High-Risk Affair

“Don’t you have anything better to do than follow me around?” Megan snapped. “I don’t need a watchdog.”

Caleb raised an eyebrow. “How about a friend?”

“You’re not my friend. We both know that. Look, Agent Davis, I know the drill. I’ve watched enough television to know that you have to consider me a suspect. I have no problem with that. Take my DNA, my fingerprints, whatever. But please hurry, so you can quickly rule me out and focus on finding my son…”

Her chin wobbled a little and she seemed to be fighting for control. It was too much for him, more than he could handle after the dramatic emotions of the day. With a sigh he reached for her and pulled her into his arms. She was perfect there. Soft and womanly, all the things he had been telling himself he could manage without. Her arms slid around his waist, and she rested her head against his chest. Something hard and cold inside him seemed to crack apart, leaving only sweet, healing peace.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

RaeAnne Thayne lives in a graceful old Victorian house nestled in the rugged mountains of northern Utah, along with her husband and two young children. Her books have won numerous honours, including several readers’ choice awards and a RITA® Award nomination by the Romance Writers of America. RaeAnne loves to hear from readers. She can be reached through her website at www.raeannethayne.com or at PO Box 6682, North Logan, UT 84341, USA.

RAEANNE THAYNE

Prologue

Being a special operative was hard, dangerous work but he wasn’t afraid to sacrifice for his country.

On his belly in the dirt, pitch-black darkness pressing in on all sides, Cameron Vance adjusted his night vision goggles and tried his best to get his bearings.

The goggles didn’t really work well here in the deep mining tunnels and he could barely see where he was going, but he knew he’d been in this part before. He recognized the rusted old mine cart and the fork in the tunnel. He pulled out the small penlight and found the small white arrow he’d drawn with chalk on an earlier trip to point the way out.

By the muted sounds he could hear ahead, he knew he was close to his mission objective—infiltrating a hideout full of Tangos and then taking them down.

They weren’t supposed to be there. For the last week, he had seen lights flickering up here on the mountain where there shouldn’t be any. Finally a few nights earlier, he decided he would have to investigate. It wouldn’t be easy. He would have to plan an elaborate deception, a daring escape, but he knew he had no choice.

It was his duty and obligation as a loyal soldier to look out for his country’s interests.

He had a cover to protect, though, and knew he couldn’t just come and go as he pleased. Finally, when he was sure everyone was asleep, he managed to slip out the window and climb carefully down. He had done it before, but those other times had just been practice. This was for real.

No one had detected his escape. He’d made sure of that. No one could have seen him leave the house or witnessed his careful hike up the mountain, his way lit only by the moonlight and his memory.

He moved to the fork in the tunnel, fueled by the adrenaline pumping through him and the deep certainty that what he did here would make the world a better place.

Others might find the heavy darkness inside the mine shaft a little scary. He knew plenty of guys who probably wouldn’t have the nerve to come in here. But he was a Navy SEAL, a trained fighting machine, and he wasn’t afraid of anything.

As he headed down the shaft, the light grew brighter and his goggles worked much better, casting a greenish glow on everything. He knew right where the Tangos were hiding—the large chamber he had found in an earlier exploration. It would be a perfect staging spot for whatever evil the terrorists might be planning.

It smelled strange here, something harsh and burning. He hadn’t remembered that before. Were they planning some kind of chemical attack? he wondered.

With renewed determination, he moved slowly toward the light, his heart pounding and blood pulsing through him.

He crawled the last fifteen yards on his belly, ignoring the dank stench and the rocks that scraped his skin.

The shaft sloped down into the large chamber, perhaps twenty feet across. He didn’t have the best vantage point from up here, but Cameron didn’t dare inch closer for fear they might see him.

He could hear them clearly enough, anyway.

“I don’t see the problem here,” one said, his voice sharp and angry. “I kept my part of the deal. I’ve been cooking my ass off for two weeks, working in this tomb here. I’m doing all the work and I deserve a hell of a lot more than some lousy quarter cut.”

Cameron frowned. Cooking what?

“You’re getting your fair share. Who’s taking all the risks? I’m the one out there setting up all the deals, working all the angles. I got the ammonia, I made the Mexican connections. Without me, you’d still be in your Beavis and Butt-Head lab cooking your little nickel bags.”

“And without me all you’d have would be a bunch of worthless chemicals.”

“You really think you’re so indispensable?”

The older-sounding man’s voice was low and sent a chill down Cameron’s spine as he crouched in the dirt. That voice seemed familiar, he thought. Where had he heard it before?

“I found this place for you, didn’t I? Nobody’s ever going to find this lab here. It’s perfect. And you have nothing to complain about with the quality of my product. Pure ice, man.”

The other man’s laugh sounded rough. “Hate to break it to you, Wally, but good cooks are thick on the ground. Anybody who can follow a recipe can do it. Hell, my aunt Mabel could do it. And she might not have the very unfortunate habit of sampling the merchandise.”

“Yeah? Well, why don’t you just go drag your aunt Mabel in here to finish this batch? I’m out of here. And maybe I’ll just drop a bug in the Mexicans’ ears about your double-dealing? I doubt they’ll be crazy to know you’ve promised the same shipment to two different parties.”

A long silence filled the mine and Cameron thought about inching forward for a better look at what was going on, but he decided he would be wise to stay put for now.

“Surprised you, didn’t I?” the one named Wally said after a minute. “You didn’t think I knew about your little side deal.”

Cameron listened to their argument with mounting confusion. They didn’t sound like terrorists. What were they talking about? Whatever it was, he thought it would probably be best if he sneaked back out and contacted local authorities. He started to inch down the way he had come, but he’d only gone a few feet when he dislodged a rock. It went rolling down the slope and thudded off the bottom. He could swear his heartbeat sounded like thunder.

“What was that?” A flashlight beamed in his direction, but Cameron slid farther down the incline to avoid the light.

“Probably a rat,” Wally said. “The place is lousy with them.”

“I’m beginning to figure that out,” the other one said in a strange, hard-sounding voice.

Cameron started to slip farther down the slope, intending to make his way back carefully when he heard a strangled cry from the chamber.

“What the hell is this?”

“You’re the smart one. You tell me.”

“What, you going to shoot me now?” Wally’s voice was filled with a panic Cameron suddenly shared. “Come on, man. Put it away. Twenty-five percent of the cut is fine. I was just dicking around with you.”

“That’s your mistake,” the other man said. “I never had much of a sense of humor.”

Suddenly Cam heard a loud bang and then a scream that was cut off abruptly by another bang.

He gasped and instinctively scrambled down the slope, forgetting all about stealth and making far more noise than a good Navy SEAL should.

“Who’s there? Anybody there?”

So much for concealing his presence. He groaned to himself, his stomach in knots. He’d blown it, big-time. He could hear the killer making his way up the incline toward him. He had to hide. He couldn’t make it to the entrance without exposing his location.

Another shaft led off to the left, but he’d never gone that way and didn’t know what he might encounter. He had no choice, though. The man had already killed once. Somehow Cam knew he wouldn’t think twice about doing it again.

He made his way cautiously down the tunnel, careful to make as little noise as possible until he was far enough away that he thought it would be safe to run. He moved as fast as he could, until the night vision goggles were useless and the batteries had faded.

He slid down the side of the tunnel wall into the dirt, his breathing ragged and his heart still racing. He couldn’t think like a Navy SEAL now, on a secret mission to save the world from the bad guys.

For now, he forgot all about his dad, about terrorists, about pretending to be something brave and heroic.

As he stared through the blackness, he could only be what he was—a scared nine-year-old boy who suddenly wanted his mom.

Chapter 1

2:00 a.m.

Megan Vance arose with a jerk, not sure whether the echo of screams in her ears had been real or imaginary.

Fear knotted her insides, every muscle was contracted, and her breathing came harsh and fast. For one wild, panicky moment she was consumed by a single overwhelming need—to check on her children.

She listened intently but heard nothing except the summer rain clicking against the glass of her bedroom window.

After a moment, she sagged back to the pillow, embarrassed at herself. It was only a nightmare, nothing to send her into a panic. She forced herself to relax her muscles one by one and deliberately moderated her ragged breathing until it was slow and even.

She hadn’t had one of those in a while. Though already the details had mercifully faded and she couldn’t remember what had left her so terrified, she knew by the sick feeling still lingering in her stomach it must have been a bad one.

She sat up, scrubbing at her face while the last tendrils of the nightmare uncoiled from around her chest. After Rick had died, she used to have them nearly every night—gruesome, twisted journeys through her subconscious, full of monsters and demons.

She could remember a few of the more vivid dreams and they usually involved the horrible deaths of everyone she knew and loved.

Little wonder, she supposed. She had already lost so much. The roll call of people she had loved and lost seemed to grow longer all the time. Her mother—cancer when Megan was twelve. Her father—a cop killed in the line of duty a year later. Her baby brother Kevin—a New York City firefighter killed on 9/11 in Tower One.

And Rick.

Last month had marked two years since her husband’s death. She wondered when she would stop expecting his phone call in the middle of the night, telling her his SEAL team had been called up to some trouble spot or another.

I’ll be back soon, babe. Love you.

Oh, how she had dreaded those phone calls.

She had lost much but not everything. She still had Cam and Hailey, the joys of her life.

She rolled over onto her back and thought about them. Her children. Hailey, funny and sweet and girlie but with a tough streak that always took Megan by surprise. And Cameron, smart and stubborn and courageous even when he had to endure things no child should have to face.

They had saved her these last two years. The normal routine of mothering them—the car pools and soccer games and doctor’s appointments—had taken the wild edge off her grief and given her something else besides herself to focus on.

She sighed, praying again that moving them away from San Diego to the wilds of Utah had been the right decision for all of them. Her children needed family. She needed family and a support system, and her sister Molly was all she had left.

Moving closer to her and her noisy brood and strong, kind husband had seemed like a stroke of genius, in theory. Her job as a CPA was mobile, and she could find work anywhere helping small businesses with their payroll and accounting.

Rick used to tease her about her obsession with numbers. To a man who jumped out of airplanes and climbed every mountain he could find, she supposed it was an obsession. But Megan enjoyed what she did and was good at it.

In only the few short months they had been in Moose Springs, she had already built up a nice client list. Everything seemed to be working out just as she hoped.

Still, Megan couldn’t help worrying. Oh, Hailey seemed to be adapting all right, but Cameron had been angry about leaving behind all his friends, his soccer team, the climbing wall Rick had built for the children inside their San Diego home.

Most of all, he hadn’t wanted to leave his dad’s SEAL team members, who had taken the boy under their considerable wing after they had lost one of their own.

He would adjust, she told herself again. Lately he seemed to enjoy exploring the foothills around their house and once school started in a few weeks he would make new friends, find a new soccer team, develop new interests.

The wind rattled raindrops against the glass again and Megan sat up, reaching for her robe. She would just peek in on them. That didn’t make her a neurotic mother, just a loving one.

She automatically went to Cameron’s room first. His seizures tended to hit when he was awake but he’d had a few in his sleep.

In the glow of the night-light shaped like a soccer ball, she could see his form under the covers, the blankets over his head as he preferred.

She stood for a moment looking around the room. She always found it a little painful to see this shrine to his father’s memory. Navy recruiting posters covered all the walls and Cam had hung one of Rick’s SEAL T-shirts in a place of honor, along with his father’s picture and the many medals he’d been awarded, both before the Afghanistan helicopter crash that killed him and posthumously.

Her sister thought Megan shouldn’t encourage his obsession with all things military. With his epilepsy, he could never be able to serve in any branch of the service, let alone a physically demanding special forces unit like the SEALs.

But Megan hadn’t the heart to take this away from him, not when it was the only way he knew to connect with the father he had idolized.

With one more look at the bed, she closed the door and walked across the hall to check on Hailey.

Unlike her brother, who liked to sleep like a potato bug all curled up under his covers, six-year-old Hailey sprawled across her bed, her quilt thrown off and her pink ruffly nightgown riding up to her knees.

Her bedroom was like her—pink and girlie, with a cupboard full of Barbies and her American Girl doll on the nightstand, standing guard over the only discordant element in the room, Hailey’s pet rat Daisy.

The rat blinked at her, turned around once in her cage, and went back to sleep. Megan shuddered. She hated the darn thing and had lobbied hard to leave her behind with a classmate back in San Diego, but Hailey wouldn’t be swayed.

She tucked the blanket back up over her daughter, knowing it would be down again in a few moments, then left Hailey’s door ajar.

In the hallway, she contemplated going back to bed but she wasn’t at all sleepy. With her mind racing now, she knew trying to sleep would be futile for some time.

She would go down and make some tea, she decided, and perhaps grab her knitting bag and knit a few rows on her latest project to calm herself and relax enough to go back to sleep.

She walked down the stairs and out of habit checked the dead bolt and the security system.

She started for the kitchen then paused, something niggling at her. The nightmare she couldn’t even remember now had left her unsettled, uneasy. She frowned and turned around, some motherly instinct guiding her back up the stairs to Cameron’s room.

She had learned not to question that intuition. More than once she had been guided to drop whatever she was doing to search for him, only to find him in the grips of a seizure.

His epilepsy had been under control with medication for some time and he had been sleeping soundly five minutes ago, but she knew that could change in an instant.

She studied the shape on the bed under that Army green blanket. Something was off. Though she hated to wake him, she reached for the blanket and tugged it down, then felt her whole world turn ice-cold.

Instead of Cameron’s tousled blond hair and freckled nose, she found a rolled-up sweatshirt. She yanked the blanket off and gasped at the pillows stuffed there to approximate a nine-year-old boy’s shape.

Her son was gone!

4:45 a.m.

“You sure you’re up to this again so soon? I can find somebody else.”

FBI Special Agent Cale Davis turned off his electric razor and flipped up the lighted visor mirror of the agency SUV. “I’m good,” he answered. “I’m glad you called me.”

His partner frowned at Cale’s assured tone as he drove through the predawn darkness through a sparsely populated region of Utah.

“I should have tried a little harder and found someone else.” Gage McKinnon gave a heavy sigh. “Allie’s going to skin me alive when she finds out I called you. You only had two weeks off and you need at least double that after what happened.”

“Leave it, McKinnon. I’m fine. Two weeks was more than enough.”

Gage looked as if he wanted to argue, but he didn’t, much to Cale’s relief. He would prefer talking about anything else but his last case and its horrible ending.

“What else can you tell me about this missing kid?” he said to turn the subject.

The SUV’s headlights illuminated a carved and painted wooden sign for Moose Springs, population three hundred and eleven. Probably some overachieving Boy Scout’s Eagle project, he thought.

The town was about an hour east of Salt Lake City, bordering the Uinta National Forest. He’d been here only once before in an official capacity, in a case involving a good friend, Mason Keller. Unofficially, he had been here many times. Mason and his wife Jane lived on a small ranch nearby and the town had always struck him as clean and friendly. Mayberry R.F.D. in a cowboy hat.

He didn’t want to think something dark and sinister might lurk here. Yet when the FBI called out its Crimes Against Children unit, chances were good all was not as picture-perfect as he wanted to believe here in this quiet community.

“Cameron Vance, nine years old,” Gage answered him after a moment. “Father, Rick Vance, killed in action in Afghanistan. Mother Megan, thirty-two, works out of the home as an accountant. Mom puts the boy to bed at usual time. Goes in to check on him around two and finds him gone, a blanket rolled up to make the casual observer think he’s sleeping away. There was no sign of forced entry and the alarm system was engaged and undisturbed, but there was also no obvious escape route either from the second-story window. No dangling bedsheets, no convenient awning. It’s fifteen feet to the ground, heck of a leap for a nine-year-old kid.”

Not if the kid was a limber little monkey like Charlie Betran, Mason and Jane’s adopted son, Cale thought.

“What compelled the mother to check on him? Does he make a habit of wandering?”

“According to initial reports from local authorities, Megan Vance said she had a nightmare around that time and checked both children out of habit.”

“Any idea what time he disappeared?”

“We’ve got a four-hour window between ten when Mrs. Vance checked on him before going to bed and two when she awoke again.”

“She didn’t hear any suspicious noises?”

“Nothing, just the wind.” McKinnon studied the GPS coordinates on the dashboard unit, then turned at the next street and headed out of town again before going on with his narrative. “After she finds him missing, the mother spends a little time looking around the house and yard, then calls local authorities around oh-three-hundred, who immediately issue an Amber Alert and call us.”

“What makes anybody think a crime has been committed here? Sounds like the kid just sneaked out. It seems a little early in the game for Amber Alerts and calling in the FBI.”

“You’d think,” Gage said, “but this has the potential to be a high-profile case and I think the local authorities want to make sure all their bases are covered from the beginning. They’re running it as a crime scene until they have evidence that it’s not.”

Another high-profile case. Great. Cale closed his eyes. The image of two pretty little girls with dark curls instantly burned behind his eyelids and he jerked them open again.

He wasn’t sure he had the stomach for this again.

“I’m not seeing it from the information you’ve given me. What makes this case stand out?”

“Besides the fact that his father was a national hero who died serving his country, the kid has epilepsy. There’s an urgency here because the mother’s terrified he’s had a seizure somewhere.”

If anyone could find the boy, Gage was the man. His partner was known as The Bloodhound and he specialized in missing children cases. He had an uncanny knack for finding lost kids.

Cale had often wondered if his partner’s own history gave him some kind of sixth sense, some inner eye that guided his actions.

On the other hand, he had his own grim history and his past usually seemed more of a hindrance than a help.

“What do you see as our role here?”

“Purely advisory at this point, providing assistance to the local investigators as needed.”

Judging by the bright flash of emergency vehicles against the night sky, they were approaching the boy’s house. Gage climbed a slight grade and the whole chaotic scene stretched ahead of them.

In the strobing glow from a dozen cop cars and search and rescue vehicles, Cale saw the house was a two-story log structure with a steeply pitched gable on one end and a wide porch along the front.

A basketball standard hung from the detached garage, and two bikes were propped against the porch.

Most of the vehicles were parked some distance from the house. He saw this as a good sign that local authorities had been careful to protect the scene as much as possible.

Gage pulled in next to a van with the logo of one of the local TV stations emblazoned on the side. Then the two of them headed for the house.

They showed their badges to the uniform cop at the door. Once inside, Cale’s gaze was instinctively drawn to a woman on the couch. Though she was surrounded by a bevy of uniformed personnel, somehow she seemed alone in the room.

The mother. It had to be. She was small and red-haired, with a wispy haircut and delicate features that just now looked ravaged.

He could fill a chapel with the faces of all the grieving mothers he’d had to face in his career, but somehow each one managed to score his heart anyway.

He forced himself to turn away from her raw devastation, focusing instead on a dark-haired, muscular man who stood in the center of the action, towering above everyone else.

The Moose Springs sheriff was no stranger to him, and it looked as if Daniel Galvez had the situation well in hand.

Galvez made eye contact with him briefly, then broke off his conversation with the officer and headed in their direction, his big hand outstretched.

“Davis! Sorry I had to drag you boys from the FBI down here already, but we don’t want to miss anything on this one.”