Someone’s after a deadly weapon…

and only she can stop them.

It’s undercover ATF agent Randee Jareau’s job to make sure the government’s 3-D printed “ghost gun” doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. So when someone goes after scientist Ace Steele, she must protect him…before she loses the undetectable weapon and its creator. But with a mole inside Ace’s company and everyone a suspect, this assignment could become Randee’s last.

SHAREE STOVER is a Colorado native transplanted to Nebraska, where she lives with her husband, three children and two dogs. Her mother instilled in her the love of books before Sharee could read, along with the promise, “If you can read, you can do anything.” When she’s not writing, she enjoys time with her family, long walks with her obnoxiously lovable German shepherd and crocheting. Find her at shareestover.com or on Twitter, @shareestover.

Also By Sharee Stover

Secret Past

Silent Night Suspect

Untraceable Evidence

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Untraceable Evidence

Sharee Stover

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90715-0

UNTRACEABLE EVIDENCE

© 2020 Sharee Stover

Published in Great Britain 2020

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

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

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

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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“Get down!”

The truck’s passenger leaned out and aimed again. Randee accelerated, ignoring the detour and veering around it, and merged onto the highway. The passenger fired two more rounds. Shots pinged off her SUV.

She cleared the sign by inches. The truck didn’t have enough room to follow, and Randee sped away.

“Is this ever going to end?” Ace barked.

Randee longed to tell him yes. They had to get to the gala with Malte. In the meantime, she needed to ensure they’d lost the truck.

Finally, Randee pulled up to Ace’s apartment. She spotted the ATF undercover van parked around the corner. “I won’t take long to get ready. How about if I return in an hour to pick you up for the gala?”

“Sure. Thanks.” Ace shoved open the door, paused and faced her. “I’m sorry, Randee. I don’t mean to be rude. I just don’t know how to process all of this.”

“I’m sure it’ll be over soon.” And that was one promise she intended to keep. Tonight.

Dear Reader,

I am so grateful for you, and I appreciate your taking the time to read Untraceable Evidence.

After I’ve spent months with these characters, Ace and Randee have become near and dear to my heart. I hope you enjoyed getting to know them, too.

The biggest message they taught me through this story is that we don’t have to be perfect for our heavenly Father. He’s given us the greatest gift: grace. Freely given, not earned and lavished on us because we are accepted in the beloved. You and I are safe with God, even in our imperfection.

I enjoy hearing from my readers, so please connect with me on my website, www.shareestover.com, or drop me a line at authorshareestover@gmail.com.

Blessings to you,

Sharee Stover

To the praise of the glory of his grace, wherein he hath made us accepted in the beloved.

—Ephesians 1:6

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to:

My incredible editor, Emily Rodmell, whose wisdom and ideas bring tout the best in every story. I am honored to work with you.

To my husband and children. You make life good, and I love you beyond words.

To my crime writing and solving partners, Connie, Jackie, Rhonda and Sherrinda, for their perfectly timed icing.

To my agent, Tamela Hancock Murray, for her willingness to answer all my ridiculous questions.

Most of all, thank You, Father God, for lavishing Your incredible grace on us.

For the one exhausted from striving for perfection and approval, know this: you are accepted in the Beloved and His grace covers you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Introduction

Dear Reader

Bible Verse

Acknowledgments

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

ONE

ATF special agent Miranda Jareau had her eyes target-locked on Ace Steele, her Glock ready as she watched for possible threats. The man whistled along to whatever tune played in the earbuds peeking from beneath his mass of dark curls, oblivious to the covert security detail.

Randee had backed her vehicle into the space to protect Steele as she readied for her undercover assignment. She sat strategically positioned to ensure unhindered visibility of PrimeRight Laboratory’s underground parking garage. Her early reconnaissance allowed her to account for the other vehicles while awaiting Steele’s arrival.

She studied the attractive scientist, comparing his appearance against her case file again. She’d anticipated a gawky member of the intelligentsia. Instead, Ace Steele resembled a GQ model. The only consistent and accurate similarity to the file was the man’s dark-framed glasses. Either he wasn’t photogenic, or his surveillance pictures did him no justice.

Though the October morning was considerably warmer than usual for this time of year, Steele wore a buttoned tweed sports coat straining across his broad shoulders and brown Dockers emphasizing his trim waist. The unique silver metal briefcase, containing the specifications for the top secret 3-D printer gun, code named Ghost, swung casually from his hand.

Her phone vibrated, and she glanced down to read the text from her commanding officer, Special Agent in Charge Sergio Vargas. Advise status.

Target approaching lab. Randee responded.

Check in at 10:30.

10-4.

The ATF had vetted all fifty PrimeRight employees prior to the Project Ghost agreement. Only five, including Randee, had clearance to the main area and prototype. Randee’s team suspected Titus Malte would be their greatest enemy. Malte’s criminal career included avid support and connection with a local militia.

The ATF’s surveillance had uncovered communication between an unidentified party at PrimeRight and Malte. Another reason for her undercover assignment. None of the PrimeRight personnel had traceable connections to Malte; however, surveillance had determined a mole existed within the company.

Voice-altering software disguised the callers’ identities in every communication, creating an additional obstacle for her team’s technical expert, Ishi Haramoto. But Randee had no doubt she would identify them. In the meantime, Sergio had wanted an insider to ferret out the spy and keep an eye on all the parties involved.

The partners were the obvious suspects since they’d have the most to gain, but that was too easy. “The butler did it” type of thinking. If the spy was a trusted member of the PrimeRight employees, he or she was a traitor and didn’t deserve to breathe free air.

With one final survey of the garage, Randee concealed her department-issued weapon inside her oversize tote. She contemplated leaving the bag unzipped for quick retrieval, but she couldn’t chance Steele seeing the gun.

Annoyance at the pencil skirt and matching blazer she had to wear for this assignment threatened to put her on edge again, but she shoved it down. She’d conduct her mission with the same professionalism and excellence she did everything, even if the wardrobe didn’t allow for her shoulder holster.

A grin tugged at her painted lips. Truthfully, she’d have a hard time explaining why Randee Jones—her alias as PrimeRight’s newest accountant—brought a gun on her first day, but she’d find a way to keep the weapon close. Just another necessary accommodation in protecting the top secret prototype.

Randee stepped out of her vehicle, hefting the tote onto her shoulder, then reached in, grabbed her steaming vanilla chai latte and trailed behind Steele. She increased her pace, wobbling slightly on her black leather pumps and splashing a little of the coffee on her wrist.

She winced and slowed down, heels clicking against the cement floor. What she’d give for her comfortable combat boots.

Special Agent in Charge Vargas had recruited her for the PrimeRight case, and Randee hoped it was because of her unblemished employment history. After all, she had a box full of awards and accolades as confirmation of her outstanding performance.

A decade ago, Randee soared to the top of her class by exceeding the performance of some of the toughest men she’d ever encountered and risen up the ATF ranks with the goal of being promoted to bureau chief before she turned forty. She’d joined the academy at twenty-nine—making her one of the oldest recruits with eight years as a Nebraska State Patrol trooper under her belt. A lofty ambition at that time. Nearly impossible now since it left a year to accomplish her dream.

However, there was a greater likelihood Sergio chose her because she was the only member of the team with previous accounting experience. No matter. She’d jumped on the opportunity to pose as PrimeRight’s accountant while guarding Project Ghost. But seven months of grueling physical agility training had failed to prepare her for the downside of this mission—the required business formal dress code.

Randee hadn’t admitted she’d last worn pantyhose at her academy graduation, and her accounting experience occurred before her trooper days. She’d be dragging terms and procedures out from the recesses of her mind for sure. Sergio had teased her about the eight-to-five schedule. Compared to the extensive overtime she normally worked, the office routine would be a vacation.

The rumble of an engine diverted her attention to the garage entrance. A black utility van approached, morning sunlight beaming off the chrome grill. Randee turned and spotted Steele sauntering toward the door of the adjoining laboratory catwalk. Still oblivious to her and his surroundings.

She increased her speed, her gaze bouncing between the van and Steele. Overreacting would blow her cover—a definite negative on day one.

The vehicle advanced at a normal pace. Randee scurried over to the opposite side of the garage, closing the distance between her and Steele, prepared to intervene.

With a roar, the van sped past her and screeched to a halt, blocking her path to the scientist.

Randee dropped the latte, splashing hot liquid onto her legs. She bolted ahead, tote bouncing against her hip, and rounded the rear of the vehicle as two hooded men—dressed entirely in black—leaped from the open side door.

She lunged, and her bag slipped off her shoulder, then flopped to the floor. Snagging the closest of the assailants, she caught him off guard. With her hand around his chin she yanked him backward, driving her palm into the back of his head in a classic occipital stun maneuver. The latest training technique worked, and the man slumped to the ground.

Randee’s gaze flew to Steele, who was swinging his oversize briefcase at the second attacker, and nearly smacked Randee. She ducked as the assailant latched onto the briefcase, tugging it from Steele’s hands.

The hooded man faced her with triumph in his eyes until Randee’s foot connected with his knee, hyperextending the appendage.

He screamed and dropped to the ground, clutching his injured leg as the briefcase skidded across the concrete.

Steele reached for the case, but the man lurched upward, tugging Steele down to him. The men rolled on the cement in a flurry of punches and kicks.

Randee scanned the area for her tote, spotting the brown-and-pink print several feet away. An unexpected tackle from behind shoved her down. The attacker ran over her—literally, stomping on her back as he sprinted for the briefcase beside Steele and his adversary.

Randee rolled and swept the attacker’s legs out from under him. He bounced against the floor, then growled before delivering a sharp blow to her stomach, knocking the wind out of her.

He drew back his arm, preparing for a second hit. Randee blocked the punch, regaining her momentum, and allowed her training to shift her into autopilot. She wrapped her ankle around the man’s leg, inverting herself over him, then drove her fists into his ample gut and jaw. She jumped to her feet, ignoring the pain in her hands, and lunged for her bag.

“Forget it! Let’s go!” the driver behind her yelled.

Randee spun to see the wounded men retreating into the van. She spotted the briefcase lying beneath a parked sedan as the screech of tires reverberated in the garage, announcing the men’s hasty retreat.

Steele rushed to her side. “Ma’am, are you okay?”

Randee glanced up. “Physically, yes, but this isn’t the impression I hoped to make on my first day of work here.” Assessing her clothing, she frowned at her ripped skirt and the large run in the left leg of her pantyhose.

“You must be Randee Jones. Our new accountant.”

“Yes, sir.” She walked past the pool of vanilla latte oozing caramel liquid onto the ground.

“Combat skills aren’t part of your job description, but you’ve got those in spades.”

Randee swallowed and shrugged. Great. Now what? She snatched the coffee cup with two fingers and dropped it into the closest trash bin. “Self-defense class at the YMCA,” she blurted.

He quirked a dark brow over the rim of his glasses, disbelief in his expression. “Ace Steele. My partner, Fritz Nelson, and I own PrimeRight Laboratories, although I’m technically the senior scientist. Not sure if that means I’m old or at the top of the proverbial career ladder.” He held out his hand and gave her a firm handshake. Definitely a positive in her book.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Steele. Here, let me help.” She walked to the briefcase, lifted it and passed it to him. “Wow, do you carry an anvil in there?”

“Ace, please.” Mahogany curls peppered with silver highlights framed his face and strong jaw. The man appeared unfazed by the attack, but reservation in his royal blue irises spoke more. Ace Steele was nothing like she’d expected.

“Since we were attacked, I’m hoping I won’t be in trouble for my tardiness this morning?” Randee joked.

“I’d say you have a good reason for the delay. Hopefully, the lab’s security cameras caught the license plate.” He pointed at a silver camera hanging in the corner.

She’d have Sergio pull the footage immediately. “That was crazy. Are these types of occurrences normal around here?” Randee worked to sound curious while masking her interrogator skills. “Got any idea who those men were?”

Steele frowned. “The beginning of the end.”

Ace Steele never planned to be a murderer, but that wouldn’t matter if the contracted plans for the ATF’s top secret 3-D printer ghost gun and bullets, named Project Ghost, landed in the wrong hands. He would bear the burden of and responsibility for numerous deaths. Every life-stealing, disintegrating bullet forever branding him as a killer.

He led Randee into the PrimeRight Laboratory offices while his mind raced in multiple directions. “You’ll want to meet with Yolanda to finish your paperwork,” he said in a half-hearted introduction to the office manager.

“Good morning.” Yolanda stood and greeted Randee, curiosity etched in her expression at the woman’s appearance.

Ace gestured toward the phone on Yolanda’s desk. “Police are on their way. We were attacked in the garage. Call me when they arrive. I need to talk to Fritz.”

Yolanda’s hand flew to her mouth.

“Ma’am, are you sure you’re all right?” he asked Randee, studying the pretty brunette. Even with her long, disheveled curls and the disrepair to her clothing, she was stunning.

“I’m fine. Thanks, Mr. Steele.”

Her wide doe eyes met his, sending a strange jolt through his chest. Ace spun on his heel and murmured, “I’ll be back.” Then hurried down the hallway determined to aim his cantankerous mood at his partner.

He never should’ve agreed to the ATF’s conditions, but the increase of illegal ghost guns available to criminals at the touch of a 3-D printer was alarming. Anyone with internet had access to download the specifications for printing the external components. The inner workings had not yet been developed or released. Ace was tasked with inventing an entirely printable gun including disintegrating bullets before the criminals beat him to it. The ATF assured him his efforts would be spearheading legislation regarding printer guns while giving the authorities a head start in protective efforts. Which was a nice way of saying, once he finished his portion, the rest was classified and none of his business.

Randee and Ace could’ve been killed this morning. Although the extensive security embedded inside the briefcase acted like a portable armory, increasing the weight while protecting Project Ghost’s plans and latest—functional but not perfected—prototype. At least the attackers hadn’t stolen the briefcase. Small consolation since they’d also gotten away.

Randee Jones was nothing like he’d expected of an accountant. She’d been so composed and confident, fighting back against the assailants. The woman intrigued him.

Once more he considered the petite brunette’s amazing combat skills. If the YMCA taught that kind of self-defense, he’d recommend them to everyone he knew. But something in his gut said that wasn’t where she’d learned to fight.

If only his sister, Cara, had known how to defend herself. If he’d been braver and responded to her murderer the way he’d done today, she’d be alive. And he wouldn’t live smothered under the weight of his mistakes. The familiar cloud of guilt he’d befriended after her death hovered close again.

His life wasn’t the only one at risk. Randee had been in danger, too, proving he’d made the biggest mistake of his career by agreeing to Ghost’s development. And he intended to fix that immediately.

Agitation building with each step, Ace stormed into Fritz’s immaculate suite and blurted, “My office. Now.”

His partner flashed his million-dollar smile, phone pressed against his ear, and signaled Ace to give him a minute. Fritz procured contracts for intricate project development, and Ghost was PrimeRight’s first government deal. He’d hoped to move the laboratory in that direction permanently. He was probably committing Ace to another wretched top secret, stressful project.

Spinning on his heel, Ace walked to his adjacent office and sank onto his desk chair, head in his hands. “Lord, I never meant for it to happen this way.”

Did God listen to murderers? Doubtful. What did it matter, anyway? He’d never be forgiven.

“Who’re you talking to?” Fritz flipped on the overhead light and strolled in. The man’s modern fashion sense was juxtaposed with Ace’s boxy black-rimmed glasses and scraggly hair in desperate need of a trim.

“Shut the door.”

“Wow, what’s up with you?”

“Well, aside from agreeing to develop a weapon I never wanted to be a part of, I was attacked in the parking garage. If Randee hadn’t been there—”

“Who?”

“The new accountant.”

“He helped save you?” Fritz grinned.

“She, who by the way, possesses exceptional battle skills. Someone’s out to steal the briefcase and might end up killing me in the process.”

“Maybe it was just a mugging.”

“Seriously?” Ace growled, lifting his briefcase onto the desk.

“I mean, there’s a huge difference between a mugging and someone trying to murder you.”

“This isn’t good. I don’t feel right about developing the prototype.”

“Not this again.” Fritz flopped on the chair opposite Ace’s desk, bordering on the threat of a file folder avalanche. So much for a paperless system. “You’ve got to change your perception of this project. You’re providing a service benefiting thousands.”

“Today proved my fears. If the plans end up in the wrong hands, think of the devastation.” Ace leaned forward and met Fritz’s annoyed gaze. “Tell them you made a mistake, and the prototype is a flop.”

Fritz shook his head, not a hair shifting from its gel-plastered place. “It’s a done deal. PrimeRight’s reputation is on the line.”

“The gun’s illegal.”

“Nothing contracted and ordered by the government is illegal. Everything regarding Ghost belongs to the ATF. The only difference is your brilliance in eliminating the gun’s metal components. Your development gives the ATF a heads-up. What they do with the weapon isn’t our problem. And for the record, deadly disintegrating ammunition already exists, so it’s not like you’re some nefarious scientist trying to overtake the world with an evil invention.”

“Frangible ammunition—”

Fritz lifted his hands. “Don’t use technical terms on me. Remember, I’m just the PR guy.”

“Frangible ammunition is the correct term for disintegrating bullets. It was created for training purposes with the promise of low-impact damage at close range. I’m charged with creating the exact opposite. Disintegrating with high-impact damage at close range.” Ace lowered his voice. “If criminals get a hold of Ghost, think of the unspeakable damage they’d possess. The gun’s undetectable. If they smuggle it into airports, schools or courtrooms, the carnage will be on me!”

“You’re delusional if you don’t believe crooks are working on weapons exactly like this right now. We’re giving our government an advantage by developing it first. We’re protecting the public. You’re the best, and you can do this. When it’s finished, you’ll be a hero.”

“As if that matters one iota to me.”

“Our employees need this contract. PrimeRight needs the money and recognition.” Ace didn’t miss the hint of desperation in Fritz’s tone and his dramatic sigh.

Ace’s plea had fallen on deaf and unwavering ears. They’d had this conversation a hundred different ways and gained no ground. Fritz only spoke in dollar signs.

A long moment passed between them. Would his partner finally surrender? A microscopic portion of hope hovered in Ace’s mind.

Fritz planted his expensive black leather shoes on the linoleum floor and rested his hands on his knees. “I didn’t want to mention this, but the agreement you signed stipulates if we fail to deliver, the ATF will prosecute us for violating the law. They’ll deny any involvement, and they won’t pay us.”

Ace pushed up from his chair, thrusting the seat back so fast it slammed against the wall. “What? You never told me any of that. I’d never have agreed to the project!”

“Actually, I did. It’s in the contract.”

Ace paced around his office. “You tricked me.”

Fritz snorted. “Hardly. You signed the same documents I did.”

“I trusted you.”

“And I trust you to do what’s right.” His friend’s tone deepened and took on a hardness Ace didn’t recognize. “Without this contract, PrimeRight will go under, and we’ll be forced to lay off all our employees. They’ll lose their health insurance.” Fritz paused.

His words sank in; Ace was being manipulated by his friend, again. He turned and caught a glimpse of Yolanda and Randee through the small window in his door. The women’s timed appearance emphasized PrimeRight’s predicament. Yolanda smiled and gave Ace a slight wave, which he returned.

“Diego’s treatment is going well,” Fritz said, tone softening.

Yolanda’s seven-year-old son, Diego, had a myriad of medical issues that had kept him hospitalized most of his young life. As a single parent, she worked hard to provide for them, and her insurance benefits were essential. Dread swarmed Ace. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I understand your reservations, but we owe our employees to do everything possible to keep our doors open.”

Ace shuffled to his chair, slumped onto the seat and held his head in his hands.

“You’re not just my business partner, you’re my best friend. Think of all the great things you’ll be able to do for women like Cara. By keeping guns away from the criminals, you’re saving innocent lives.”

Once again, Fritz’s precise aim bull’s-eyed Ace’s guilt right in the jugular.

Frustrated at himself for relenting, Ace studied his friend. Everything about Fritz was etched out of a fashion magazine. Not an out-of-place strand in his perfect haircut framing his blemish-free face. Why had he chosen this man to befriend? Fritz was nothing but trouble, from their childhood antics to this project nightmare. He was also the closest person to a brother Ace had ever known, and their thirty-five-year history spoke for itself.

Ace groaned. “Fine. But for the record, Ghost isn’t complete. I need an extension.”

“Everything looks great on paper.”

“Paper and invention are two different things. Once I’ve got the prototype completed, I’ll let you know.”

“How much time are we talking?”

“Weeks. Maybe a month.”

Fritz shook his head. “Negative.”

“I can’t make it come together any faster than I already am. I need to eliminate the bugs.”

“Like?”

“The bullets haven’t passed testing yet, and the removal of metals like tin or copper for the binding agent to the nylon 6 polymer—”

“Whoa, you’re talking way over my head.”

Ace sighed. “There’s no proof Ghost will sustain firing. My experimental tests explode the frame after the first shot. That’s unacceptable.”

“I’ve seen the gun and the bullets. They all work.”

“I won’t release Ghost until I’m sure it’s the best product I can create. Do not rush me.”

Fritz held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. But the delivery date is scheduled, and we’ll celebrate at the anniversary event tomorrow night. I don’t want to disappoint. This invention will put us on the map. You’re going to be a rich man.”

As if he cared about money. “I’ll do my best.”

“There you go, thinking like the innovator you are.” Fritz pushed up from the chair. “Guess I’d better meet this ninja-fighting Randee accountant. And you’ll have to give a report to the cops.” He moved toward the door, then paused. “Thanks, Ace.”

“For what? Giving in to you all the time?”

“For having my back. You’re the best.” Fritz gave a quick slap to the wall, emphasizing his words, before exiting.

Ace removed the thumb drive from the briefcase, booted up his laptop and inserted the device, pulling up the specs for Ghost.

The gun defied the Undetectable Firearms Act by mere existence because it was developed entirely out of plastic. Even the bullets were made from a specially formulated nonmetallic powder binding agent that disintegrated into tiny fragments upon impact. It was impossible to locate via a metal detector.

Innovative in the ATF’s hands.

Mass destruction in the hands of criminals.

TWO

Randee forced patience into her response to Officer Paulson’s repetitive questions. Ace’s irritated expression reflected his equally tedious conversation with the second cop on the other side of the room. Maybe it was wrong to criticize the officers’ methods, but their interview process had lagged to an excruciating level of ridiculous and once more, she repeated her rote replies.

No, she didn’t know who the men were.

Yes, she’d defended herself.

No, she didn’t know why they were attacked.

Three assailants failed to take the briefcase. Did that speak to their inexperience?

Randee glanced at her watch, anxious to talk to Sergio. The morning’s ambush only solidified the need to protect both Project Ghost and the scientist from Titus Malte and his cronies. And that meant Steele might be in more danger than they’d anticipated. “I guess that’s all I need for now,” Paulson announced. “We’ll be in touch if we find anything.”

The cops sauntered out the door, and Randee heaved a sigh of relief before excusing herself to the restroom at the far end of the building.

She cringed at her reflection in the mirror, then finger-combed her chestnut curls and attempted to repair her ripped skirt with the safety pin Yolanda had provided. Snatching her cell from her tote, she called Sergio twenty minutes past her check-in time.

“I was about to drive down there and storm the gates. You’re late. What’s going on?” Sergio barked in greeting.

“Sorry, had to do a report with the local PD.” Randee launched into an abbreviated version of the morning’s events, concluding with, “I believe the assailants work for Malte. There were no license plates on the van, and the men were masked. Doubtful we’ll get any leads.”

Sergio dived into command mode. “Ishi will get the security camera tapes.”

Given the opportunity, Ishi Haramoto, the ATF’s technology expert, could’ve found the lost city of Atlantis. If there were clues on the footage, she’d uncover it.

Sergio continued, “Zimmer and I will handle protection detail for Steele outside his apartment tonight.”

“I’ll swing by on my way home.”

They disconnected, and Randee exited the restroom. She passed through the double doors separating the smaller lab from the main area and noted the setup.

Floor-to-ceiling windows served as the external walls for the two-story PrimeRight building, filtering in natural light from every direction. The laboratory was centered among the surrounding offices in the restricted access section.

Yolanda glanced up as Randee entered the accounting office. Overflowing file boxes lined the walls and floor, and the modest desk held piles of folders.

“I’ve tried balancing Barry’s job and mine. As you can see—” she gestured toward the massive mounds of paper “—he lacked organizational skills.”

The accountant’s recent resignation due to his illness had created the perfect undercover position for Randee. Yolanda’s comment opened the topic for discussion.

“What happened to Barry?” Randee busied herself straightening the files before they cascaded off the desk.

“He had many medical issues and an ongoing debilitating disease, but he was such a trouper and a hard worker. The last round of treatments really did him in. He kept to himself a lot. Such a nice man—it was awful to see him miserable. Barry moved to Phoenix to be closer to a specialist there. I saw him just before he was transferred from the University of Nebraska Medical Center.”

“Had you visited him often?”

Yolanda shrugged. “My son Diego’s in the same hospital, so I’d stop by Barry’s room, too.” A hitch in her voice captured Randee’s attention.

The office manager waved her hand. “Sorry, I’m too emotional for my own good sometimes. Especially when I talk about my baby boy.” She chuckled. “Oh, he’d be embarrassed if he heard me call him that. He’s almost seven and very mature.” She withdrew her cell phone, swiped the screen and passed the device to Randee.

Though she was aware of the child’s medical issues, the sight of oxygen tubes trailing from his nose caught her off guard. Nothing dissuaded his sweet smile. So much like his mother’s.

“Diego has a rare form of leukemia. A name I can barely pronounce, with expensive and unpredictable treatments. He’s a fighter, though.”

“I’m so sorry.” Randee passed the phone back. “He’s handsome, certainly gets his good looks from you.”

Yolanda’s low ponytail accentuated her high cheekbones. Pride and joy filled her large brown eyes, tainted by a hint of sadness. “He’s my everything.”

Randee’s heart squeezed, and a pause hung between them.

“Are you married? Do you have children?”

And there it was. The words Randee hated most in the getting-to-know-you conversation. She shook her head and steadied her voice before responding. “Not yet.” More likely, never. Randee’s chance for a family was dwindling, as her mother often reminded her.

Yolanda took the hint. “Forgive me. I’m a talker and too nosy. It’s nice to have another woman to connect with. I’ll help you get started, then leave you to this treasure trove.”

Grateful for the change of subject, Randee attempted to gain additional information. Did Yolanda know anything about the attackers? “Thanks again for the safety pin. I’m not sure it’ll save the skirt, but I appreciate it.”

“I am so sorry you had to endure that horrible incident this morning.”

“Has anything like that ever happened here before?”

“No.” The talkative woman grew quiet. “This pile is a good place to begin.”

A knock on the open door interrupted the conversation, and Fritz Nelson strolled in wearing a Cheshire grin and an expensive tailor-fitted suit. “Randee, glad to see you’re settling in. I apologize again for your awful first encounter with PrimeRight.”

“It was an interesting way to start the day,” she agreed. “Is the area high crime?”

Fritz shook his head. “No, I’m sure it was an isolated incident. I see Yolanda is getting you acclimated to your new digs.” He leaned against the wall, brushing off Randee’s question.

“Actually, we were just getting started. Thought I’d show Randee the computer system first,” Yolanda said, moving around to the laptop.

Fritz’s smile broadened. “Our brilliant Yolanda is a storehouse of wisdom.” He stepped toward her and placed his hand on her shoulder.

The woman glowed from his praise. “I was confessing my lack of accounting experience. I’ve only done the basics, paying the regular bills and payroll.”

“She’s too modest. Yolanda keeps this place running smooth as corn silk. Whatever questions you have, she’s got answers.”

“You’re too kind.” Yolanda practically beamed. Turning to Randee, she said, “I feel guilty leaving you with such a mess.”

Randee grabbed a stack off the desk. “No problem. I’m up for the challenge.”

Fritz turned on his heel and headed for the door. “I’ll let you ladies work. Welcome to the PrimeRight family, Randee.”

“Thank you, Mr. Nelson,” Randee responded.

“No mister, just Fritz.” He drifted out, whistling, and his pungent cologne lingered in the air.

Randee dived in for more information. “You have a tight community here. Not sure I’ll get used to calling the partners by their first names.”

Yolanda shrugged. “PrimeRight is a family. Formalities aren’t a big deal.”

“It’s nice. Do Ace and Fritz work a lot of hours, too?”

“They’re the perfect pairing. Fritz is the face of PrimeRight, gifted in public relations and negotiations.” The woman’s voice dripped with admiration. “Ace is the brains of the operation. Quiet. Kind and keeps to himself. But the guy might as well live here. He’s single and has no children. A total workaholic.” As if sensing the power of her words, Yolanda’s cheeks reddened, and she looked away.

The comment stung Randee’s heart afresh. She had no relationships outside the ATF, either. Her career was her entire life, and she wondered if it was possible to change that trajectory. Not that it mattered. In her mother’s judgmental view, Randee chose selfish ambitions and ridiculous dreams of being promoted to bureau chief over a family.

Randee shook off the thoughts and focused on Yolanda’s directions in accessing the accounting system. After an extensive morning of training, she left Randee to excavate the mess.

Within a few hours, she had the hang of the software and was digging through the bank reconciliations and payroll records. Yolanda appeared to have several large transactions marked as bonuses. Not unusual, but interesting the other employees didn’t have similar payments.

Yolanda entered, purse in hand. “How’s it going?”

Randee glanced up, startled. The clock on her desk read seven o’clock. “The day flew by.”

“Everyone except Ace has left. Thought you might need rescuing, and we could walk out together.”

The mound of paperwork Randee had delved into was still insurmountable. “Who do I ask for approval to work a little longer?”

“Approved. I have few areas of authority, but I can grant your request.” Yolanda placed a Chinese takeout menu on the edge of Randee’s desk. “Best place to order from if you decide to get dinner. Number three’s my favorite.”

“Thanks.” Randee lifted the item. She needed to find out when Ace would be leaving.

“By the way, Herman is always willing to escort us to our vehicles after hours.” Yolanda gestured toward the elderly gentleman pushing a mop in the hallway. He appeared to be over seventy, though he didn’t look frail.

“Good to know,” Randee said with a grin.

“Don’t let his appearance fool you. He was a marine and a professional boxer.”

“Impressive. Guess I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

“Could you use some help?” Yolanda hugged her purse. “Diego sleeps a lot, and I hate going home to an empty house.”

Randee’s heart tugged at the pain in the young mother’s eyes. “If you’re willing, absolutely.”

“Great!” Yolanda set down her purse. “Let’s order food first. I always work better on a full stomach. What sounds good to you?”

“I’ll take your advice with the number three.”

“Good choice. I’ll ask Ace what he’d like. Be back in a sec.”

Maybe a little bonding over Chinese would have Yolanda divulging more of her history. Why hadn’t she mentioned a husband? Divorced? Widowed? Neither?

Were the bonuses legitimate?

Dread weighed on Randee’s shoulders.

Oh Lord, please no. Arresting a desperate single mother for embezzling money to cover her son’s medical care would be the worst assignment ever.

Ace lifted the prototype, inhaled and aimed into the firing barrel. Please work. He pulled the trigger, releasing the anticipated pop.

One down. One to go. The second shot was the doozy. The minor success up to this point became irrelevant when the gun deteriorated on multiple fires. If he failed this time, he’d be facing the 3-D printer for the thirty-third time since taking on Project Ghost.

Ace placed the gun on the table and procrastinated pulling the trigger by strolling around the laboratory. When he couldn’t hold off any longer, he took four long sips of his soda and returned to the prototype.

He sucked in a breath and repeated the procedure. The expected blast emanated, but the cracked frame he held immediately extinguished his gratification.

Test fire thirty-two, failed.

“Fantastic.” He slid onto the tall chair beside the table and dropped his head into his hands.

Over thirty blundered attempts. What was he doing wrong? Just as well. He’d never wanted the responsibility of this stupid project, anyway. Fritz would have to let him off the hook if he couldn’t get the specifications to work. The ATF would be forced to release him from the obligation. Right?

And PrimeRight would go out of business. Yolanda’s boy would lose his health insurance, and the single mom would be unemployed, along with forty-nine other people, including him.

There was no wonderful outcome. Either way, the results and consequences rested on his overburdened and under-talented shoulders.

Even Jesus doesn’t come to pity parties. Grandma Steele’s words echoed in his head.

“Ugh! Yeah, well, Jesus was smarter than me!” He startled at a knock behind him. Irritated, Ace spun around, facing the intruder, and barked, “What?”

Randee stood in the doorway extending a white take-out bag toward him. “Sorry to interrupt. Our dinner’s arrived.”

Warmth radiated up his neck. Had she heard his tirade? He shifted his gaze to the clock on the wall, avoiding her eyes—7:45 p.m. “Um. Thanks.”

He surveyed his work space, littered with plastic remnants and shattered bullets. She hesitated, and he forced a smile in a pathetic effort to hide his grumpiness. “I promise not to bite.”

Randee stepped in, and he shoved aside the prototype blueprints. “Might as well take a break since there’s not much more I can do with this hunk of junk.” He chucked the broken remnants into his overflowing container labeled Losers.

She grinned, drawing attention to her flawless teeth. Braces or blessed with good genetics? “That looks interesting. What are you working on?”

“Meet Ghost. Or rather, its failures.”

Randee set the bag on the table, delicious aromas wafting from it. “This is the top secret project?”

“Yep, so remember you’re sworn to silence, or men in black may show up and haul you away.”

She glanced down and smoothed her torn skirt before crossing her arms over her chest.

Ace gave himself a mental slap for bringing up the subject of the morning’s danger. “Sorry, that wasn’t—”

“It’s okay.” Randee’s eyes softened with understanding. “What happened wasn’t your fault. So, tell me, what’s different about this gun other than it looks fake?”

“Everything is plastic and produced from that.” He gestured toward the 3-D printer.

“Could anybody create one?”

“Anyone with access to a 3-D printer and my specifications. The difference lies in the fact that Ghost also shoots plastic bullets. Unfortunately, I can’t seem to keep them from melting or exploding the frame during multiple firings.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Only if you want to shoot more than a single round. Which the prototype agreement with the ATF requires.” He groaned and ran a hand through his hair. Saying it out loud made his incompetence more pronounced.

“Perhaps sustenance will increase your creativity.”

“There you are. I told Randee she needed to drag you from your brilliance and join us for dinner.” Yolanda swept into the lab, exuding her joy and encouragement.

“Yes, ma’am.” Ace lifted the blueprints and cleared off the massive table consuming a large portion of the room. Then he dragged over a few chairs.

Yolanda cleaned the surface with a bleach wipe. “How did today’s testing go?”

Randee dished out the food, and the three sat down to eat.

Ace bit and ripped apart his dumpling, taking his frustration out on the meal. “Pathetic.”

“It’s all part of perfecting the development,” Yolanda encouraged.

Ace laughed. “Spoken like a true optimist.”

She shrugged. “Sometimes it’s hard to see the forest with all the discouraging trees. Or something to that effect.”

“Fritz is pushing me to finish before the gala, tomorrow night.”

“What’s that?” Randee inserted.

Yolanda forked a piece of chicken. “This year is PrimeRight’s tenth business anniversary. Fritz has wonderful plans for the event, and we’ll secretly celebrate Ace’s exceptional invention.”

Randee frowned. “But I thought you said the project was confidential.”

“It is, but the gala is to commemorate the company. He wanted to have the added behind-the-scenes hoopla for the finished contract.” Ace sighed and took another bite. “The way things are going, I doubt that’ll happen.”

“You’ll figure this out. I just know it. Between your revolutionary development and Fritz’s brilliant party planning, the gala will be off the chain.” Yolanda had a warped sense of his abilities, but her idealism brought something special to the lab.

He’d never describe himself as revolutionary, but Ghost was a game changer. And brilliant wasn’t how Ace would refer to Fritz. Smart. Charismatic, for sure. They needed more investors, and completing this project might put them in a favorable place for future government contracts. Of course, that also required a successful completion of the job.

“Good company makes food taste so much better,” Yolanda remarked, pulling Ace back to the present.

“Agreed,” Randee said, scooping a forkful of rice.

“Honestly, Rocko and I skip dinner a lot.” Ace munched on an egg roll. Observing the question in Randee’s expression, he explained, “He’s my cat.”

She grinned. “I sort of pictured you with a Doberman pinscher.”

Yolanda sputtered and coughed. “Boy, did she misjudge you.”

Ace feigned annoyance. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re not a big-dog sort of guy.” Yolanda took a bite.

“I think I’m offended.” Ace frowned.

Randee leaned back, quirking an eyebrow, and her lips curved. “Actually, now that you mention it, I can see your point, Yolanda.”

Ace crossed his arms over his chest. “You know, if I wanted to be abused, I’d take it from a professional and hang out with Fritz. I’m eating my food alone in the conference room.”

Yolanda guffawed. “Aw, don’t get your beakers in a bubble. We’re only saying you’ve got more cat tendencies. A loner. Unhindered by others.”

Ace chuckled. “I guess that works, although Rocko would go whisker-to-whisker with any Doberman.”

“No argument there.” Yolanda scooped another portion of sesame chicken from the box.

“What a great name for a brute of a cat,” Randee said. “I’d love to have a dog, except I’m never home. Maybe I should consider a cat. Does Rocko do dishes or laundry?”

Ace snorted. “He’s very self-sufficient, but I’m afraid he hasn’t mastered running the dishwasher.”

“Diego would love a pet. Perhaps when he comes home, we’ll look into rescuing an animal.” Yolanda set her fork down and exhaled.

The past year had taken a toll on the young mother and her son. Fritz had suggested PrimeRight pay her extra bonuses as compensation for covering Barry’s job. Ace hadn’t disputed the offer. They’d hoped to help relieve some of her financial pressure. She’d never asked for a handout and rarely missed a day of work. The woman was a gem. “How’s the little man doing?”

Yolanda’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Doctors say the same, but a mother knows. My boy will be back to his mischievous self soon.” She faced Randee. “You should’ve seen the mess Diego and Mr. Funny Man here created when they swapped all the labels on my canned goods.”

“Hey, that was his idea,” Ace said defensively.

Yolanda snorted. “I’ll be keeping an eye on all of you.”

Randee laughed, and the sound was nice. It fit her. Charming and classy. Ace jerked away his gaze, realizing too late that he’d been eyeballing her.

The trio finished their meal, making small talk, and when the last egg roll had been consumed, Ace leaned back. “My stomach’s too full for me to keep working.”

“Ugh, me, too.” Yolanda glanced at her watch. “Besides, I need to get home and do some laundry, or I’ll be in this same outfit tomorrow.”

“I doubt I’ll be wearing this again. Sewing isn’t one of my gifts,” Randee said, gesturing to her ripped skirt.

Ace studied her, then averted his eyes. He wasn’t Fritz, and romance wasn’t his thing. No romance. Ever. “Give me a few seconds to shut down here, and I’ll walk out with you.”

Within ten minutes, he escorted the ladies from the office into the nearly empty garage. Ace waited until the women had walked to their vehicles before bidding them good-night and moving to his twenty-year-old pickup. A vehicle Fritz teased him about driving. Ace liked the reliable and payment-free truck.

Randee climbed into the tan SUV he’d noticed earlier. Not elaborate but definitely nicer than Yolanda’s sensible and inexpensive compact car.

Yolanda was the first to leave. Randee appeared to be making a call. She smiled and waved goodbye.

Ace drove out of the garage and onto the road connecting to the highway.

PrimeRight was located in the country, away from the chaos of downtown Omaha, Nebraska, but close enough to be within the city limits. He flipped on the radio, singing along to an old song that reminded him way too much of his youth and the great times he and Cara had shared before her death.

A boat of a car with a lifted hood sat on the side of the road. Ace slowed, pulled up beside two men standing next to the vehicle, then rolled down his window. “Everything okay?”

The taller man’s red Husker T-shirt showed from beneath the accompanying plaid button-up. “Evening.” He pointed at the broken-down vehicle. “Got a few gallons of gas on you?”

Ace grinned. “No, but I’d be happy to drive you to a station.”

The man’s face broke into a wide grin. “Thanks! Name’s Jud. Let me talk to my boy, and I’ll be right back.”

Ace shifted into Park while the men conversed and the kid climbed into the car while Jud tugged on a jacket. A check in Ace’s gut had him second-guessing his offer. He shoved down the thought. Stop being paranoid. People help each other in Nebraska.

Jud slammed shut the hood, giving Ace a glimpse of the younger individual in the driver’s seat. See, everything is fine.

Headlights illuminated his rearview mirror, and Ace glanced up. Randee’s SUV rumbled toward them.

The man climbed in and closed the door. “Let’s get moving.”

“No prob—” Ace’s words were cut off by the gun aimed in his direction.

“You’re going to drive where I tell you. Go!”

THREE

Randee accelerated, desperate to catch up to the fading lights of Ace’s pickup. Why had she taken the extra minute to check her voice mail messages?

On a normal day, a broken-down vehicle wouldn’t raise her suspicions. Except today had been anything but normal, and as she approached, the driver repositioned the car, strategically blocking the road.

A young man stepped out of the run-down behemoth of a relic and leaned against the driver’s door, sporting a challenge on his adolescent face. Had to be one of Titus Malte’s militia members. Was the man recruiting kids straight out of high school?

Randee’s gaze ricocheted to where Ace’s pickup turned north, increasing the distance between them. Worry tightened her chest with each separating second.

She honked and waved her arms for the driver to move. He responded with raised hands in a pitiful attempt at helplessness. Skidding to a stop, Randee rolled down her window. “Get out of the way. Now!”

The young man shrugged and moseyed over to her. “Sorry, car keeps dying.”

“Get out of the way!” she repeated.

“Can’t, lady, this ol’ hunk of junk won’t start.” The smirk on his face said everything his lying lips withheld.

Randee thrust the transmission into Drive and barreled around the rear of the vehicle, descending into the ditch, then bounding back up on the road.

If the headlights beaming in her rearview mirror were any indicator, the supposed stranded motorist was coming after her.

With the pedal to the floor, Randee’s motor roared, but she lost sight of the pickup’s taillights as Ace turned again. With one hand on the wheel, she withdrew her gun with the other and continued driving as fast as she could safely go, maintaining visual on the car behind her.

The man made a sudden turn and disappeared. Where did he go?

The sun had already set, and the rural landscape lacked streetlights. Rows of harvest-ready cornfields surrounded her, concealing anything in the distance.

“Where are you?” Randee’s whispered question referenced both men.

At last, she spotted tiny red illuminations from the parallel road opposite the river. Since Ace wasn’t driving a boat, there had to be a way across the water somewhere close.

Reflectors—on what she hoped was a viable bridge—flickered, beckoning Randee. Without contemplating the possible consequences, she shot over the rickety construction, holding her breath and praying it didn’t collapse under the weight of her vehicle.

At last her tires met the road again, and with a sigh of relief, Randee closed the distance between them, flickering her brights.

Ace responded with the glaring red of his brake lights. She veered to miss him. Was he out of his mind? He sped up again, then swerved across the single-lane dirt road. Was he fighting the man inside while driving?

The vehicle straightened and this time, he tapped the brakes. Some kind of silent caution to back off? Too late. Her attention was fixed on the shadowed gun barrel pointed at his head. She’d disregard the warning, though she understood his reasoning.

Randee palmed the steering wheel, frustration oozing through her, but she didn’t back off. Malte’s men had evolved from the morning’s tactics. Apparently, trying to take the briefcase wasn’t enough—now they had resorted to felony kidnapping.

The truck fishtailed in an unpredictable dance across the road as Ace increased his speed. In the dim light a flurry of movement occupied the cab.

Blinded by the headlights of an oncoming car, Randee shielded her eyes with her gun-wielding hand.

The kidnapper’s partner was barreling straight for her.

She slammed on her brakes and yanked the wheel away from the vehicle. He shot in front of her, spewing rocks at her windshield.

Malte’s cronies had done their homework learning this area. She’d give them that, but there was no way they’d get Ace and Ghost. Fueled with a new fury, Randee advanced.

The driver reduced his speed, then centered the car on the single-lane road and continued to slow until they were moving along at a snail’s pace.

Randee moved to the right. He did the same. She swerved to the left, and he again blocked her.

“I’ve had enough of you.” Randee accelerated, then angled her bumper against his and gave it a nudge, sending the jalopy into a spin. She revved past the car, catching up to Ace.

His truck continued skidding wildly ahead of her. An overcorrection resulted in the vehicle’s nosedive into the bordering ditch. It caught air and rolled out of control. Randee watched in horror as it tumbled side-over-side, crushing the rows of ripe soybean plants.

After three revolutions, the pickup bounced to a halt on its tires in the open land across from her SUV.

She slowed in a cautious approach, spotting the kidnapper’s extended gun. Randee ducked just as a bullet impaled her headrest.

She stayed low using her opened door as a shield, and crept along the side of the SUV, Glock trained on the shooter.

“If you come closer, I’ll kill him,” the man warned.

Good. Ace was still alive. “Let him go.”

“Can’t do that.” He fired again, hitting the SUV’s hood. “That’s your last warning. The next one goes in his head.”

She contemplated her options. The shooter was slouched in the front seat, preventing a clean shot. “I won’t leave without Ace.”

The rush of an engine approached, and Randee turned, disgusted to see the jalopy pull up behind her SUV.

“Seems we’re at an impasse. My compadre’s driving us out of here.”

“And why would I let that happen?”

“Because if you don’t, I’m gonna kill your friend.”

A gunshot sent Randee diving to the ground.

The kidnapper cackled. “Little lady, you’re surrounded, so just—” His comment was cut off, and a stillness filled the air.

Randee dropped to a squat, ducked behind her SUV’s door with her back to the seat and prepared to fire.

Ace’s pickup door creaked open.

She steadied her weapon.

Ace’s shoulders emerged as he pushed out the unwanted passenger. The kidnapper tumbled onto the dirt, unconscious.

Randee barely had a chance to process the scene when a blast behind her sent her twisting around. She returned fire, then hollered, “Your partner’s out. Give yourself up, kid.”

The muted accomplice appeared to consider his limited choices, then jumped back into his behemoth jalopy and sped off.

Ace ran toward her. “Let’s get out of here.”

Randee met him and moved to the kidnapper. “Not until the cops arrive.” She tugged her blouse sleeve over her hand and snatched the gunman’s Ruger from the ground.

Ace trailed behind and gestured at the still-unconscious man. “He’s out for the count. Got anything I can restrain him with?”

“Yes, I—” Randee paused. That was close. She’d almost blurted she had handcuffs in her tote. That’d be hard to explain without compromising her undercover status. As it was, she’d be justifying her gun. “Rope!” she exclaimed. “Back of my vehicle, in my toolbox.”

“You have a toolbox?” He quirked a brow. Randee gave him a steely gaze, and he shrugged. “Be right back.”

Ace returned with the rope and secured the man before dragging him over to Randee’s SUV. “Sit here,” he said, propping up the kidnapper against the front tire. “There, doesn’t he look relaxed?”

She laughed. “Other than his drooping head and hands bound behind his back.”

Ace tilted his head and gave a satisfied smile. “Yeah, can’t change that, though.”

“You’re having way too much fun with this.”

“After the damage he did, I should do worse.”

She studied the handsome scientist, immersed in his navy eyes. “Amazing he didn’t break your glasses.”

“I turned my head in time so he struck my temple instead.”

“May I see?”

Ace leaned down.

Randee gently fingered the developing goose egg. “He got you pretty good.”

He winced.

“Sorry about that.” What was she doing? She jerked back her hand. “I’ll call the police.”

Eager to put distance between them, Randee moved to the vehicle. Her driver’s-side door was still open, and she ducked inside to withdraw her phone. She dialed 911 and gave a synopsis of the situation. The operator advised her that a unit and rescue were on the way.

Randee disconnected and typed a quick message to Sergio. Major development. Second attempt on Steele. Waiting for PD.

His reply was immediate. Are you both okay?

Yes. Will need cover for my gun.

Go with CHP. Contact as soon as you can.

10-4. Randee reached into her tote and removed the concealed handgun permit, prepared to show it to the officers. She placed her weapon and the permit on her seat, then shut the door and faced Ace.

He stared beyond her. “I’ve had that pickup since high school. Not sure it’s reparable. The rear axle is broken.”

Guilt assuaged her. Better a damaged truck than a dead scientist. Ace trekked to retrieve the briefcase and returned, his voice somber. “Think the PD will give me a ride?”

“I’ll drive you.” Maybe Sergio would dip into the ATF’s funds to help pay for the repairs. Yeah, right. She leaned against the door. “What happened back there?”

He ran a hand over his head. Something Randee noted he did often when stressed. “The guy looked normal. Said he’d run out of gas. I was trying to be a kind Samaritan.”

“For anyone else, it would’ve been a great gesture. At least I got the make, model and most of the jalopy’s license plate.”

A groan below beckoned.

“Good evening, sunshine.” Randee stepped back.

The kidnapper glared before spewing a few choice words.

“That’s no way to talk to a lady,” Ace replied. “Say you’re sorry.”

“Or what?” the man growled.

“How’s your headache?” Randee asked.

He clamped his mouth shut.

“Your compadre abandoned you. That can’t be a good sign,” she pressed.

“Save your breath. I ain’t talkin’ to neither of you,” he groused.

“Doesn’t matter, the cops will be here soon. Of course, if I were you, I’d consider talking to them. Give up your partner and you might reduce your own charges.” She bit her lip. That sounded too much like cop talk.

Sirens in the distance warned that the police were nearing. Two life-threatening incidents in one day were more than she cared to deal with. Not to mention another belabored conversation with Officer Paulson. But the events were sufficient proof Ace required more than an undercover agent overseeing the project. The man needed a bodyguard.

She’d be both, further complicating her job.

“Thanks again, Gus,” Ace said, shaking the man’s calloused hand. Gus Yale owned the shop the Steeles had used for as long as he could remember. The guy was ancient but still managed an honest and thriving business.

Gus gave him an affectionate and vigorous slap on the back. “We’ll get her taken care of. Give me a call in the morning.” He turned and headed to his tow truck.

Ace joined Randee in her SUV and snapped on his seat belt. “Sorry that took so long.”

“I’m glad you have someone you trust to do the work. Will he be able to fix the damage?” Randee started the engine and pulled away from the accident site.

“Gus says anything’s fixable.” He sighed, not wanting to think about how much the repairs would cost. “Do you always carry a gun?” The question escaped Ace’s mouth before he realized he’d spoken. Exhaustion apparently brought out his bolder side.

His sister, Cara, would’ve carried a gun out of fear thanks to her violent, obsessive ex-boyfriend. Prior to his incarceration for stalking, the creep’s threats kept Cara and their entire family on edge. Was that Randee’s reasoning? If so, who was she afraid of and why?

“Yes.” Randee gripped the wheel.

Something told him the weapon-toting accountant didn’t possess a fear molecule in her body. Had she once been a CIA agent? He grinned at the silly idea and studied the pretty brunette. She’d experienced every part of his crazy day with her impeccable timing. Randee exuded confidence that complemented her already attractive persona.

Ace averted his gaze. Whoa. Totally inappropriate thinking. They were coworkers, nothing more. He leaned back in the passenger seat. The weight of the day descended on his shoulders, adding to his exhaustion. And with it, the guilt-tainted memories of his failure to protect Cara.

Randee reminded him so much of his sister. Had it been twenty-five years since her murder? A lifetime ago and yesterday all at the same time. They’d missed out on every great adulthood rite of passage, like her wedding and motherhood. She would’ve had several amazing kids, and they’d have called him Uncle Ace and…that would never happen. She’d died because of him.

His life wasn’t the only one at risk. Randee—an innocent party tossed onto this insane battlefield—was also in danger. How would he protect her?

“If you’re determined to continue these deadly situations, we might want to establish a distress signal. Although tapping your brakes was satisfactory.”

Ace sighed. “Actually, I did that to throw off the guy. It worked until he clocked me.” He rubbed the tender spot. “Then I saw you in the rearview mirror. I’m certain he didn’t realize you were following us at first.”

“Probably figured his loser partner had caught up. He’d blocked the road with that monstrosity of a car.”

“Somehow I’m guessing that didn’t faze you.”

“Nope.” She shrugged.

He considered confessing gratitude that she hadn’t backed off. Though he hadn’t meant for her to come to his rescue, he’d hoped she’d interpret the warning and call for help. And he hadn’t a single clue what to do after that. Ace Michael Steele possessed a doctorate and had the student loans to prove it, but surviving mad kidnappers hadn’t been one of his courses.

“I need to talk to Fritz,” he mumbled.

“I’d agree. Is he on someone’s list, too?”

“Doubtful.” Because Fritz wasn’t Ghost’s developer. No, completing the exasperating project wasn’t worth dying for. He couldn’t continue dodging maniacs at every turn.

Yet someone wanted Ghost, and it appeared they’d do anything and everything including kidnapping and murder to get it. What would happen if he refused to comply with their demands?

He shivered at the unpleasant consideration. The faster he finished Ghost, the safer everyone would be. But what happened after that? Did the ATF provide protection, or did that fall under the responsibility of another government agency? Perhaps he should’ve negotiated his future in more specific terms.

“You’re awful quiet,” Randee said.

“I’m contemplating the stupidity of agreeing to this project.”

“Are you thinking of backing out?”

That sounded as bad as quitting. Steeles never quit. “No. I’m committed until the end. I just didn’t realize I’d need to have a black belt in karate because I’d be tested daily on my physical abilities.” His flippant reply exuded whine over humor.

The delay in Randee’s response had him wondering if she agreed. “At least Officer Paulson wasn’t as determined to ask us the same questions for thirty minutes straight.”

Ace smiled. “Definitely. Turn here.” He pointed to the off-ramp from the highway. He continued to guide Randee to his apartment until she pulled up to his building. “This is it, number five.”

“This is a nice area. Very quiet.”

Six buildings with four units each made up the complex. One-bedrooms with two-bedrooms on either side.

“The complex is older. The managers keep it clean, rent is reasonable and they allow cats.” Important requirements for Ace. Fritz forever teased him about wasting money in rent, but Ace preferred the freedom of living unbound by debt. The same reason he drove the old truck.

He sighed. Had driven. He prayed Gus really could fix the damage because Ace hated the thought of having to buy a new vehicle. A thing he dreaded almost as much as his annual dental appointment.

Randee shifted into Park and swiveled to face him. “I hate to ask this, but would you mind if I used your restroom before I go?”

“Oh, sure. I should’ve offered.”

They exited the SUV and approached his building, climbing the three cement steps to his unit. He inserted his key and paused. Randee stayed behind him. Who could blame her? After their adventurous day, she probably assumed he needed twenty-four-hour supervision.

Was there someone in his apartment? He shook off the thought and turned the dead bolt. No. He was fine.

Ace shoved the door wide and stood in the entrance. He flipped the switch, turning on the table lamp beside his sofa and scanned the open-concept main floor, half expecting to see two armed men waiting for him. Instead, embarrassment at the lack of furnishings in his simple home had him apologizing. “Sorry for the bachelor accommodations. Come on in. Bathroom’s upstairs.” He gestured toward the stairs at the back side of the room.

“Great. Be right back.” Randee hurried up the steps.

Ace clutched the albatross of a suitcase and proceeded to turn on every light, highlighting the worn carpet in desperate need of replacement, but he didn’t require much. He’d never had visitors, didn’t date, and Rocko was low-maintenance.

As if on cue, the black-and-gray tabby sauntered out of the kitchen, meowing his welcome before hopping onto the single couch. Ace lifted him, sending the animal into a rendition of vibrating purrs. “You won’t believe the day I’ve had.”

“Thank you,” Randee said, descending the stairs. “And this must be Rocko.”

Ace smiled and pivoted to provide her a better view. She scratched under the feline’s chin, and Rocko responded with lazy, adoring eyes. “I’ll swing by in the morning and give you a lift to the office.”

He grimaced. “I forgot about that. Sure you wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all. I don’t live far from here. It’s on my way.”

“Thanks, Randee, that’d be great.” He set Rocko down and exchanged phone numbers with her.

She moved to the door. “Good night.”

Ace nodded, feeling as though he should say more. Fritz would be charming, but exhaustion overrode his desire to be anything other than his boring self.

He stood in the doorway, ensuring Randee’s safe departure. The vehicle’s headlights bounced off the other buildings as she reversed and drove out of the parking lot.

Ace double-checked the dead bolt and window locks, then carried the briefcase up the stairs, flipping off the lights on his way. He inspected the bathroom, then did the same in the bedroom and closet. “Stop being such a chicken. What would you even do if you found an intruder? Smack him with the briefcase?” he mumbled to no one.

He set the impenetrable case on his bed and applied his fingerprint, then typed in the seven-digit code. The lock released with a click. The prototype prints lay inside, along with the thumb drive loaded with every file needed to create Ghost’s image. He studied the blueprints again. Where did the malfunctioning component—that exploded the gun into pieces—exist?

Rocko jumped onto the bed and made himself comfortable in the briefcase, sprawling out on the papers. His amber eyes blinked at Ace.

“I take it you’re in need of attention?”

The cat yawned.

“Or implying I’m too consumed with this stupid project?” Ace sighed and lifted the cat—meowing his impatience at the intrusion—and closed the briefcase.

Tomorrow he’d find the mistake and complete Ghost, finishing the horrific project once and for all. Dread clung to his shoulders, because after the day he’d endured, he worried tomorrow’s danger would be worse.

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