When her son is kidnapped at Christmastime, a therapist must turn to an FBI agent for help—before it’s too late…

Something is stopping Special Agent Jack Prescott from being his best. He’s run countless missions, but when one hits too close to home, he needs help that most men wouldn’t ask for. Andrea McNeil has counseled plenty of FBI professionals before, but no one has been harder to reach than Jack. She’s never been involved with one of her patients up close and personal, but when her son is abducted, she turns to Jack for help. Now they have to help each other to bring her son home and stay a step ahead of his kidnappers. Both of them need a breakthrough—and a miracle—if they’re going to bring Ian home for Christmas.

“They left a note.”

She handed him a piece of paper, the message on it typed in block letters: YOUR BOY WILL BE SAFE AS LONG AS YOU COOPERATE. YOU AND YOUR BOYFRIEND BRING TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS TO THE ADDRESS WE’LL GIVE YOU TOMORROW AND WE WILL TALK THEN. DO NOT GO TO THE POLICE OR TELL ANYONE ELSE. WE HAVE PEOPLE WATCHING YOU AND WE WILL KNOW. MAKE ONE WRONG MOVE AND YOUR BOY WILL DIE A HORRIBLE DEATH.

Andrea sank into a chair, her hand over her mouth, stifling a sob.

Jack read the note again. “Who is this boyfriend they’re talking about?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’m not dating anyone. I haven’t, since before my marriage. I think they mean you.”

Christmas Kidnapping

Cindi Myers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CINDI MYERS is the author of more than fifty novels. When she’s not crafting new romance plots, she enjoys skiing, gardening, cooking, crafting and daydreaming. A lover of small-town life, she lives with her husband and two spoiled dogs in the Colorado mountains.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Special Agent Jack Prescott—The FBI agent is tortured by the fact that, while he remembers the faces of almost everyone he meets, he can’t recall the man who murdered his best friend. His attraction to the therapist he sought help from is complicating his life and distracting him from his duties.

Andrea McNeil—The widow of a cop who was killed in the line of duty, Andrea uses her training as a therapist to help other officers and their families. When terrorists kidnap her son, she turns to one of her patients for help. But the intense and troubled Jack Prescott may be more dangerous to her peaceful, ordered life than she could have imagined.

Ian McNeil—Andrea’s son survives a kidnapping and looks up to Jack, but Andrea worries this adoration will only lead to hurt.

Gus Mathers—The fellow FBI agent was Jack’s best friend. He was murdered before Jack’s eyes, and Jack struggles with guilt and an inability to remember his friend’s killer.

Duane Braeswood—The terrorist leader survived a horrific accident and has vowed revenge on the agents who have hounded him. Will Jack be his next victim?

Anderson—The terrorist wants to make a name for himself in the organization. Killing an FBI agent is one way to do so.

Eddie Roland—Braeswood’s second in command has taken on more of the lead since his boss’s accident, but now agents suspect Roland has a new agenda of his own.

For Jim and Jim

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Experience had taught Andrea McNeil to trust her first impressions of a man. She had learned to read temperament and tendencies in the set of his shoulders and the shadows in his eyes. Whether they were heroes or the perpetrators of heinous crimes, they all revealed themselves to her as much by their silences as by what they said.

The man who stood before her now radiated both strength and anxiety in the stubborn set of his broad shoulders and the tight line of his square jaw. He wore his blond hair short and neat, his face clean shaven, his posture military straight, though he was dressed in jeans, hiking boots and a button-down shirt and not a uniform. He moved with the raw sensuality of a hunter, muscular shoulders sliding beneath the soft cotton of his shirt, and when his hazel eyes met hers, she saw pride and courage and deep grief.

“All I want you to do is help me remember the face of the man who killed my friend,” he said, before she had even invited him to sit on the sofa across from her chair in her small office just off the main street of Durango, Colorado.

She didn’t allow her face to betray alarm at his statement. This certainly wasn’t the worst thing she had heard from the people who came to her for help. “Please sit down, Agent Prescott, and I’ll tell you a little more about how I work.”

FBI special agent Jack Prescott lowered himself gingerly onto the sofa. He grimaced as he shifted his weight. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

She kept her gaze steady on him, letting him know she wasn’t buying this statement.

He shifted again. “I took a couple of bullets in a firefight a couple of months back,” he said. “The cold bothers me a little.”

The window behind him showed a gentle snowfall, the remnants from the latest winter storm. A man who had been shot—twice—and was still on medical leave probably ought to be home recuperating, but she might as well have told a man like Jack Prescott that he needed to take up knitting and mah-jongg. She didn’t have to read the information sheet he had filled out to know that much about him. Even sitting still across from her, he looked poised to leap into action. She would have bet next month’s rent that he was armed at the moment and that he had called into his office at least once a day every day of his enforced time off.

Her husband, Preston, had been the same way. All his devotion to duty and reckless courage had gotten him in the end was killed.

She focused on Agent Prescott’s paperwork to force the memories back into the locked box where they belonged. Jack Prescott was single, thirty-four years old and a graduate of Columbia with a major in electrical engineering and robotics. Twelve years with the FBI. A letter of commendation. He was in Durango on special assignment and currently on medical leave. He took no medications beyond the antibiotics prescribed for his gunshot wounds, and he had no known allergies. “Tell me about this firefight,” she said. “The one in which you were injured.”

He sat on the edge of the sofa cushion, gripping his knees. “What happened to me doesn’t matter,” he said. “But my friend Gus Mathers was killed in that fight. I saw it happen. I saw who killed him.”

“That would be traumatic for anyone,” she said.

“You don’t understand. I saw the man who killed Gus, but I can’t remember his face.”

“What you’re talking about is upsetting, but it’s not unusual,” she said. “The mind often blocks out the memory of traumatic events as a means of protection.”

He leaned forward, his gaze boring into her, his expression fierce. “You don’t understand. I don’t forget faces. It’s what I do, the way some people remember numbers or have perfect pitch.”

She set aside the clipboard with the paperwork and leaned toward him, letting him know she was focused completely on him. “I’m not sure I understand,” she said.

“I’m what they call a super-recognizer. If I look at someone for even a few seconds, I remember them. I remember supermarket clerks and bus drivers and people I pass on the street. Yet I can’t remember the man who murdered my best friend.”

“Your talent for remembering faces doesn’t exempt you from the usual responses to trauma,” she said. “Your memory of the events may come back with time, or it may never return.”

He set his jaw, the look of a man who was used to forcing the outcome he desired. “The cop who referred me to you said you could hypnotize me—that that might be a way to get the memory to return.”

“I do sometimes use hypnosis in my therapy, but in your case, I don’t believe it would work.”

“Why not?”

Because there are some things even a will as strong as yours can’t make happen, she thought. “Hypnosis requires the subject to relax and surrender to the process,” she said. “In order for me to hypnotize you, you would have to trust me and be willing to surrender control of the situation. You aren’t a man who is used to surrendering, and you haven’t known me long enough to trust me.”

“You’re saying I’m a control freak.”

She smiled at his choice of words. “Your job—your survival and the survival of those who work with you—requires you to control as many variables as possible,” she said. “In this case, your need to control is an asset.” Most of the time.

“I want you to hypnotize me,” he said.

“Consciously wanting to be hypnotized and your conscious mind being willing to relax enough to allow that to happen are two different things,” she said. “I’m certainly willing to attempt hypnotic therapy at some point, but not on a first visit. It’s too soon. Once we have explored the issues that may be causing you to suppress this memory, we may have more success in retrieving it, through hypnosis or by some other means.”

He stood and began to pace, a caged tiger—one with a limp that, even agitated, he tried to disguise. “I don’t need to talk about my feelings,” he said, delivering the words with a sneer. “I don’t need therapy. I know the memory of the man who shot Gus is in my head. I just have to find a way to access that information again.”

“Agent Prescott, please sit down.”

“No. If you can’t help me, I won’t waste any more of your time.”

He turned toward the door. “Please, don’t go,” she called. His agitation and real grief touched her. “I’m willing to try things your way. But I don’t want you to be disappointed if it doesn’t work.”

He sat again, tension still radiating from him, but some of the darkness had gone out of his eyes. “What do I do?”

“You don’t do anything,” she said. “The whole point is to relax and not try to control the situation. Why don’t you start by taking off your shoes and lying back on the couch? Get comfortable.”

He hesitated, then removed his hiking boots and lined them up neatly at the end of the sofa. He lay back, hands at his sides. His feet hung over one end and his shoulders stretched the width of the cushion. There probably wasn’t an ounce of fat on the man, but he had plenty of hard muscle. He wasn’t the type you’d want to meet alone in a dark alley, though maybe a dark bedroom...

The thought surprised her, and she felt a rush of heat to her face, glad Jack had his back to her so he couldn’t wonder what was making her blush. He folded his arms across his chest, a posture of confrontation and protection. “Put your hands down by your sides,” she suggested. “And close your eyes.”

“Aren’t you going to swing a pendulum or a watch or something in front of my eyes?” he asked.

“That’s not the approach I use. I prefer something called progressive relaxation.”

“Is that the same as hypnosis?”

“It’s a way of readying your body for hypnotic suggestion. Now, close your eyes and focus on your toes.”

“My toes?”

“Agent Prescott, if you’re going to question every instruction I give, this isn’t going to work.”

“Sorry. I’ll focus on my toes.”

“Relax your toes. Now focus on your ankles.” She made her voice as low and soothing as possible. “Imagine a warm wave of relaxation moving up your legs, from your toes and feet to your ankles and then your calves and knees. Your body feels very comfortable and heavy, the muscles completely relaxed. The sensation moves up your thighs to your torso. Every bit of tension is leaving your body. Each vertebra of your spine relaxes, one by one. You’re feeling very heavy and languid.”

She continued the journey up his body, instructing him to relax his shoulders and arms and hands. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Fine.” His voice was clear and alert, his posture still as stiff as if he were standing for inspection.

“Think of someplace pleasant and relaxing,” she said. “A mountain meadow with a waterfall or a beautiful beach with ocean waves rolling in. Choose whatever place you like to go to relax.”

“Okay.”

“What are you thinking of?” she asked.

“The gym.”

She blinked. “The gym?”

“Working out relaxes me.”

That explained those impressive shoulders and biceps. “That kind of relaxation is a little too active. What about vacations? Do you like to go to the beach? Or to a lake in the mountains.”

“The last vacation I took, Gus and I and some other guys went hiking. We climbed a mountain.”

She could imagine—all macho competitiveness: heavy packs, miles logged, not bathing or shaving for days, eating food out of cans. She shuddered. “I don’t think this is going to work,” she said.

He sat up. “Let’s try again. Do the thing with the pendulum. I think I would do better if I had something to focus on.”

She hesitated, but if he left here, she would feel she had failed him. She reached up and unclasped the necklace she wore—a gold chain with a gold heart-shaped locket. An anniversary gift from Preston a few months before he died. “Sit back and relax as much as you can,” she said.

Jack settled back against the sofa, his gaze fixed on the necklace. “Focus on the heart,” she said, and began to gently swing the locket from side to side. “As you focus, count back slowly, from ninety-nine.”

“Ninety-nine,” he said. “Ninety-eight. Ninety-seven.”

She shifted her own gaze from the locket to Jack and found herself staring directly into his gold-green eyes. The naked pain and vulnerability revealed in his gaze startled her so much she almost dropped the necklace. He took her hand. “Please. You have to help me.”

His grip was strong and warm but not painful. Far from it. His touch sent warmth coursing through her, as if someone had injected heated platelets into her bloodstream. The heat settled in her lower abdomen, reminding her in a way she hadn’t been reminded in many months that she was a woman with a very attractive, virile man touching her. She carefully extricated her hand, which still tingled from the contact. “I want to help you, Agent Prescott,” she said. “But the mind is the most complicated machine imaginable. There isn’t a formula or solution to solve every problem.”

The clock on her desk chimed and she glanced at it. “I’m afraid our session today is over, but I hope you will make an appointment to see me again.”

He looked away, frustration clear in the tension along his jaw and the defensive set of his shoulders. “Do you really think it would help me remember Gus’s killer?”

“I can’t promise you will ever remember what you saw the day your friend was killed,” she said. “But I can help you come to terms with what happened.”

“Maybe I’ll come back,” he said.

“I really do think it would help you to talk to someone,” she said. “Not only about Gus, but about your own injuries. Being forced into medical leave must be difficult for you.”

He looked startled, his eyes locked to hers once more. “The other team members kidded me, said I should enjoy the paid vacation. But it’s driving me crazy knowing Gus’s killer is out there and I’m not doing anything to help stop him.”

“That’s something we can talk about the next time you’re in.” She stood, and he rose also and followed her to the door.

“Do you have another client now?” he asked.

“No, it’s time for my lunch break.”

He checked his watch, a heavy stainless model she recognized as designed for mountaineers and other outdoorsmen. “Let me take you to lunch. I want to make up for wasting your time this morning.”

Her heart sped up at the prospect of being alone with him in a nonclinical setting. “Agent Prescott, I don’t think—”

“Call me Jack. And I just want to talk. Not therapy talk, just, you know, conversation. I’m bored out of my skull not working, and I don’t know many people in Durango. Not outside of work, anyway. You seem like you’d be good company, that’s all.”

She should say no. Professional ethics aside—and really, there was nothing unethical about having lunch with a client—spending more time with Jack was dangerous to her equilibrium. He was exactly the type of man who attracted her most—powerful, dedicated, intelligent and virile. And all those traits made him the worst sort of man for her to be with.

But the temptation to sit across from him and learn more of his story, to have his attention fixed on her for a little while longer, won out over common sense. “All right,” she said. “I can have lunch with you.”

* * *

SITTING ACROSS FROM Dr. Andrea McNeil in a café down the street from her office, Jack felt better than he had since the shoot-out. Maybe it was being with a pretty woman. He hadn’t dated in a while and she was definitely a looker—her businesslike blue suit did nothing to hide her shapely figure, and her high-heeled boots showed her gorgeous legs to advantage. Her sleek brown hair was piled up on top of her head, drawing attention to the smooth white column of her throat, and she had lively brown eyes above a shapely nose and slightly pouty lips.

But though he could appreciate her beauty, he attributed most of his good mood to the way she focused on him. As if anything he had to say were the most interesting thing she had heard today. That was probably just her therapist’s training, but it was doing him a lot of good, so he wasn’t going to complain.

“How did you hear about me?” she asked when they had ordered—a salad for her, a chicken sandwich for him.

“I have a friend—Carson Allen, with the Bureau’s resident agency here in Durango. He and I have done some hiking and stuff. Anyway, he said you’re the counselor for the police department and the sheriff’s office. How did you end up with that job?”

“My husband was a police officer.” She focused on buttering a roll from the basket the waitress had brought.

“Was?”

“He was killed three years ago, by a drug dealer who was fleeing the scene of a burglary.”

The news that she was a widow—a cop’s widow—hit him like a punch in the gut. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That must have been tough.”

She met his gaze, serene, not a hint of tears. “It was. But I lived through it. I have a son, Ian.” She smiled, a look that transformed her face from pretty to breathtaking. “He’s five. I had to be strong for him.”

“Sounds like he’s a pretty lucky little boy.” And her husband had been a lucky man. Jack envied his coworkers who had found women who could put up with the demands of a law enforcement job. He had never been that fortunate.

“Tell me more about this talent of yours for remembering faces,” she said. “What did you call it?”

He recognized the shift away from any more personal conversation about her, and he accepted it. “I’m a super-recognizer. I think it’s one of those made-up government descriptors the bureaucrats love so much.”

“I’ll admit I’m unfamiliar with the concept. It must be pretty rare.”

He shrugged. “It’s not something that comes up in casual conversation. Scientists are just beginning to study facial-recognition abilities. More people may be super-recognizers than we realize. They just don’t admit it.”

“Why not admit it?” she asked.

“It makes for awkward social situations. You learn pretty quickly not to admit you recognize people you haven’t been introduced to. I mean, if I tell someone I remember seeing them at a football game last fall or on the bus last week, they think I’m a spy or a stalker or something.”

“I guess that would be strange.” She speared a tomato wedge with her fork. “How old were you when you realized you had this talent?”

“Pretty young.” For a long time, he had thought that was the way everyone saw the world, as populated by hundreds of individual, distinct people who stayed in his head. “In school it was kind of a neat parlor trick to play on people—go into a store to buy a soda and come out three minutes later and be able to describe everyone who was in there. But as I got older, I stopped telling people about it or showing off.”

“Because of the social awkwardness.”

“Because it made me different, and if there’s anything teenagers don’t want to be, it’s different.”

She laughed, and they waited while the waitress refilled their glasses. “Did your ability get you the job with the Bureau?” she asked. “Or did that come later?”

He shrugged and crunched a chip. “You know the government—they test you for everything. I was doing a different job—one that used my electrical and robotics background—when someone in the Bureau decided to put together a whole unit of people like me and I got tapped for it. Gus was a recognizer, too.” A familiar pain gripped his chest at the mention of Gus. Jack didn’t have any brothers, but he had felt as close to Gus as he would have any brother. They had been through so much together.

“Is that what brought you two together?” she asked.

“Not at first. We were in the same class at Quantico and we hit it off there. We had probably known each other a year or so before I found out he had the same knack I had for remembering faces. We used to joke about it some, but we never thought anything of it. Not until both of us were recruited for this special project.”

“That’s really fascinating.” She took a bite of her salad and he dug into the chicken sandwich. The silence between them as they ate was comfortable, as if they had known each other a long time, instead of only a few hours.

But after a few more minutes he began to feel uneasy. Not because of anything she was doing. He glanced around them, noting the group of women who sat at a table to their left, shopping bags piled around them. A trio of businessmen occupied a booth near the front window, deep in conversation. A family of tourists, an older couple and two clerks he recognized from the hotel where he had stayed his first two nights in town months ago filled the other tables. Nothing suspicious about any of them. He swiveled his head to take in the bar and gooseflesh rose along his arms when his gaze rested on a guy occupying a stool front and center, directly beneath the flat-screen television that was broadcasting a bowling tournament. Average height, short brown hair, flannel shirt and jeans. Nothing at all remarkable about him, yet Jack was positive he had seen the guy before. Probably only once—repeat exposure strengthened the association. But he had definitely been around this guy at least once before.

“What is it?” Andrea spoke softly. “You’ve gone all tense. Is something wrong?”

He turned to face her once more. “That guy back there at the bar—the one in the green plaid shirt—he’s watching us.”

She looked over his shoulder at the guy and frowned. “He has his back to us.”

“He’s watching us in the bar mirror. It’s an old surveillance trick.”

“Do you know him?” she asked.

“I’ve seen him before. Maybe only once. I think he’s in our files.”

“Why would he be watching you?”

Jack shoved back his chair. “That’s what I’m going to ask him.”

He pretended to be headed for the men’s room, but at the last second, he veered toward the guy at the bar. The guy saw him coming and leaped up. He overturned a table and people started screaming. Jack took off after him, alarmed to see the guy was headed right toward Andrea, who stared, openmouthed. Jack shoved aside a chair and dodged past a waitress with a tray of plates, but his bum leg made speed difficult and the guy was almost to Andrea now.

But the perp didn’t lay a hand on her. He raced past, headed toward the door, Jack still in pursuit. Andrea cried out as Jack ran by her. “My purse,” she said. “He stole my purse!”

Chapter Two

Andrea stared at the water glass on its side, ice cubes scattered across the cloth. Jack had taken off after the purse snatcher so suddenly she hadn’t had time to process everything that had happened. One moment he was saying something about the guy at the bar watching them, and the next her purse had disappeared, and so had Jack.

“Would the gentleman like the rest of his meal boxed to go?”

Andrea blinked up at the waitress, whose face betrayed no emotion beyond boredom, as if purse snatchings and overturned tables were everyday occurrences.

“No thank you,” Andrea said. “Just bring the check.” She glanced toward the door, hoping to see Jack. Had he caught the thief? Had he been hurt in the attempt? She needed to get out of here and make sure he was okay.

The waitress returned with the check and Andrea realized that, without her purse, she had no way to pay the bill.

“I’ll get that.” Jack’s hand rested atop hers on the tab. He dropped into the chair beside her, his face flushed and breathing hard. “He got away,” he said. “I’m sorry about your purse.” He shifted his hip to retrieve his wallet and winced.

“You’re hurt,” she said, alarmed.

He shook his head. “I’m fine.” He removed his credit card and glanced around. Two busboys were righting the overturned table and most of the other diners had returned to their meals. “Where’s our waitress?” Jack asked. “I’m ready to get out of here.”

He helped her with her coat and kept his hand at her back as they left the café. “What was in your purse?” he asked. “I’m assuming a wallet and credit cards. Driver’s license?”

She nodded. “And my car keys, house keys and cell phone.” She took a deep breath. “I can call and cancel the cards, get a new license, and I have spare keys at home. I’ll have to get a new phone.”

“Let me take you by your place to get the keys,” he said.

“You don’t have to do that. I can call someone.” Maybe Chelsea, who was babysitting for her, would come—though that would mean bringing along Ian and Chelsea’s baby, Charlotte.

“I have the whole afternoon free, so you might as well let me take you.”

“All right. Thank you.”

Jack drove a pickup truck, a black-and-silver late-model Ford that was the Western equivalent of a hot sports car. She gave him directions to her home and settled back against the soft leather seats, inhaling the masculine aromas of leather, coffee and Jack Prescott. If some genius were to bottle the combination, it would be a sure bestseller, the epitome of sex appeal.

“Nice place,” he said when he pulled into the driveway of the blue-and-white Victorian in one of Durango’s quiet older neighborhoods. Snow frosted the low evergreens around the base of the porch and dusted the large pine-and-cedar Christmas wreath she had hung on the front door. Jack had to move Ian’s tricycle in order to get to the walkway to the steps.

“Sorry about that,” Andrea said. “I keep telling him not to leave it in the way like that, but he forgets.”

“He’ll be ready for a bicycle before long,” Jack said. “If he’s five.”

“He’s been asking for one for Christmas but I don’t know...” The thought of her baby riding along the narrow and hilly roads of her neighborhood filled her with visions of collisions with cars or tumbles in loose gravel.

Chelsea opened the door before they were up the steps, Charlotte in her arms. “Oh, hi, Andrea.” She sent a curious glance toward Jack. “I didn’t know who was here in that truck.”

“My purse got stolen at lunch,” Andrea said. “I came home to get my spare keys. This is Jack. Jack, this is Chelsea. She’s my best friend and she looks after Ian while I work. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“Hello, Jack.” Chelsea pushed a corkscrew of black curls behind one ear and smoothed the front of her pink polo shirt.

“I’ll just get my keys and get out of your hair.” Andrea started to step past her, but at that moment, Ian barreled out of the house.

“Hey, Mom!” He grinned up at her, the dimple on the left side of his mouth and the thick fall of dark hair across his forehead foreshadowing the lady-killer he would no doubt be one day. Just like his father. “You came home early,” Ian said.

“Not to stay, I’m afraid.” She hugged him and smoothed the hair out of his eyes. But his attention had already shifted to Jack. Ian ducked his head behind her leg and peeked out.

Jack squatted in front of the boy—it had to be an awkward movement, considering his injuries, but a slight wince was the only sign of difficulty he gave. “Hello, Ian,” he said. “My name is Jack.”

“Mr. Prescott,” Andrea corrected. She nudged her son. “Say hello, Ian.”

“Hello.” The words came out muffled against her leg, but Ian’s eyes remained fixed on Jack, bright with interest.

“What’s your favorite food, Ian?” Jack asked.

Ian looked up at his mom. “You can answer him,” she said.

“Grilled cheese sandwiches,” Ian said.

Chelsea laughed. “He would eat grilled cheese every meal if his mother and I would let him.”

“I like grilled cheese, too,” Jack said.

“I’ll just get my keys.” Andrea slipped inside and went to the drawer in her bedroom where she kept her spare set. She paused to study the photo on her dresser, of her and Preston and eighteen-month-old Ian on her lap. Ian liked to hold the picture and ask questions about his father, but one day pictures and her memories weren’t going to be enough. A boy needed a father to help him learn to be a man.

She returned to the porch to find Jack and Ian in the driveway, studying something on the tricycle. “What’s going on?” she asked Chelsea.

“Guy talk.” Chelsea dismissed the two males with a wave of her hand. “What’s this about your purse being stolen?” she asked.

“A purse snatcher. Jack chased him, but the guy was too fast.” She jingled her keys. “I’ll have to call when I get to my office and cancel my credit cards and see about getting a new driver’s license.”

Chelsea sidled closer and lowered her voice. “Jack is definitely a hottie,” she said. “How long have you two been an item?”

Andrea flushed. “Oh, no, it’s not like that. I mean, we just met.”

“You don’t act like two people who just met.” Chelsea grinned.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You can’t take your eyes off him. And he feels the same way.”

Andrea glanced at Jack, something she realized now she had been doing every few seconds since she had returned to the porch. He was kneeling beside the trike, listening while Ian gave some long explanation about something. Just then Jack looked up and his eyes met hers, and she felt a jolt of pleasure course through her.

Jack stood and patted Ian’s shoulder. Then the two rejoined the women on the porch. “Ian was telling me about the pedals sticking on his ride,” he said. “I’ll bring some oil over sometime and fix the problem for him.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she protested. Jack was a client. They were supposed to have one casual lunch and some conversation. Now he was getting involved in her personal life.

“I’m going to help Jack fix my bike,” Ian said.

“Mr. Prescott.” Her voice sounded faint, even to her, as she made the automatic correction.

“It’s no trouble,” Jack said.

Arguing about it, especially in front of Ian and Chelsea, seemed a waste of breath. “All right.” She knelt and hugged her son. “I have to give a speech tonight for a police-officer spouse group, so I won’t be home until late,” she said. “But Chelsea has a special treat for you.”

“Pizza and a movie.” Chelsea put a hand on the boy’s head.

“And root beer?” Ian asked.

Chelsea looked to Andrea. “All right. You may have one glass of root beer with your pizza,” Andrea said.

“A big glass,” Ian said.

Jack laughed. “You’re quite the negotiator, pal,” he said.

Ian beamed at the praise. Butterflies battered at Andrea’s chest. This wasn’t good. She didn’t want Ian so focused on a man she hardly knew. Especially a man like Jack, with a dangerous job and a reckless attitude. “We’d better go,” she said. “I have clients to see this afternoon.”

“I like your truck,” Ian said to Jack.

“Maybe I’ll give you a ride sometime,” Jack said.

Andrea waited until they were in the vehicle and driving away before she spoke, choosing her words carefully. “You shouldn’t have said that, about giving him a ride in your truck,” she said.

“I would want you to come along, too,” he said.

“Saying you’ll take him for a ride promises some kind of ongoing relationship.”

His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, the only sign of any emotion. “Would that be so bad?”

She turned toward him, her hands fisted in her lap. “You’re my client. I hardly know you.”

“I had a good time today,” he said. “I’d like to see you again. You and Ian.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“It just...wouldn’t.”

“Because of the client thing? What if I decided not to see you in a professional capacity anymore?”

“It wouldn’t matter.” She looked out the window, at the passing lines of shops crowded along the highway in Durango’s downtown area. Evergreen garlands, wreaths and hundreds of tiny white lights decorated the Victorian buildings, making the scene look right out of a Christmas card. People filled the sidewalks, hands full of shopping bags, or carrying skis or snowboards, fresh from a day at Durango Mountain Resort.

“Is there someone else?” he asked. “Do you have a boyfriend? I didn’t get that vibe from you.”

What kind of vibe would that be? But she wasn’t going to go there. “I’m busy with my job and raising my son,” she said. “I don’t have time to date.”

“You don’t have time to date a cop.”

His perceptiveness momentarily silenced her. She stared at him.

“I’m not a trained therapist, but if your husband was killed in the line of duty, it doesn’t take a degree to figure out you might not want to repeat the experience.” He glanced at her, then back at traffic. “But even civilians can get hit by buses or fall off of mountains or have a heart attack while mowing the lawn.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to date you, Jack.”

“Fine. But I will have to see you again.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m going to try to find out more about the guy who snatched your purse. I’m going to try to find him.”

“Don’t worry about it. Everything in there can be replaced.”

“Maybe. But I don’t think he was in that café this afternoon for the sole purpose of stealing a random stranger’s purse. He was watching us—watching me—for a while before he made his move. I want to find out why.”

“I doubt you’ll get my purse back,” she said.

“Maybe not. But I have to see you again anyway.”

“Why?”

“I promised Ian I’d fix the stiff pedal on his tricycle. And I always keep my promises.”

Yes, Jack Prescott would keep his promises. He would do his duty and live by his pledge, whether that pledge was to a friend or a woman or a little boy like Ian. But he would also keep his promise to give all he had for his country. Even if that meant his life. That last promise was one she wasn’t sure she could live with.

* * *

AFTER JACK DROPPED Andrea at her office, he called Special Agent Cameron Hsung, one of his fellow Search Team Seven members. “Hey, Jack, how are you doing?” Cameron’s cheerful voice greeted him. The half-Asian twentysomething was one of the younger members of the team, an IT specialist who had been recruited, like the other members of Search Team Seven, because of his super-recognizer skills.

“I’m doing great.” Jack rubbed his thigh, which burned with pain as a result of his pursuit of the thief and squatting to put himself at eye level with Ian McNeil. “There’s no reason I couldn’t come back to work right now.”

“I’m guessing your doctor has a different idea,” Cameron said.

“He says at least two more weeks of leave. But what does he know. How’s the case going?” The case—the sole focus of the team at the moment—involved a terrorist cell headquartered here in western Colorado. The suspected leader of the cell, a man named Duane Braeswood, had jumped from the Durango and Silverton tourist railroad two months ago, but a subsequent search hadn’t turned up his body.

“We got a lead that a man matching Braeswood’s description had shown up at a hospital in Grand Junction,” Cameron said. “But by the time local law enforcement made it there, he had disappeared.”

“So he was injured?”

“Pretty badly, I guess,” Cameron said. “After a bit of a hassle, we got a copy of the medical report. He had a broken leg, some busted ribs, and a bruised liver and kidneys.”

Jack winced. “So he probably didn’t get to the hospital—or out of it—on his own.”

“That’s what we’re thinking. We got some security video but it’s pretty blurred. Typical cheap system that hasn’t been maintained. Nobody thinks about these things until they actually need the equipment to do its job. Then it’s too late.”

“The man doesn’t seem to have any shortage of helpers,” Jack said.

“Yeah, well, money buys a lot of things—even friends.”

“Right. And speaking of friends, I need a favor.”

Cameron groaned. “Something tells me I should say no before I even hear this.”

“It’s nothing complicated. A friend of mine had her purse stolen while we were at lunch today.”

“You have a woman friend?”

“Don’t act so surprised.”

“At least you’re using your leave productively. Who is she? How did you meet?”

“Her name is Andrea McNeil. She’s a therapist.”

“You mean the police therapist you were going to see? Man, what did you do, put the moves on her from the couch?”

“We were having lunch. That’s all.” Though he definitely wanted more. A guy didn’t meet a woman like Andrea every day, and he wasn’t buying her argument that she didn’t want to date him. He understood her reluctance, given her history, but she must have felt the connection between them. And he thought he was savvy enough to have picked up that she hadn’t agreed to have lunch with him because she fell for his “I’m so lonely” line. She was really interested. All he had to do was take it slow and prove that exploring the chemistry between them was worth the risk. “I thought I recognized the purse snatcher. I think he’s in our database.”

“Uh-huh. And what is this favor you want from me?”

“I want a copy of the database so I can look for this lowlife and find him.”

“That database is classified,” Cameron said. “It’s not supposed to leave this office.”

“It’s not like you’re releasing it to a civilian. I’m a member of your team.”

“Technically, you’re not on the team right now. You’re on medical leave. You’re not even allowed to come to the office.”

“Because some bureaucratic pencil pusher is afraid of getting sued if I slip and fall on a wet floor or something before my doctor has cleared me to return to work. That’s why I need a copy of the database on my personal computer.”

“Jack, it’ll cost me my job if anyone finds out.”

“No one will find out. It’s not like I’m going to go around showing the thing off. I just want to track down this guy.”

He thought he heard Cameron’s teeth grinding together. “All right. But don’t go all Lone Ranger on me. If you find anything, you bring it to us.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Okay. Meet me when I get off at six, at that tavern around the corner.”

“The Rusty Moose.”

“Yeah. Dumb name, good beer. You can buy me one and I’ll get you what you need. And hey, if your therapist friend has a friend, maybe you could introduce us.”

“You have to find your own dates, Cam. That’s where I draw the line.”

“Hey, I figured it was worth a try.”

Jack hung up the phone and started the truck. He couldn’t shake the feeling the purse snatcher had been up to more than looking to steal a handbag. There had to be a connection to his case. Even if he was supposed to be on medical leave, that didn’t mean he couldn’t do a little investigating on his own. He was out of the hospital and doing pretty good. He had never been the type to sit around and do nothing, and he wasn’t about to start now.

* * *

BY THE TIME Andrea made it home from her meeting, she was drained. As much as she enjoyed sharing her expertise with groups, she identified a little too closely with the challenges faced by members of the Law Enforcement Spouses organization. She remembered what it was like to be in their shoes and deal with the constant worry about her loved one. Though she was happy to listen to their concerns and offer strategies for coping, she knew her words weren’t really enough.

She was surprised to find the house dark when she arrived. Chelsea usually left the porch light on for her. She fumbled her way up the steps and opened the door. Silence greeted her—another oddity. Even though it was past Ian’s bedtime, Chelsea liked to stay up and watch movies or her favorite reality TV shows. “Chelsea? Is everything okay?” she called as she reached for the light switch.

A half-eaten pizza sat on the coffee table, an almost-empty glass of root beer tipped on its side next to the pizza box, the brown liquid pooling on the table and dripping on the floor. One of the couch pillows was on the floor, too. Heart in her throat, Andrea took a step forward. Then she saw the blood.

Or at least, she thought it was blood. The pool of brownish-red liquid on the rug beside the coffee table definitely wasn’t root beer. It could have been spilled syrup, except that no one would be eating syrup with pizza, would they?

She reached for her phone to call 911, but of course, the thief had stolen it, along with her purse. “Chelsea!” she shouted, headed toward the kitchen and the phone there. “Ian!”

She stumbled over something in the hallway—Chelsea lay on her back, her hands and feet tied, a gag in her mouth. She stared up at Andrea, eyes wide. Shaking, Andrea dropped to her knees and pulled the gag from the babysitter’s mouth. “What happened?” she demanded. “Where is Ian?”

“Ian’s gone.” Tears spilled out of Chelsea’s frightened eyes. “Two men took him. He’s gone.”

Chapter Three

Jack spent most of his evening stretched out in the recliner in his apartment, his laptop propped on his stomach, scanning the database Cameron had loaded onto a flash drive. A football game on the TV played in the background, and he was debating getting out of the chair and hunting in the refrigerator for a beer when his cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number on the screen, though it was a local exchange, and he almost let the call go to voice mail but decided to take a chance. “Hello?”

“Jack, they’ve taken Ian. You’ve got to help me. Please. They’ve taken my baby.”

He didn’t recognize the voice of the hysterical woman on the other end of the line, but the name Ian meant it had to be Andrea. “Andrea? Is that you?”

“Yes. Oh, God—Jack. Ian will be terrified. You have to help me find him.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.” He was already moving toward the door. “Can you sit tight until then?”

“Yes. But hurry, please.”

He broke several traffic laws on the way to Andrea’s house, but traffic was light off the highway this time of evening, and in less than five minutes he roared into her driveway. Every light in the house was illuminated. He raced onto the porch and knocked. “Andrea! It’s me, Jack.”

“Come in. We’re in the kitchen.”

He found her at the back of the house, applying a cold washcloth to a nasty-looking bruise near the babysitter’s temple. Chelsea held her baby close, tears pouring from her eyes as she rocked and cooed at the infant. Andrea had been crying, too, her eyes red and swollen, cheeks streaked with tears. “What’s going on?” Jack asked.

“Ian and I were watching a movie and eating pizza and these two men dressed in black and carrying big guns burst in and grabbed him,” Chelsea said. “I tried to stop them, but one of them hit me in the head with the butt of the gun. When I woke up, I was tied up and gagged in a back bedroom and Ian was gone.” She gulped and swallowed hard. “I was so afraid they’d taken Charlotte, too, but they left her sleeping in her crib.”

“Have you called the police?” Jack asked.

“They said not to,” Andrea said. “They said they would kill Ian if I contacted any law enforcement.” Her voice wobbled at the word kill and she looked ready to collapse.

Jack put his hand on her shoulder to steady her. “Who told you not to?” he asked.

“I don’t know who. They left a note.”

She handed him a piece of paper, the message on it typed in block letters.

YOUR BOY WILL BE SAFE AS LONG AS YOU COOPERATE. YOU AND YOUR BOYFRIEND BRING TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS TO THE ADDRESS WE’LL GIVE YOU TOMORROW AND WE WILL TALK THEN. DO NOT GO TO THE POLICE OR TELL ANYONE ELSE. WE HAVE PEOPLE WATCHING YOU AND WE WILL KNOW. MAKE ONE WRONG MOVE AND YOUR BOY WILL DIE A HORRIBLE DEATH.

Andrea sank into a chair, her hand over her mouth, stifling a sob. Chelsea leaned over and squeezed her hand.

Jack read the note again. “Who is this boyfriend they’re talking about?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’m not dating anyone. I haven’t since before my marriage.”

“I think they mean you,” Chelsea said.

“Me?”

“Jack isn’t my boyfriend,” Andrea protested.

“If the kidnappers saw the two of you together this afternoon, they might think so,” Chelsea said. “I mean, I did.”

Andrea moaned and covered her mouth again.

Jack sat across from her. His leg throbbed, but he ignored it. “The only person watching us this afternoon was that guy in the restaurant,” he said.

“Did you find out who he is?” Andrea asked.

He shook his head. “I’m still looking into it.” He glanced around the room. “He probably got your address from your license in your purse. And he has your keys, too.” Why hadn’t he thought of that before? He should have made Andrea change her locks. Or he should have insisted on staying here at her house tonight. He turned to Chelsea. She looked as wrecked as Andrea, clutching the child in her arms so tightly it was a wonder the infant didn’t wail. “What did these two look like?” he asked.

She shook her head. “They were wearing masks, dressed all in black. They carried big guns. Everything happened so fast...”

“How tall were they? How much did they weigh? Did they have accents? Could you see their hands, get an idea of race?” He knew he sounded like a bully, firing questions at the upset woman, but he couldn’t help himself. In situations like this, gathering as much evidence as possible as quickly as possible could make the difference between life and death.

Fresh tears spilled from Chelsea’s eyes and she shook her head again. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. I was so focused on Ian and the guns. And then they hit me.” She began to sob, and Andrea pulled her close.

“Why would someone do something like this?” Andrea asked. “How did they know I had a child? Have they been following me for a while now?”

Jack considered the questions. “This doesn’t make sense as a kidnapping.” He tapped the note. “For one thing, the ransom is too low. Kidnappers ask for millions of dollars, not a few thousand.”

“They must have known I don’t have millions,” Andrea said.

“Maybe this doesn’t have anything to do with you,” Chelsea said. “Maybe they got their houses mixed up. You see that on TV sometimes. What do they call them—home invasions.”

“Maybe.” Jack reread the note. “But I don’t think so. How long would you say they were in the house?”

Chelsea frowned, concentrating. “I don’t know. They burst in and knocked me out right away. They were here long enough to tie me up and put me in the bathroom. After I woke up, I spent a half hour or more crawling down the hall, trying to get to the phone.”

“It sounds to me as if this was planned,” Jack said. “They came in fast and hard, took out Chelsea, grabbed the boy and left. They didn’t kill Chelsea, though they easily could have, and they left her baby alone. They wanted Ian.” His eyes met Andrea’s. “And they wanted you to cooperate. They knew taking your son would make you do whatever they wanted.”

“But why me?” she asked. “I’ve never hurt anyone in my life.”

“Your husband was a cop,” Jack said. “Maybe he made enemies. It could be someone he put in prison. They’re out now and seeking revenge.”

“Preston has been dead three years. Anything they do to me or Ian now doesn’t touch him. These people would be taking a lot of risk for nothing.”

He nodded. While he’d learned not to discount some people’s drive for revenge or the irrational ways evil people could act, this didn’t feel like that kind of situation. The note hadn’t mentioned Andrea’s husband at all.

But it had mentioned her “boyfriend.” “Maybe whoever did this was trying to get to me,” he said.

“To you?” Confusion clouded her eyes. “But, Jack, I hardly know you. We just met.”

“I can’t prove it yet, but I think the man I saw in the restaurant this afternoon is connected to a case I’ve been working on. He may have seen the two of us together and assumed a relationship. He stole your purse in order to learn where you live. He may even have meant to kidnap you and send the ransom note to me, but when they found Ian instead, they decided to use him.”

“That’s crazy,” Chelsea said.

“It is. But this group has done this kind of thing before.” Months before, Duane Braeswood and his men had kidnapped the sister of a woman who worked for the head of the Senate Committee on Homeland Security. They had threatened to kill the sister if the woman, Leah Carlisle, didn’t cooperate with them. Once Leah was in their power, they had killed her sister and held Leah hostage for six months. Search Team Seven had rescued her in the same raid in which Gus had been killed. “They know that most people will do almost anything to save their loved ones, more than they would do, even, to save themselves.”

“But I’m not your loved one,” Andrea said. “I’m just an acquaintance you had lunch with.”

“No. But I’m not going to turn my back on you when you need my help.” And he cared about her. And Ian, too. In the short time he had known them, they had worked their way into a corner of his heart.

She looked away. “I don’t have anyone else I can call,” she said. “Not anyone who would be safe. If you can pretend to be my boyfriend until we get through this...” She let her voice trail away, as if she thought she were asking too much.

“I’m not going to leave your side until we’re through this.” He gripped her shoulder again. “You’ve got to be strong now. For Ian.”

She sat up straighter and took a ragged breath. “What do we do now?” she asked.

“Can you get ten thousand dollars together?”

“I can take it out of my savings as soon as the bank opens in the morning.”

“Let’s wait until the kidnappers call with instructions. Right now, you can’t stay here tonight.”

“No.” She hugged her arms across her chest and shivered.

He turned to Chelsea. “What about you?”

“I want to go home to my husband. I haven’t told him about any of this yet. I’d rather do it face-to-face.”

“He’ll want to call the police.” Andrea clutched Chelsea’s hand. “You have to convince him to keep quiet.”

“I will,” Chelsea said. “He won’t like it, but he won’t want anything to happen to Ian, either.”

Jack stood and walked to the phone on the wall. “What are you doing?” Andrea asked. “Who are you calling?”

“I’m forwarding this number to my cell phone. That way you can come with me and we won’t miss a call from the kidnappers.”

“The note says they have someone watching me,” Andrea said. “Maybe we shouldn’t leave the house.”

“They think I’m your boyfriend. They won’t be alarmed if you come with me.” At least, he hoped that was the case.

Andrea packed an overnight bag and Chelsea retrieved the baby’s car seat from her vehicle. “My husband can bring me by to get my car later,” she said. “I’m too scared to drive home alone right now.”

“I don’t mind taking you home. And I’ll talk to your husband, too. I’ll persuade him to keep quiet.”

Chelsea’s husband turned out to be a burly mechanic who worked for the local Ford dealer. He listened to the story Chelsea told with growing signs of alarm. When she got to the part about needing to keep quiet, he started shaking his head.

Jack stepped forward. “Mr. Green, I’m with the FBI,” he said. He opened his ID folder to show his badge and credentials. “I’m going to be doing everything I can to get Ian back to his mother safely, and for that, I need your cooperation.”

“FBI!” Chelsea gasped. “Andrea, you didn’t tell me he was a fed.”

Andrea said nothing, her face pale and drawn. She looked as if the slightest breeze might make her collapse. Jack resisted the urge to gather her close and hold her tightly. “Will you promise not to contact police and not to say anything to anyone—coworkers, friends, relatives, anyone—until this is resolved?” he asked.

Mr. Green nodded. “Sure. I’ll keep quiet. I didn’t know the FBI was involved.”

Not officially, Jack thought. Not yet.

They drove in silence to his apartment. Andrea made no protest when he took her arm and guided her up the stairs to the furnished unit he had rented when the team relocated to Durango the month before. The television still broadcast the ball game, the sound turned down low, and the harsh overhead light illuminated the wrappings from the sub sandwich and chips that had been his dinner.

“The bedroom is back this way,” he said, steering her toward the short hallway that led to the unit’s single bedroom and adjoining bathroom. “You can sleep here. I’ll take the couch.”

Covers spilled onto the floor, silent testimony to a restless night. The pillow still bore the imprint of his head. He rushed forward to jerk the comforter into place. “I’ll get some clean sheets,” he said, moving past her.

“You don’t have to go to all this trouble,” she said, her hand on his arm. “I can take the sofa.”

“No, it’s okay.”

He found the sheets, and together they made the bed, an ordinary, intimate activity that broke some of the tension between them. “Do you have a washer and dryer?” she asked, gathering up the old linens. “I can wash these.”

“I’ll get them later.” He took the mound of sheets from her and stuffed them into the closet behind him. “Can I get you anything else? Tea? Bourbon?”

A smile flickered across her lips. “The latter is tempting, but I want to keep a clear head.”

“Try to get some sleep.” He hesitated, then reached out and squeezed her shoulder. She leaned her cheek against his hand, her skin silky and warm, and no man with feelings would have been able to resist pulling her to him.

She welcomed the gesture and snuggled against him, her head buried in the hollow of his shoulder. “I’m so afraid,” she whispered. “If they hurt Ian...”

“Shh.” He cradled the back of her head, his fingers threaded through her hair, which was coming loose from the pins that held it atop her head. He removed the pins one by one and combed out her locks with his fingers. She sighed and settled against him more firmly, so that he was aware of the soft weight of her breasts against his chest and the vanilla-and-honey perfume of her hair. He wanted to bury his face in those silky tresses—and bury the rest of himself in her, as well.

She raised her head and tilted her face up to his, her expression questioning. “Why do I feel so safe and comfortable with you?” she asked.

“Because you are safe with me.” He stroked her cheek, silken and warm. “I’m not going to do anything to hurt you.”

“Kiss me.” She whispered the words, but they had the force of a command. One he was all too ready to obey.

Her lips were as soft and supple as he had imagined, and she responded to the gentle pressure of his mouth by rising up on her toes and angling her head to deepen the contact. This was no meek surrender to his will, but the urgent encouragement of a partner who wasn’t afraid to take the lead. She traced her tongue along his bottom lip and he opened to her and shifted to snug her body between his thighs, letting her feel how much he wanted her.

She was the first to break contact, looking up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. “That was as amazing as I thought it might be,” she said. “Thank you.”

“I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

She gently moved out of his embrace. “That was very selfish of me,” she said. “I was feeling so helpless and lost... I thought if I kissed you then, just for a moment, I could forget how terrible everything is.”

He rubbed his hand up and down her upper arm, as much to avoid breaking contact with her as to comfort her. “Did it help?”

Her eyes met his, the desire he’d seen there only a moment before edged out by sadness. “It did. But it doesn’t change our situation.” She stepped back, putting space between them. “I’m not trying to lead you on. I think I’m so stressed and upset, and I’ve been on my own so long...” She shook her head. “It’s like my emotions have gone all haywire.”

“You don’t have to apologize for anything.” He understood her more than she would probably believe. The combination of stress and many months of living alone had no doubt intensified his desire for her, but that didn’t explain the tenderness beneath the lust, and the fierce desire to make things right for her. He wanted to return her son safely to her, and he wanted to see her smiling and happy again.

“We’re going to find Ian,” he said. “Hold on to that thought.” He turned away. “Try to get some sleep.” All he wanted was to crawl into that bed with her and hold her all night long, but she’d probably misinterpret his actions, think he was taking advantage of her vulnerability. If he was going to help her, she had to trust him, and that meant letting her dictate the pace of their relationship. So, while he wanted to stay, he made himself leave the room and shut the door quietly behind him.

* * *

ANDREA DIDN’T KNOW how long she stood where Jack left her, clinging to the memory of his warmth and strength. How long had it been since a man had touched her with such tenderness? She had savored the feeling, even as shame lurked in the background, mocking her for enjoying even a minute while her son was in danger. But she’d needed those few moments in Jack’s arms to pull herself together and to gather her own strength to keep from breaking down. Though the urge to collapse onto the bed and give in to the sobs that pressed at the back of her throat almost overwhelmed her, doing so wouldn’t bring Ian back to her.

She went into the bathroom and washed her face and brushed her teeth, then returned to the bedroom and contemplated the freshly made bed. No way would she sleep tonight, not with thoughts of her boy, frightened and with strangers, haunting her.

She went into the living room and found Jack seated on the sofa, a laptop opened on the table in front of him. He had turned off the TV and a cup of coffee steamed at his right hand. He looked up when she moved into the light. “I couldn’t sleep,” she said, and sat beside him.

“I figure we’re both in for a long night,” he said. “Would you like some coffee? I just made it.”

“Maybe in a minute.” She nodded to the laptop. “Are you looking for the purse snatcher?”

“Yes.” He shrank the screen and picked up the coffee cup. “No luck so far, but I’m just getting started.”

“I don’t mean to keep you from your work.” She sat back and grabbed a small throw pillow to hug across her stomach. “I promise not to look.”

“I’ll take a break for a few minutes.” He sipped the coffee and neither of them said anything for a long moment. The refrigerator hummed in the small kitchen behind her, and somewhere below, a car door slammed.

“Why did you call me tonight?” he asked.

A reasonable question, but one she wasn’t sure she could answer. “I don’t know. I wasn’t even thinking. I guess...you’re an FBI agent. And you knew Ian. Or at least, you met him and talked to him.” She looked at him, the truth of her next words making her a little shaky. “I believed you could save him.” But why would she believe such a thing about a man she scarcely knew? Still, she couldn’t shake the conviction that if anyone could help her, it was Jack. The stubbornness and commitment and need for control that had struck her as negative traits in her office now stood out as exactly the characteristics needed to fight the evil responsible for her son’s disappearance.

“I’ll do everything I can to get him back to you,” he said.

She forced herself to stand on shaky legs. “I think I’ll have some of that coffee now.”

When she returned from the kitchen, he was focused on the computer once more. She moved around the room, then studied the few books on a shelf by the door—an acclaimed biography of Theodore Roosevelt, a guide to Colorado’s Weminuche Wilderness, a few thriller novels and a thick treatise on the history of terrorism. A single photograph graced the shelf by the books: two men, dressed in hiking gear and standing side by side atop a mountain, beaming at the camera. If she had to guess, she would say the man next to Jack in the photo was his friend Gus, the one whose death tormented him.

“I think I’ve got something,” Jack said.

She hurried to the sofa, scooting close to him to study the picture on the computer screen. A man looked back at her from a grainy black-and-white photo. “It’s from a surveillance camera,” Jack said. “Not the best quality, but good enough I can recognize him. This is the guy in the restaurant—the one who stole your purse.”

She leaned forward and squinted at the image. It was of a white man, fairly young, with light brown hair and a sharp nose. But nothing about him looked familiar. She shook her head. “I don’t recognize him. But I wasn’t really paying attention in the restaurant and his back was to me.”

“That’s all right,” Jack said. “I got a good look at him and this is the guy.” He clicked to the next screen and she read the name there. Anderson.

“Is that a first or a last name?” she asked.

“We don’t know.” Jack scanned the few lines of information under the name. “We don’t know a lot, but we suspect he’s connected to a terrorist cell we’ve been tracking here in Colorado.”

“Terrorists? You think Ian has been kidnapped by terrorists?” The knowledge refused to sink in. What would terrorists want with her little boy? Tears stung her eyes. Where was Ian now? What were they doing to him? If they hurt him...

Jack gripped her hand, pulling her back from the nightmare of horror she was capable of imagining. “We’re going to find them, and we’re going to get Ian back,” he said.

She nodded, struggling for control. “Yes.” That belief was the only life preserver she had. “We’re going to get him back.”

Jack turned to stare at the picture on the computer screen once more, and when he spoke, his voice was colder and harder than she had imagined it could be. “Tomorrow Anderson and his friends will be sorry they ever messed with me.”

Chapter Four

The call came at 6:13 a.m., forwarded from Andrea’s home phone to Jack’s cell. He sat up on the sofa, where he’d fallen into an exhausted doze sometime after three, and snatched up the phone as the last notes of “What It’s Like” sounded. “Hello?”

“Agent Prescott. Are you alone?”

The voice wasn’t familiar, and the echoing quality of it made Jack suspect it was being filtered electronically to disguise it. “Andrea is here with me, but no one else.”

“Good. Let me talk to Dr. McNeil.”

Andrea was already standing in the doorway to the bedroom, staring at him with equal parts hope and dread. Jack held the phone out to her. “It’s him. Or somebody with him.”

She pressed the phone to her ear, clutching it with both hands. “Hello? Is Ian all right? Please let me speak to Ian.”

“Your son is safe. For now. Do you have the money we asked for?”

“I’m going to the bank to get it as soon as they open. I don’t keep that kind of cash in the house.”

“That’s fine. You haven’t told anyone about what happened?”

“Only Jack. And my babysitter and her husband know, but only because she was there when he was taken. She doesn’t remember much and we made them both swear not to tell.” The words came in a rush, all her anxiety translated to speech. She wanted these men to know she was cooperating with them. She would do anything to see her son safe.

“Good. I’m going to give you an address. Write this down.”

“Hold on. I need paper and a pen.” She motioned and Jack thrust a notepad and pen into her hand. She copied down the address the man dictated and read it back to him. “Where is this?” she asked. “It doesn’t sound like Durango.”

“It isn’t. But I’m sure you can find it. Bring the money to this address by noon today. Agent Prescott can come with you, but no one else. If we even suspect police or FBI or anyone else is around, we’ll slit Ian’s throat and let him bleed to death right in front of you.” He ended the call.

Andrea sank to the floor, her legs no longer able to support her. Jack lowered himself beside her and pulled her close. “I heard,” he said. “He’s trying to intimidate and frighten you.”

“It’s working.” She covered her mouth with her hand in a vain attempt to stifle her sobs. “My poor baby.”

Jack let her cry for a minute or so. Then he held her away from him and shook her gently. “Come on. We’ve got work to do. We’re going to get Ian back today. Focus on that.”

She nodded and sucked in a shaky breath. “Okay. What do we need to do?”

“Take a shower and get dressed. I’ll make more coffee. Then we’ll plan our strategy.”

When Andrea emerged from the bedroom fifteen minutes later, showered and wearing fresh clothes, Jack handed her a cup of black coffee. “I’ve decided I should go by myself to meet these people,” he said. “This smells of a trap and there’s no need to put you in danger when I’m the one they really want.”

“My son is in danger. There’s no way I’m not going with you to get him.” Her eyes blazed and her face had taken on some color for the first time in hours.

He hadn’t really thought he could convince her to stay behind, but he felt he had to try. He nodded and picked up a gun from the kitchen table and handed it to her. “Then you’ll need this.” She stared at the compact weapon, matte black and deadly looking.

“It’s a Beretta Storm,” he said, pulling the slide back to reveal an empty chamber. “Nine millimeter, double-or single-action trigger, ambidextrous safety.” He placed the gun in her hand. “Do you know how to shoot?”

She nodded. “Preston took me to the range and made sure I was competent.”

“Good.” He nodded toward the box of ammo on the table. “Load it, and be ready to use it if you have to, though I hope you don’t have to.”

He pulled out his Glock and checked the load. The last time he had fired the weapon was the day Gus died.

“Preston had a Glock like that,” she said. “I still have it in the gun safe at home.”

He holstered the weapon again. “We could be walking into a trap,” he said. “We’re going to have to be on our guard.”

She nodded. “We have to find the address first.”

He picked up the notepad with the scrawled address and walked to the laptop on the coffee table. A few minutes of searching online and he came up with a location. “It’s about twenty-five miles out of town, near the community of Bayfield. Do you know it?”

She sat next to him and laid the now-loaded weapon beside the computer, the barrel facing away from them. “I’ve driven through it a few times. From what I remember, there isn’t much there—a few houses, maybe a gas station. I guess the kidnappers chose it because it’s remote and probably not very busy this time of year.”

“Let’s see if we can get a look at it.” He pulled up Google Earth and keyed in the address. By zooming in and maneuvering the mouse, he was able to get a bird’s-eye view of a cluster of buildings alongside a river. “Pine River,” he read. “This address looks like a fishing camp.”

He switched to Street View and studied the image of what appeared to be boarded up buildings. The image had been captured in the summer and showed a dirt road leading into the property, and the surrounding woods. “It’s a pretty good setup,” he said. “The river protects them on one side and there are dense stands of trees on the other sides. It’s well hidden from the road, and from the looks of the place, no one has lived there for years.”

“If we drive in there, we’ll be trapped,” she said.

“We’re not going to drive,” he said. “At least, not right away. We’re going to park some distance away and hike in cross-country. And we’re going to do it long before noon. I want a look at this place and whoever is there before they expect us.”

“I just realized the man on the phone referred to you as Agent Prescott. How did he know your name?”

“Because I’m the one they’re really after.” He looked at her. “If things go bad out there, I want you to take Ian and run, as far and as fast as you can. Don’t worry about me.”

Her eyes shone with tears and her face was the color of paper. She nodded. “I don’t want to leave you,” she said. “But I have to save Ian.”

“We’ll need to dress warm, with good boots and warm coats, hats and gloves,” he said. “We can swing by your house on the way to the bank and get what you need. The weather forecast is calling for a major storm cell to move into the area by afternoon.”

“The bank opens at nine,” she said. “If we leave here at eight thirty, we can go to my house, then the bank, and leave from there. I can change shoes in the truck on the way down.”

Now that the pressure was on, she had pulled herself together and was all business. “You would have made a good cop,” he said.

Her expressive face revealed anger and pain. “I know you probably mean that as a compliment,” she said. “But I don’t see it that way.” She picked up the gun again and stood. “I’ll be ready to go when you are.”

* * *

THE FIRST FLAKES of snow began to fall as they moved away from Jack’s truck. They had parked the vehicle off the road, hidden by a thick stand of juniper, to the west of the fishing camp. It had taken almost an hour to reach the camp from Durango, the last thirty minutes on a winding snow-packed road that crossed and recrossed the Pine River. “We’ve got to hike about two miles,” Jack said. “We’ll have to find a place where we can watch the camp without being seen.”

Andrea pulled down the knit cap on her head and checked that the gun was secure at the small of her back beneath her winter coat. She hoped she wouldn’t have to fire it, but she would if it meant saving Ian. “I’m ready,” she said.

Jack led the way into the snowy woodland. He moved swiftly but silently, sinking to his shins in snow with each step. Andrea tried to follow in his tracks but was soon out of breath and sweating beneath her layers of clothing. As the snow began to fall harder, she told herself this was a good thing. The storm would keep everyone at the camp inside and the snow would help muffle the sound of their approach.

After they’d walked for half an hour or so, Jack stopped. Andrea moved up beside him and looked down on the river some ten feet below. Ice rimmed the frothing brown water. “If we walk along the riverbank from here, we should come to the camp,” he said.

She shivered, as much from fear of what lay ahead as from the cold soaking through her clothing. Jack pressed something into her hand—the key to his truck. “Do you think you can make it with Ian back to my truck by yourself?” he asked.

She stared up at him. “You’re coming with us, aren’t you?”

“I plan to. But just in case something happens—can you find your way by yourself?”

She folded her hand over the key, then slid it into her coat pocket. “I can do it. I follow the river, then turn left. That will eventually take me to the road. Your truck is parked just past the telephone pole with the sign tacked to it about a farm auction next month.”

Jack clapped her shoulder. “Good job, remembering that sign.”

“How’s your leg?” she asked. All this hard hiking couldn’t be good for his wounds.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” He turned away and started walking again before she could say anything else.

When he stopped again, she could make out the corner of a building maybe fifty yards ahead, the wood siding painted dark green, icicles hanging from the metal roof. Jack dropped to his knees and motioned for her to do likewise.

Snow soaked into her jeans and wet the cuffs of her coat as she crawled along behind Jack. She couldn’t see anything from this height other than snow and Jack himself ahead of her. Then the undergrowth receded and they were in the clearing, behind a building. At the corner of the structure, Jack stood, his weapon drawn. She rose also, her back to the building, heart thudding painfully.

Jack peered around the side of the building. “What do you see?” she whispered.

“Nothing,” he said. “But there are a lot of buildings here. We’re going to have to get closer if we’re going to find Ian.”

The camp looked deserted, the windows in the cabins boarded up, the sign that read Office on one building hanging crooked from a single nail. But the tire tracks in the packed snow of the drive looked fresh, and the smell of wood smoke mingled with the scents of pine trees.

There were nine cabins overall, eight arranged in a half circle, with the office, a larger structure that looked as if it had once contained a residence as well as a store, sitting to one side, nearest the narrow drive that led from the main road. A rusting metal arch marked the entrance to the camp, the sign hanging from the top unreadable from Jack’s position.

He waited, ears straining to hear any sound beyond the whistle of wind through the trees. The cabin they were standing behind was probably empty. In the five minutes or so they had been standing here, he hadn’t heard any sounds from inside. If someone had so much as walked around in there, he and Andrea would have known about it.

Behind him, Andrea shifted her weight from foot to foot, feet crunching on the snow. He checked his watch. A few minutes past ten thirty. If Anderson or whoever he worked for was planning an ambush, they were probably already in place. They’d done a good job concealing themselves, though it would be easy enough to take up positions in the cabins and wait for Jack and Andrea to drive into the yard. Then the kidnappers could converge and take them prisoner or simply open fire and kill them before they had a chance to act.

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