buried Ruby in North Carolina, and then she’d driven back to Newcastle to clean out Ruby’s apartment. Two trips to Maine in two weeks, seeing the place her cousin had loved too late to share the experience with her.

It’s inexpensive. Beautiful. Everything I’ve ever wanted. When are you coming to see it, Ella ?

How many times had Ruby begged her to make the trip? Too many to count. Ella had always had an excuse. She’d always had a deadline to meet or research to do or some random obligation that kept her close to home.

Ruby, on the other hand, had never missed an opportunity to visit Ella. Christmas, birthdays, random trips just because.

She’d loved wholeheartedly and without reservation, and she’d never wanted Ella to feel alone. They’d been as close as sisters, the only living relative either had. Best friends, confidants and coconspirators in life.

And now Ruby was gone.

And Ella...

She was here. Wherever here was. Trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Alone in a way she’d never been before. There’d be no one looking for her back at home. Her next article wasn’t due for several weeks. Her neighbors barely knew her. Maybe, eventually, they’d notice her mailbox overflowing and contact the police for a well-check. If not, someone at church might wonder why she’d missed so many Sundays. By that time, Ella would be well and truly gone. A late-night docudrama—The Disappearance of Ella McIntire—watched by people all over the country.

She pushed the thought away, forcing herself to move. Her knuckles scrapped cold metal as she shifted to a sitting position. She trailed nearly numb fingers over the cold smooth floor. Not cement or carpet. Metal? Her brain was working sluggishly, but it was working again, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, taking in shadowy details of her prison. Silver-gray walls. No windows. No door. Just a dark alcove across from her that could have led to a hallway or an exit.

She needed to get up and get out, because someone had brought her here. Whoever it was could return. Probably would return. She’d been asking too many questions. She’d been talking to too many people. She’d been trying to find the truth, because she hadn’t believed the coroner’s report—that Ruby had died of an accidental drug overdose.

Ruby didn’t take illegal drugs. She hated to take prescribed ones. She preferred holistic approaches to illness—meditation, healthy living, exercise. She rarely took an aspirin for pain and, as far as Ella knew, hadn’t been sick with more than a cold in years. Her mother had died of a drug overdose when she was fourteen, and Ruby had vowed never to follow in her footsteps.

Ella had told the police that. She’d told the coroner that. They hadn’t listened because Ruby had been found in her car, drug paraphernalia on her lap. Toxicology test had proven what had been obvious to the officers who’d found her—she’d died of an opioid overdose. That was a fact Ella didn’t dispute. What she questioned, what she absolutely could not believe, was that Ruby had administered the drugs to herself.

So, while she’d worked on cleaning out Ruby’s apartment, she’d talked to people who’d known her cousin. A social worker, hired by the county to work with recovering addicts, Ruby had met a lot of people. Ella had wanted to speak with all of them. In the few days she’d been in town, she’d done everything she could do achieve that goal. She’d talked to coworkers, to neighbors, to members of Ruby’s church.

One of those people must not have liked the questions she was asking. Or, maybe, word had gotten out that she was making visits to the police, insisting that her cousin’s death wasn’t an accident. Newcastle was a small town. People knew each other. They talked.

Whatever the case, Ella had been at the medical clinic, waiting for a key to Ruby’s office. She’d needed to remove her cousin’s personal belongings, and she’d wanted to look for anything that might help her make sense of the tragedy. She’d heard footsteps behind her, turned and...

That was it. All she remembered. Her mind was blank. Just a black void that she was frantic to fill with knowledge, because she had no idea what had happened, how she had gotten here or who had brought her.

She only knew that she had to escape.

Something scuffled in the darkness. Fabric against metal or feet shuffling against the floor. She tensed, terror finally slipping through the numbness. Someone was there, she could feel the presence like an icy finger running up her spine. Whoever it was moved almost silently. Just those soft scuffling sounds mixing with the frantic pounding of her heart.

She managed to get to her feet, her ankles so tightly bound she could barely shuffle backward. Even if she could have run, there was nowhere to go. Just the dark alcove and the deeper, darker shadow moving through it. Her heart thumped painfully, her attention riveted to the person walking toward her. Tall. Broad. A man, she thought. But it was too dark to make out details of his face or features.

She yanked at her bonds, trying to shuffle farther away as if, somehow, she could disappear into the darkness.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the man said so suddenly, so unexpectedly, she jumped.

“Said every serial killer who ever tried to convince a victim she was going to be okay,” she responded, her mouth cottony with fear.

“If I were a serial killer, I don’t think I’d be worried about comforting you. Not when you’re already bound and helpless.”

“I’m not helpless.” She glanced around, looking for a weapon, because she was helpless. Tied up. Alone. Probably far away from civilization.

“You are, but you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to hurt you.”

He was close now.

So close she could see his chiseled features—hard jaw, prominent cheekbones, light hair. Eyes that were looking straight into hers.

“What do you want?” she asked, still twisting her wrists, trying to loosen what felt like duct tape. If she could free her hands, she could fight. If she could fight, she had a chance of escaping.

“To get you out of here,” he said.

“And take me where?” she asked. Not because she believed him. Because she needed to buy time. The tape was loosening, the edges cutting into her skin but slowly giving.

“Somewhere safe,” he responded, grabbing her shoulder so quickly she didn’t realize he was moving until he had her.

She yanked away, tumbling back and crashing into a wall.

“Calm down,” he said, his voice low and soothing. As if that would make her more likely to cooperate. “I told you, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that because...?”

“Lady, if I wanted to harm you, it would already be done.” He grabbed her shoulder again, and this time he held tight when she tried to pull away. “Turn around. I’ll cut you free.”

She didn’t plan to cooperate, but he pulled something from his pocket. She heard a quiet click, saw a blade jump out and tensed.

“I’d rather not be stabbed in the back,” she managed to say.

He sighed, swinging her around so effortlessly she barely had time to realize what he was doing before she was free. Her hands hung limp at her sides, pieces of tape still dangling from the skin, blood flowing back into her fingers.

He crouched, cut the tape at her ankles.

She tried to dart away, but her feet were numb, her movements clumsy. He snagged her hand and tugged her back. Not hard. Not with enough force to make her stumble. Just enough to pull her to a stop.

“Do you know where you are?” he asked.

“In a room with a guy I don’t know who happens to have a knife. Let me go,” she responded.

“You’re twenty miles from town. In an old shipping container that someone converted to a building. It’s sitting in a graveyard of other containers in the middle of a forest that would be very easy to get lost in.”

“I’ll take my chances. Let me go,” she repeated.

“I have a vehicle. It’s parked a couple of miles from here. We’ll walk there, drive back to town and contact the authorities,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken.

“You either didn’t hear me, or you misunderstood what I said. I’m willing to take my chances on going it alone.” She tried to pull away, but he didn’t release her.

“I think you’re the one who misunderstood. We’re going together, because the men who brought you here aren’t playing around. I’m not sure if they plan to kill you or sell you to the highest bidder, but I don’t think either sounds like how you want to spend the rest of the night.”

“Who are you?” she asked, running his words through her mind, trying to make sense of them. Kill or sell her? He was right. Neither of those things would be a good ending to her night.

“Special Agent Sam Sheridan,” he replied. “I’m with the FBI.”

“And you just happened to be hanging out in the middle of the woods right at the time when I needed help?”

“Not quite.” He started walking, dragging her along beside him. She went mostly because she couldn’t free herself from his grip. She still wasn’t convinced his motives were altruistic, and she certainly didn’t believe he was with the FBI.

“Then how about you explain how you got here at just the right time to help me? Because I’d really like to know.”

“I’ll explain. After we get out of here.” He stepped into the alcove, pulling her with him.

It was darker there, but she could see a door on the far wall. Closed. He pulled it open. Cold air wafted in, and she could see moonlit trees and blue-black sky. Freedom. Just a few steps away.

She didn’t give herself time to think. She shoved into him, using her weight to try to throw him off balance. He was a head taller and probably a hundred pounds heavier, and he barely moved. His grip on her hand loosened, though. Just enough for her to yank free. She bolted, rushing out the door, ignoring his shouted command to stop. One step into the cold evening, and then she was falling. Off a raised platform, tumbling toward the ground.

* * *

Sam snagged the back of the woman’s flannel shirt, dragging her back onto the platform before she hit the ground. He didn’t have time to be annoyed with himself for giving her an opportunity to escape. He certainly couldn’t fault her for trying. In her shoes, he’d have done the same.

Only, he’d have probably succeeded.

She hadn’t stood a chance.

Maybe five foot two if she stretched. A hundred pounds. Probably still trying to get feeling back in her hands and feet. She’d been bound tightly. Something he hadn’t noticed when he’d seen her being wheeled off an elevator and into a parking garage at Damariscotta Medical Centre. What he’d noticed was her paleness, her closed eyes, how completely her body was covered by a blanket. He’d also recognized the man who was pushing the wheelchair. Mack Dawson was a low-level member of The Organization. Something Sam knew because he was a member, too. Deep undercover. Cut off from the FBI Special Crimes Unit he worked for, he’d spent the past month posing as tech expert willing to do just about anything for the right price.

He had a lot to lose if The Organization discovered him with the woman they’d kidnapped.

Namely, his life.

He was working alone. No well-trained team ready to back him up. The Organization, on the other hand, was multitiered and multi-membered with plenty of operatives living in and around Newcastle, Maine. Most of them were willing to commit murder if enough money was offered. He’d known that when he’d watched Mack shove the woman into the passenger seat of a small car. He’d known it when he’d made the decision to follow the car. Just to make sure the woman was okay.

He might be posing as one of the bad guys, but he couldn’t shake the need to protect and serve. It had led him to work as a Houston undercover police officer and then to the FBI Special Crimes Unit. It had led him to Newcastle, Maine, and his assignment—finding proof that The Organization was kidnapping teenagers and shipping them to foreign locations where they were sold to the highest bidders.

Now, it had led him here.

To the middle of nowhere, trying to help a young woman who might be The Organization’s next intended human trafficking victim.

Only, up close, with the moonlight falling on her face, she didn’t look young or desperate enough. The Organization preyed on teenage foster kids. Troubled. Troublemakers. Family-less. The kind of young people who—when they went missing from their foster or group homes—were considered runaways. Currently, the total was fifteen kids in two years. All of them gone without a trace.

The woman he’d just freed from the shipping container didn’t look like a kid. She looked to be in her mid-to late-twenties. Clean clothes. Professionally cut hair.

“What’s your name?” he asked, and she frowned.

“Why do you want to know?” she replied, her voice thick and a little raspy.

“Because, I’d rather not spend the rest of the night calling you lady.”

“Ella McIntire,” she murmured, her gaze darting from him to the ground four feet below. “Thanks for not letting me fall on my face.”

“Getting out of here would be a lot more difficult with you injured. Come on. The stairs are over here.” He turned to the left, walking down five rickety steps and onto pebble-strewn dirt. Several shipping containers stood in the weed-choked clearing, their rusting carcasses blocking his view of the woods beyond. He didn’t like that. He wanted a clear visual of the surrounding area.

He also didn’t like the fact that the shipping container Ella had been left in had been set on cinder blocks and fitted with a door that had three locks and a dead bolt on the outside. He’d picked the locks easily, and he’d slid the bolt free, but he doubted someone inside could have escaped. Not through the door, at least.

And that made him wonder if Ella was the first person to be locked in.

Which made him think that she probably wasn’t.

And that made him want to call his supervisor, Wren Santino, and ask her to bring an evidence team out. First, though, he had to get out of the woods and back to a place with cell phone reception.

He eyed Ella, wondering if she was capable of walking to his vehicle. He’d parked a couple miles away, pulling his car off the road and leaving it hidden behind thick foliage.

The distance itself probably wouldn’t be a problem, but they’d need to stay off the road, traveling through the trees parallel to it. That’s what he’d done on the way in—pushing through thickets and crossing a small stream. Not an easy hike for a someone who already looked exhausted.

“I guess you have a plan for getting out of here. What is it?” she said quietly, eyeing the clearing. No expression on her face. No emotion in her eyes. Just pale skin and a few freckles, dark hair escaping a ponytail. Flannel shirt unbuttoned, a dark T-shirt beneath. Jeans. Boots. A splotch of what looked like blood on the side of her neck.