A Soldier's Oath

“Can you guarantee the safe return of my son?”

Yes, Spencer had spent a decade in covert operations and a good deal of that time in the Middle East. Not a problem. But this wasn’t as cut-and-dried as a military operation. This was a small boy, whose life and future hung in the balance.

Willow Harris stared at him expectantly. He understood what she was looking for.

“I can tell you that I have a perfect record, no failures whatsoever.”

Willow’s expression brightened as she let out an audible sigh. “Good. When do we leave?”

“We?”

Her gaze locked with his. He didn’t miss the determination there or the underlying fear.

“If I have to make a choice between saving you or saving the child, I will save the child.” He allowed the ramifications of those words to sink in a second or two before he continued. “Are you prepared for that?”

Three, four, then five beats passed.

“Yes.”

So much for the scare tactics. “In that case,” he relented, “we’ll begin preparations tomorrow.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Debra Webb was born in Scotsboro, Alabama, to parents who taught her that anything is possible if you want it badly enough. She began writing at the age of nine. Eventually she met and married the man of her dreams, and then tried various occupations, including selling vacuum cleaners, working in a factory, a daycare centre, a hospital and a department store. When her husband joined the military, they moved to Berlin, Germany, and Debra became a secretary in the commanding general’s office. By 1985 they were back in the States, and finally moved to Tennessee, to a small town where everyone knows everyone else. With the support of her husband and two beautiful daughters, Debra took up writing again, looking to mystery and movies for inspiration. In 1998, her dream of writing for Mills & Boon came true. You can write to Debra at PO Box 64, Huntland, Tennessee 37345, USA or visit her website at www.debrawebb.com to find out exciting news about her next book.

DEBRA WEBB

MILLS & BOON

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This book is dedicated to all the fans of the Colby Agency. Thank you for your faithfulness to this series. Please enjoy the first in this new trilogy revolving around Jim Colby, Victoria’s son.

Chapter One

Friday, February 18 St. Louis, Missouri

Willow Harris shifted the car into Park and turned off the engine. She drew in a slow, deep breath and ordered herself to remain calm.

This particular part of the east side of St. Louis wasn’t exactly the kind of place a woman wanted to find herself in at dusk, but she had no choice.

He’d called.

She’d had to come, no matter the time of day or night. The man she’d driven here to see didn’t keep the usual business hours.

Before getting out of the car she said one last prayer. Please, God, let the news be good. She wasn’t sure she could take any more bad news.

Eight months.

She’d been fighting to get her son back for eight long months. An eternity. Hurt welled up inside her at the idea that she’d missed his second birthday. Just last week. She’d missed so much already. All those evolving toddler moments. Precious changes that no mother should miss.

Nothing would bring those moments back.

Closing her eyes, she forced the painful thoughts away. She had to be strong. She would never be able to bring her baby home again if she couldn’t hold herself together better than this.

“Whatever it takes,” she murmured as she opened her eyes and firmed her resolve. No weakness, no fear. “I will do whatever it takes.”

Willow emerged from her car and headed for the office of Davenport Investigations. She’d been here several times before. But this time was different. This time she would be given an update on the man who’d actually managed to get close enough to send back pictures of her son.

No one had gotten that close before.

Anticipation fluttered in her chest.

She couldn’t wait to see the pictures of her baby.

Eight endless months had passed since she’d last seen him.

She hadn’t been able to hold him…to kiss his sweet little head. Maybe if she were really lucky, this man would be able to reunite her with her precious child.

After numerous failures he could be the one.

The bell over the door jingled as she entered the suite of offices that sat tucked between a dry cleaning service and a small chain drug store, both of which had long ago gone out of business. The small waiting room was empty and absolutely silent as usual. Not once during her four previous visits had she encountered another client. Mr. Davenport explained that he carefully arranged appointments to ensure complete privacy. As much as she understood that need, walking into his office alone this close to dark made her a little uneasy.

Whatever it takes, she reminded herself.

She passed two upholstered chairs flanking an end table, the magazine-cluttered top highlighted by the dim glow showering down from a ceramic lamp. No desk, no chair, no telephone and, evidently, no receptionist. Just a space-challenged room designed for waiting.

Since she’d timed her arrival to the minute—experience had taught her not to bother coming early—she strode up to the door that led into Davenport’s private office and knocked. He should be waiting for her to show up about now.

“Come in, Ms. Harris,” he called through the closed door.

Willow moistened her lips, took another deep breath and entered his office.

He sat behind his massive wooden desk, didn’t bother standing as he gestured for her to have a seat. She’d wondered at his lack of social etiquette at first, but the hope that he could help her had overridden any second thoughts. Desperation had a way of doing that.

His desk, credenza and file cabinets were clear of clutter as if he’d taken care to lock away every single scrap of paper that might reveal information regarding one of his clients. However lacking in decorum he might be, he was definitely discreet.

“You have good news?” she asked as she settled into the lone chair on her side of his desk. “And the pictures?” Hope bloomed in her chest at the mere idea of seeing her baby, even if only in covertly snapped photos.

He tossed an envelope in her direction. “I received these day before yesterday.”

Willow didn’t ask why he hadn’t let her know about the pictures before today. Nor did she inquire as to why he avoided giving her an answer as to whether or not he had good news. He most likely had his reasons for doling out information in the way he did, reasons she probably wouldn’t want to know. That was something else she’d learned about this man, he didn’t like prying questions unless he was the one doing the asking. Her fingers trembled as she opened the envelope and took out the digital prints. Her heart thumped hard and tears burned in her eyes.

Ata.

Her baby.

He looked so big…so different. Two years old. And she’d missed that special day. The need to hold him was suddenly so intense that she could scarcely breathe.

How could the man she’d thought she loved, the man she’d trusted and married, have done this to her? Somewhere in the back of her mind a voice taunted her, reminding her that she should have listened to her parents. They would tell her that this was the price she paid for getting in bed with the devil. Her stomach knotted violently and she pushed the painful thoughts away.

Yes, she’d made a mistake. But surely God would not consider taking her child from her reasonable punishment for an innocent error in judgment. She refused to believe as her parents did. If that made her evil, then so be it.

Clearing her mind of the ugly past that represented her dysfunctional childhood, she shuffled through picture after picture, her heart bursting with equal measures of joy and sadness. Ata playing on the balcony outside her former husband’s home. Her baby’s face pressed against the glass of a car window. Him toddling around her ex-husband’s mother in the market.

Davenport’s man had gotten very close.

Close enough to reach out and touch her baby.

She held the pictures against her chest and lifted her gaze to the waiting investigator. “How soon does he think he can make a move?”

This was the moment she had waited for—prayed for—night after night for so very long.

“We have a problem, Ms. Harris.”

Her heart dropped, landing somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach.

Raymond Davenport was not a man she could even hope to read or assess in any way. His expression remained as impassive, as utterly devoid of emotion as a lamp post. But something in his tone, the subtlest note of defeat or disappointment had dread crushing against her vital organs and seeping deep into her bones.

“I don’t understand.” There couldn’t be a problem. Not now. They were so close. “You said your man had gotten close to my son.” She held out the pictures. “The proof is right here. What could go wrong?”

“We’ve had no further contact since I received the photos.”

Fear, stark and brutal, roared through her, ruptured the thin membrane of hope. She instinctively knew that this was very bad news.

“On an extremely sensitive job like this one,” Davenport went on, “when you lose contact for more than twenty-four hours that usually means only one thing…trouble.”

She didn’t want to hear this. Dear God, she did not want to hear this. It couldn’t be true…please don’t let it be true.

Davenport leaned forward, propped his hands on his desk. The hard-earned experience and cool distance usually in his eyes were overshadowed by something softer, something very much like sympathy. “Ms. Harris, I understand how badly you want to get your boy back. Believe me. I have two sons of my own and grandkids. Every day you have to wait is pure hell, but…”

She wanted to speak up…to tell him not to say more. She didn’t want to hear what she knew was coming. But she couldn’t force the words from her lips.

“…yours is not the first case like this I’ve worked. The culture we’re dealing with in this situation is completely different. Winning by legal means is impossible, you’ve learned that the hard way. Stealing the child back is usually the only option for a parent faced with these circumstances.”

He paused, and in that moment Willow recognized with slowly building horror that, in this man’s opinion, all hope was lost…again.

Before she could protest his unspoken assessment, he continued, “That said, your position is different in yet another way. Your ex-husband and his family are…unique.”

In this instance unique was just another word for untouchable. The al-Shimmari family was connected, socially and politically. Immense wealth added to their power. The Kuwaiti authorities wouldn’t dare cross the family.

“Are you saying I should give up hope?” She wouldn’t. Never. Never. She would keep looking until she found someone who could help her. If not this man, then someone else. Nothing he could say would change her mind.

“I’m saying, Ms. Harris,” he offered quietly, far too quietly for such a brusque man, “that you’re looking for a miracle and you’re not going to find it. Your ex-husband will order the execution of anyone who gets close to the child. If my man is dead—and I suspect he is—then no one is going to be able to get close enough to get your son back.”

With a strength she couldn’t fathom the source of, Willow restrained the tears that threatened. “Thank you, Mr. Davenport.” She stood. “I assume the pictures are mine to keep.” How she said this without her voice wobbling she couldn’t imagine.

He nodded. “Of course.”

She squared her shoulders in an effort to hold onto her disintegrating composure a moment longer. “You’ll send me a final bill?”

“Let’s call it even, Ms. Harris.” He pushed out of his chair and stood, another first in her presence. “You take care of yourself now.”

Somehow she pivoted on her heel and walked out of his office. She didn’t recall crossing the sidewalk or even getting into her car. Awareness of time and place didn’t connect again until she was driving away, the pictures of her son spread across the passenger seat.

Choosing Davenport had obviously been a mistake. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. Of course it had been. If he’d lived up to his renowned reputation, she would not be leaving empty-handed. This was nothing more than a minor setback. She would find a new private investigator. A better one. Someone who could get the job done without any excuses. She would start her search for someone more qualified right now. This minute.

…you’re looking for a miracle and you’re not going to find it.

She blinked back the emotion brimming on her lashes. No. Dammit. He was wrong. She was not looking for a miracle. She didn’t need a miracle. All she needed was a man cunning enough and fearless enough to get the job done.

Chicago, Illinois Same Day

JAMES COLBY, Jr., Jim to the handful of people close to him, waited several minutes before he entered the bar.

It had been a long time since he’d gone into an establishment like this. Maybe not long enough, he mused as he took a long look around. Places like this represented his old life…a life that, thankfully, no longer existed.

The room was dimly lit, the cigarette smoke thick in the air despite the current regulations on smoking in public places. A scattering of tables stood between him and the bar that snaked its way around the length and width of two walls. Few of the stools were occupied and even fewer of the tables. Then again, at 6:15 p.m. it was still fairly early. The crowd, if there was to be one, likely crawled out of the woodwork later in the night.

But Jim wasn’t looking for a crowd. Actually, the fewer patrons the better for his purposes. He seriously doubted that the man he’d come to see would hang around once the place got busy. All the more reason to stop wasting time and to get this done.

Spencer Anders sat on the stool farthest from the entrance, his back to the wall. He’d watched Jim enter the bar. He watched now as he approached.

Some three yards from his position was an emergency exit. Jim supposed Anders could use that egress for a hasty retreat if he wasn’t in the mood for company. But he didn’t. He sat there and continued to observe the man closing in on his position.

Jim strode across the room and took a seat a couple of stools this side of the other man. No need to crowd him.

“Spencer Anders?”

Anders downed the last swallow of his bourbon. “That’s right.”

“My name is Jim Colby. I have a proposition for you.”

“Well, Jim Colby—” Anders placed his empty glass on the bar “—you’ve been misinformed as to my status.” He stood and tossed a couple of bills on the bar to cover his tab. “I’m not looking for any propositions.”

Jim kept his smile to himself. He didn’t want to tick the guy off, but neither did he want to let him get away. “I heard you were looking for steady employment.”

“Really? Who’re you?” Anders challenged, “an employment service representative?”

Chicago’s population amounted to about four million people. Finding one former army major who didn’t want to be found would have taken some time and initiative under normal circumstances. Since tracking Anders to this place, his regular hangout since arriving in Chicago three months prior, hadn’t been that difficult, Jim had to assume he wanted to be found despite his get-lost attitude. Anders had taken a room in a nearby motel that served more as a halfway house than anything one might find in a travel guide. He accepted temporary jobs that required only hard labor and no real sense of purpose. He never stayed on long enough to make friends. So far as Jim could see, he spent most of his time making enemies.

“A mutual friend mentioned you were in town seeking a new career direction.”

This got ex-Major Anders’s attention. For the past two years his MO appeared to include moving on once he’d worn out his welcome. Whether he actually tried to pull his life together after settling in each new location was unknown, but the end result was always the same.

“You must have me confused with someone else, Mr. Colby.” He allowed his gaze to zero in fully on Jim’s so that there was no misunderstanding as to the finality of his words. “I don’t have any friends.”

Spencer Anders would have walked away then and there with no further discussion, Jim decided, if he hadn’t played the ace up his sleeve.

“Lucas Camp tells me you’re the best in covert and low-visibility operations.”

Anders hesitated. For three beats Jim wasn’t sure if he would turn around or if he would just walk on out. But then he executed an about-face and moved back to the stool he’d vacated.

When Anders’s gaze rested on Jim’s once more, he said, “I’ve never worked directly for or with Mr. Camp. I’m surprised he even knows my name. The way I heard it he’s retired now.”

That was true.

“What’s your connection to him?” Anders wanted to know.

Jim had expected that one.

“He married Victoria Colby, my mother.”

Anders’s eyes narrowed, but not with suspicion. “You’re from the Colby Agency?” The name appeared to connect fully for him then.

Jim wasn’t surprised that the man recognized his mother’s name or that of her agency. The Colby Agency was one of the top private investigations agencies in the country. A man with a background like Anders would consider P.I. firms when searching for employment. In his case, however, that same background prevented him from applying to most.

“I’m not here representing the Colby Agency.”

The anticipation that had tapered Anders’s focus vanished. “I’m certain you’re a busy man, Mr. Colby. Why don’t we cut through all the crap and get straight to the point?”

Jim liked this guy already. “I’ve recently opened my own firm, Mr. Anders. You have the training I’m looking for as well as extensive experience in the Middle East. Considering current events and the Middle East’s ongoing status as a hot spot politically as well as economically, I need that kind of experience on my team. I have a vacancy and I’d like you to fill it.”

Anders motioned for the bartender to refill his empty tumbler. “You drinking anything?” he said to Jim.

Jim shook his head. That he wasn’t even momentarily tempted gave him great satisfaction. That Anders would offer suggested interest in his proposition.

The bartender sidled over and splashed a couple of fingers of bourbon into the other man’s empty glass. When he’d moved out of earshot to take care of the next customer, Anders said, “Why open another P.I. firm? You have a problem working for your mother?”

Jim got those questions often, especially from the investigators at the Colby Agency. He would have been welcome there by all on staff. Victoria Colby-Camp had expected Jim to take over one day. But he had other plans. No…not plans…needs. He needed to do this. And that need had nothing to do with any inability to work with or for his mother.

“What I have in mind doesn’t fit the mold, Mr. Anders. I’m afraid my mother would be startled at some of the methods I might choose to utilize.”

Still visibly skeptical, Anders sipped his drink before suggesting, “Perhaps Mr. Camp didn’t completely fill you in on my less-than-desirable work history.”

Jim resisted the impulse to argue that if he wanted to compare histories he would gladly give him a run for his money on who had the ugliest past. But he would save that for another time.

“I’m aware of the circumstances surrounding the way you separated from military service if that’s what you mean.” And it was, of course. Spencer Anders had a stellar record other than that final nasty smudge. Discounting, of course, a number of misdemeanor disorderly conducts in public establishments very much like this one since leaving the military.

The suspicion Jim had expected to see earlier made its appearance at that point. He understood. Most prospective employers would be put off by the idea of a general military discharge. It wasn’t quite a dishonorable discharge, but it carried an equally unattractive stigma. But Jim knew something most didn’t, Spencer Anders had been railroaded by a superior officer.

The fact that his betrayal couldn’t be proven beyond a shadow of a doubt was the reason he’d been charged with the lesser offences of insubordination and conduct unbecoming of an officer rather than being shipped off to spend a life sentence in a military prison. Those seemingly lesser charges had carried a stiff, humiliating penance of their own. Anders had been stripped of rank, all the way down to a first lieutenant, and then generally discharged when he opted to resign rather than accept the charges and grovel as expected.

Then again, to a man like Anders, being labeled a traitor to his country was pretty much a life sentence in itself.

“Then I have to question just what sort of firm you plan to operate, Mr. Colby.”

Jim appreciated his frankness.

“Did your source also tell you,” Anders went on before Jim could respond to his last statement, “about my difficulties since leaving military service?”

Spencer Anders had separated from the U.S. Army two years ago. Since then he’d spent most of his time in dives not unlike this one, attempting to obliterate the past; only the towns changed. His blood alcohol level lingered above the legal limit more often than not, Jim would wager. He also recognized the strategy. Been there, done that. But booze wasn’t the answer to Anders’s problems. Telling him so wouldn’t help. This was something he had to come to terms with on his own.

“As long as you stay sober on the job, I don’t care what you do in your free time.” Jim, of all people, understood what made a man like Anders turn to the bottle for a solace found no other place. The bad habit was taken up for a single, unhealthy reason and would be dumped for the same. He wouldn’t need any twelve-step program, all he needed was his self-worth back.

That would come in time given the right circumstances.

Anders finished off the bourbon. “Just because I was forced out of the army doesn’t mean I’m interested in a life of anything beyond the occasional barroom brawl. Believe it or not, high crimes aren’t my style.”

Jim almost laughed at that. “There are times,” he admitted, “when working within the law won’t get the job done. But I’m not talking about breaking the law for the sake of breaking it, Mr. Anders. I’m only talking about going slightly beyond it and perhaps ignoring some aspects of it when the need arises.”

“Well, good luck to you, Mr. Colby. As much as I appreciate the offer, I’m not sure I’m the man you’re looking for.”

Jim took a business card from his coat pocket and laid it on the bar. “Call me if you change your mind. The doors open Monday morning, and I’d like you there when that happens.”