He lives by the law.

She’s running for her life.

After forensic accountant Beth Greenwood uncovers a money-laundering scheme tying her company to the organization that murdered her mentor, she knows she needs to go into hiding. With ruthless killers in pursuit, she’s forced to rely on homeland security agent Corbin Ross’s protection—even as his investigation suggests Beth is complicit in embezzlement. Can their uneasy alliance develop into something deeper—and keep them alive?

SHERRI SHACKELFORD is an award-winning author of inspirational books featuring ordinary people discovering extraordinary love. A reformed pessimist, Sherri has a passion for storytelling. Her books are fast paced and heartfelt with a generous dose of humor. She loves to hear from readers at sherri@sherrishackelford.com. Visit her website at sherrishackelford.com.

Also By Sherri Shackelford

No Safe Place

Return to Cowboy Creek

His Substitute Mail-Order Bride

Montana Courtships

Mail-Order Christmas Baby

Prairie Courtships

The Engagement Bargain

The Rancher’s Christmas Proposal

A Family for the Holidays

A Temporary Family

Cowboy Creek

Special Delivery Baby

Cowboy Creek Christmas

“Mistletoe Bride”

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

No Safe Place

Sherri Shackelford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09052-0

NO SAFE PLACE

© 2018 Sherri Shackelford

Published in Great Britain 2018

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

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

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

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.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2020-03-02

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The man holding Beth spun toward the noise.

The next instant he yelped and stumbled backward, clutching his face.

Beth held a canister of pepper spray in her outstretched hand. Corbin dived into his car and roared out of the space, positioning the passenger side before Beth. He leaned over the console and pushed open the door. “Get in!”

She scooped up her purse, her frightened gaze swinging between him and her car.

The pepper-sprayed man had reached the getaway vehicle. Still blinded, he fumbled with the handle.

Beth shook her head. “No.”

“Get in!” Corbin ordered. “There’s no time.”

A bullet ricocheted off the hood.

The getaway driver had a gun. The noise propelled her forward. She leaped into the passenger seat as another bullet shattered the windshield of her car. Beth threw her arms over her face and crouched behind the dash.

Corbin sped down the garage ramp in Reverse. When they reached the next level, he spun the wheel. The tires squealed and smoked, circling the car forward.

“Put on your seat belt,” he ordered gruffly. Glancing at the review mirror, he caught sight of the car following them. “Hang on. This might get bumpy.”

Dear Reader,

Welcome to my debut book in a different genre! Writing for Love Inspired Suspense has been a new and exciting adventure for me. For the past five years, I’ve been immersed in the historical old West. Switching from bonnets and wagons to cell phones and cyber security has been both challenging and fun.

No matter the genre, all writers have their own unique and personal method for creating plots and characters. For me, it’s important that I see the opening scene clearly in my head. In No Safe Place, Beth Greenwood is facing a moral dilemma. The decision she makes at the beginning of the book transforms her life. I’m fascinated by stories involving ordinary people forced into extraordinary circumstances. I hope this book will be the first of many suspense adventures!

I love hearing from readers and would enjoy hearing your thoughts on this story. If you’re interested in learning more about this book or other series I have written, I have more information on my website: sherrishackelford.com. I can also be reached by email at sherri@sherrishackelford.com, or at P.O. Box 116, Elkhorn, NE 68022.

Happy Reading!

Sherri Shackelford

For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?

—Mark 8:36

To Jessica Alvarez and TR, my partners in crime!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Dear Reader

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

Extract

About the Publisher

ONE

Today was a good day to die, as far as days went.

Beth Greenwood focused on the steady blink-blink-blink of the cursor on her screen. One click and her life changed forever, possibly even guaranteeing her death unless she disappeared indefinitely. As her trembling index finger hovered over the mouse button, she glanced at the single photo perched on the bare expanse of her desk. Her dad’s unwavering stare gave her courage.

Her heartbeat stuttered, and her palms grew damp.

A Chicago cop, he’d suffered a debilitating stroke two months before his retirement. His death had been shattering, but knowing he was no longer suffering gave her a modicum of peace. Never much for talk, Officer Greenwood had lived his faith and had led by his example. Though his job had exposed him to temptation, he’d seen his dedication to truth as a higher moral calling. For what shall it profit a man, he’d quote the Bible, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?

What, indeed? She checked the email attachment and then clicked the option to schedule the message for arrival the morning after the bank holiday. A muffled thump startled her upright, and her pulse thrummed in her ears.

She whipped around, shooting her mouse off the side of the desk, searching for signs of a lingering coworker. The building usually emptied early on the Friday afternoon before a holiday. She leaned out of her cubicle, and her shoulders sagged. An overflowing trash bin sat in the center of the aisle. Probably the cleaning crew getting an early start on the weekend. She retrieved her battered mouse and set it beside her keyboard.

She logged out of her computer with a few rapid clicks, then stood and reached for her dad’s photo. She’d supplied the FBI with the evidence she’d discovered about the money laundering. It was time to disappear from Quetech Industries for good.

Not that she’d miss the place.

Her job as a forensic accountant was transient by nature, and she’d worked in plenty of office buildings over the years. Quetech Industries had earned the dubious title of being the worst. It was like drowning in a sea of gray. The walls were medium gray. The carpet was dark gray. Even the cubicles were fashioned from light gray plastic.

She turned and ran into a solid male chest.

Stifling a shriek, she stumbled backward. “Clark, I mean, um, Corbin. What are you doing here this late on a Friday?”

She smoothed her hair with quaking fingers.

“I could ask you the same, Beth,” he said, his voice low and intimate, like the romantic strains of a cello.

The ladies in the building had dubbed the new financial consultant “Clark Kent.” The office nickname suited his darkly handsome good looks. His coffee-colored hair was cut in neat, almost military, precision, and his eyes were ice-blue behind his black-rimmed glasses. Though he wore a suit and tie, someone claimed they’d seen a sleeve tattoo on his left arm. There was even talk that he was ex-military. Special Forces.

“I was just leaving.” Hiding her unsteady hand, Beth reached for her bag. “Had to finish up some work before the weekend.”

Corbin had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. He rested his elbow on the top of the cubicle wall, and she caught a hint of ink at his wrist. Her mouth went dry. In another time and place, she’d have been curious about the rest of the art. She had no trouble believing he’d once been in the military.

“You up for a drink?” he asked. “The finance department is meeting at O’Malley’s tonight.”

“I don’t drink,” she said, casting a surreptitious glance at the blank computer screen.

She certainly didn’t have time to socialize. Someone was laundering money through Quetech Industries to an offshore account. As a forensic accountant, she’d sent white-collar criminals to federal prison in the past. People who laundered money didn’t frighten her. Greed and cowardice mostly went hand in hand.

The name of the offshore bank listed on the company’s balance sheet, Cayman Holdings Limited, had struck pure terror into her heart.

She could have walked away. She probably should have walked away. She couldn’t. The words of Mark 8:36 prevented her: For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?

“I don’t drink, either,” Corbin said. “Janice, Matt Shazier’s assistant, promised to sing karaoke. We can be the sober witnesses.”

Matt was the company CEO, and she couldn’t imagine his buttoned-up assistant belting out a tune on a Friday night.

“Sorry.” Trying to appear casual, Beth slid this afternoon’s department store purchase into her bag. Escaping the building for a little shopping this afternoon had been a welcome respite from constantly looking over her shoulder. “I have other plans.”

Two years before, she’d noticed some odd transactions concerning Cayman Holdings on an account she was auditing for another company. Her mentor, Timothy Swan, had offered to review the files. After studying the case, he’d warned her against pursuing the matter further. He’d contacted the FBI, but Beth sensed he was frightened. They’d found his dead body a month later.

The coroner had ruled the forensic accountant’s death a murder by poisoning. Not even the FBI had been able to protect Timothy. Which meant the sooner she disappeared, the better. Except Corbin’s tall frame and broad shoulders were currently blocking her exit.

“Maybe we can meet tomorrow?” Corbin shrugged. “There’s a new coffee house on Fifth Street.”

His words gradually penetrated the fog of her anxiety. She was a temporary contractor. Coworkers didn’t ask her out for drinks.

She narrowed her gaze. Corbin was a new hire, and he’d been awfully curious about her work. Had he been sent to spy on her?

“Like a date?” she asked.

“Whatever you want to call it.”

Adrenaline coursed through her veins. This was bad. This was very bad. Men like Corbin did not ask forensic accountants on dates unless they wanted something. She’d learned that lesson the hard way.

Beth neatly sidestepped around him. “I’m b-busy tomorrow.”

And for the foreseeable future. The message she’d sent was time-stamped for delivery on the Tuesday morning following Columbus Day. She had the three-day weekend to disappear before the FBI received the evidence. Three long days before the men who poisoned Timothy discovered they’d been exposed and started looking for her.

She had no illusions about keeping her part in the whistle-blowing quiet. There was no way of turning over the evidence without tipping her hand.

Corbin’s brow furrowed above the bridge of his glasses. “Is something wrong?”

“Just anxious to start the weekend.”

She spun on her heel and promptly struck the trash bin blocking the aisle. Stumbling, she scattered the contents of her shopping bag over the floor along with the papers from the trash bin.

“Are you all right?” Corbin was by her side in an instant. “Let me help.”

Rubbing her bruised shin, she frantically searched the deserted maze of cubicles. Where was the cleaning crew?

“I’m fine.” Her cheeks heated. Even in a getaway, she was clumsy. “Just embarrassed.”

They both crouched before the mess. Corbin sure was laying it on thick. His charm was clearly an affectation. Her first year out of graduate school, she’d fallen head over heels for the chief financial officer of the company she was auditing before she’d discovered his part in the fraud. He’d thought he could romance her away from turning over the evidence.

Sixteen months in federal prison had corrected his thinking.

Corbin shook his head. “Makes me crazy when people don’t recycle.”

“Should be a crime,” Beth said, then cringed. If she didn’t get ahold of herself, she’d wind up zipped in a body bag with a toe tag marked murder by poisoning. “Or not.”

As she stuffed the papers back into the bin, her heart thumped against her ribs. She grasped her shopping bag and checked the contents. Nothing broken. Considering the price she’d paid for the small makeup compact this afternoon, she was grateful it had survived. The cosmetics were a treat to herself as she embarked on her temporary new life.

Her fingers brushed Corbin’s arm, and she recoiled. She caught a hint of his spicy aftershave and held her breath. She’d always been a sucker for aftershave.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

“Not a problem.”

What was wrong with her? She was Officer Greenwood’s daughter, not a frightened extra in a horror movie. Even if Corbin was involved, he wasn’t the person she needed to fear. As a cop’s daughter, she had certain instincts about people. He didn’t strike her as a cold-blooded killer.

Straightening, she brushed at her pencil skirt and eyed the exit at the far end of the aisle. Why had she worn sling-backs today? Because today is just a normal day, she reminded herself. She wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary that might draw attention to herself. Proper planning meant peak performance.

Clutching her leather bag against her chest, she backed away a few steps. “I’d better get going. Traffic.”

“Let me walk you to your car.”

“I’ll be fine. This building is full of security cameras.” She let the implication hang in the air between them. Every move she made left a cyber trail. Her gaze swung between the elevator door and the stairwell. She turned toward the stairs. “See you Monday.”

“Tuesday,” Corbin corrected. “Don’t forget Monday is a federal holiday.”

A flash of disappointment surprised her. She wouldn’t be seeing him after today. Better she was leaving now before he directed the full, potent appeal of those ice-blue eyes on her. There was something about Corbin that had her feeling like a giggling schoolgirl with her first crush.

He adjusted his glasses on his nose. “I can’t believe we get Columbus Day off. Any big plans for the holiday weekend?”

“Thought I’d organize my taxes.”

“It’s October.”

“I work on a fiscal year.” She cringed inwardly. “See you Tuesday.”

“Enjoy your taxes.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Don’t worry. I can take a hint.”

She opened and closed her mouth, then turned. If he was working for Cayman Holdings, he was an excellent undercover operative. If he was innocent, she’d just turned down her first chance at an actual date in over a year.

Who was she kidding?

He was up to something. There was no reason for him to zero in on her when Karli from marketing had been raising her hemlines and lowering her necklines since Corbin had taken up residence in the corner office.

Beth paused. Should she take the stairs? Corbin always took the stairs. They both did; that’s how she knew his habits. Don’t deviate from the routine. She wasn’t any safer stuck with Corbin in the elevator than being alone with him in the stairwell. When she reached the end of the aisle, she glanced over her shoulder.

Corbin had disappeared.

A chill snaked down her spine. No one of his size should be able to disappear that quietly. Did they teach that sort of thing in Special Forces? Probably.

A new coffee house on Fifth Street. She snorted softly. She wasn’t a complete fool.

Her heart racing, she took the stairs two at a time and pushed open the door to the parking garage. Only a couple other cars remained. Keeping her back straight and her gait purposeful, she crossed the distance.

The sound of her heels striking the concrete echoed through the cavernous, empty space. Pausing beside the car, she dug in her purse for her keys. Normally she kept them at the ready when exiting a parking garage. Corbin’s unexpected appearance upstairs had distracted her.

As she fumbled with her purse, she dropped the bag. “Calm down, Beth.”

She took a deep, relaxing breath. Everything was fine. She was overreacting. No one knew anything, least of all Corbin. Whatever suspicions he may have, she’d done nothing to confirm them. Not yet. She scooped up her purse and stepped back. Glass crunched beneath her feet.

The hairs on the nape of her neck stirred, and she tipped back her head. The security camera hung from a single electrical wire. The glass lens was shattered.

A hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her scream.

Corbin raced down the stairs, the soles of his shoes squeaking over the tile surface.

He should be able to catch her. Petite and classily beautiful, Beth Greenwood’s daily uniform consisted of a pencil skirt and blouse, her blond hair in a neat bun, and a sensible pair of pumps to complete the look. Not the best outfit for a speedy getaway.

Until now, her reputation had been impeccable, rendering his evidence circumstantial at best, but the coincidences were adding up. Her name had come up twice in connection to a fraudulent account. The first time she’d appeared on his radar, she’d switched jobs right in the middle of his investigation, and the trail had gone cold. She’d resurfaced yet again when she’d inquired about an offshore account he’d flagged for suspicious activity. Now it appeared as though she was going to perform another disappearing act before he could gather further evidence of her involvement.

Working on a hunch, he’d had her followed. Last week she’d deviated from her regular routine. She’d been seen with two men in a part of town known on the nightly news for drug deals gone bad. The pair of men she’d met in the seedy bar were known in the criminal underworld for helping people disappear. While Corbin couldn’t prove she’d done anything but order a soda water, that meeting was too big a coincidence for a man who didn’t believe in happenstance.

The train ticket protruding from her bag when she’d tripped over the trash bin had confirmed his suspicions. He’d tucked the revealing evidence deeper into the pocket before she’d noticed, but not before he’d memorized her departure. Tomorrow. 5:45 a.m. One way.

The accountant was running. Innocent people didn’t run. She’d been his first suspect since her name had come up in the previous audit. Didn’t help that she’d spent the past week behaving like a textbook example of a guilty person. She was edgy and jumpy—rarely leaving her desk—even for meals. She didn’t want anyone messing with her computer. She didn’t want anyone to know what she was doing. Innocent people had nothing to hide.

Strike one.

Corbin pushed open the door to the garage, and his blood froze.

A man had his arm clamped around Beth’s waist, the other hand covering her mouth.

His adrenaline surged. She kicked and clawed. Her heels scuffed along the cement, and one of her shoes tumbled free. A car idled opposite the exit, a shadowy figure in the driver’s seat, presumably the getaway vehicle. Ducking behind a pillar, Corbin rapidly scanned the garage. He’d backed his nondescript sedan into the spot opposite Beth’s. The proximity was purposeful. If she was planning on disappearing, he wanted to know. He crouched and crossed the distance, then fished out his key fob and hit the button twice, remotely starting his car.

The man holding Beth spun toward the noise. The next instant he yelped and stumbled backward, clutching his face.

Beth held her arm extended, a canister of pepper spray in her outstretched hand. Writhing in pain, the man lurched away from her assault. He groped blindly in the direction of his waiting vehicle. Corbin dove into his car and slammed the transmission into First. He roared out of the space, positioning the passenger side before Beth.

Her face pale, she glanced up from her crouched position.

He leaned over the console and pushed open the door. “Get in!”

She scooped up her purse, her frightened gaze swinging between him and her car.

The pepper-sprayed man had reached the getaway vehicle. Still blinded, he fumbled with the handle.

Beth shook her head. “No.”

“Get in!” he ordered. “There’s no time.”

A bullet ricocheted off the hood.

The getaway driver had a gun. The noise propelled her forward. She leaped into the passenger seat and slammed the door. Another bullet shattered the windshield of her car. Beth threw her arms over her face and crouched behind the dash.

Corbin shifted into Reverse and braced his hand on the back of the passenger seat. Looking over his shoulder, he sped down the garage ramp in reverse. When they reached the next level, he spun the wheel. The tires squealed and smoked, circling the car forward.

“Put on your seat belt,” he ordered gruffly.

Her fingers fumbling, Beth complied. The parking-garage gate was open, and he raced through the exit. He didn’t live in the city, but he’d gotten to know the layout over the past two weeks.

Glancing at the rearview mirror, he caught sight of the car following them. “Hang on. This might get bumpy.”

He couldn’t get a good look at the men driving. Average height and build. Sunglasses despite the cloudy sky. One of them was wearing a dark ball cap with lighter lettering. He squinted into the rearview mirror. Maybe a Bears hat. It was too difficult to discern.

The sky was overcast, creating an early twilight. He wove through the Friday afternoon traffic and turned on to a side street packed with orange cones and graded for resurfacing. He only needed a few twists and turns. The men following them were liable to give up easily. Traffic was heavy, and there were too many witnesses. A Friday evening in downtown Chicago meant extra police patrolling the tipsy happy-hour crowds.

He took a corner and then another. Cars filled in behind them, and he drove toward the freeway ramp. Soon they were caught in the rush of traffic. Concentrating on the road and keeping a watch for a tail kept his attention focused. Beth remained silent; her hands braced against the dash. He raised an eyebrow. Though she had her phone, she hadn’t dialed the police. A cop’s daughter who didn’t call the police after an attack.

Strike two.

Once he was confident the men following them had given up, he exited the freeway and drove toward a park near his rented house. The lot was empty save for a single vehicle. A young couple played Frisbee in the distance, oblivious to the darkening sky.

He turned toward Beth and came face-to-face with her container of pepper spray.

Lifting his hands, he said, “Easy there. Don’t shoot.”

He’d been pepper-sprayed in the army, and he’d prefer not to repeat the experience.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“Corbin Ross. You might remember me from the finance meeting this morning. The one with the stale donuts and the endless PowerPoint.”

His joke lifted one edge of her mouth.

“Sam must have had over a hundred slides,” she said.

“And half of them were charts.”

Her blond hair had come loose from the severe bun she wore at the nape of her neck and tumbled over her shoulder in a gilded wave. Though her hands shook, she stared him down with a steely determination in her leaf-green eyes. Her words were light, but her intentions were deadly serious. His heartbeat kicked. This wasn’t personal. This was business. The first rule of undercover work was never get involved with your subject. Fraternizing with a suspect was a surefire path to the unemployment line.

The container wavered. “Take me back to my car.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, soothingly. “Someone may be watching your car. Your apartment isn’t safe, either. I’ll take you to the police station.”

“No.” Her gaze narrowed. “No police.”

“You can’t run from this,” he said. “Whatever you’ve done, it’s time to own up.”

A series of suspicious transactions with Cayman Holdings had brought Quetech Industries to the attention of the Cyber Division of Homeland Security. Two years before, Corbin had worked with the FBI on a case involving the same bank. A forensic accountant, Timothy Swan, had claimed to have evidence against Cayman Holdings, Limited. Beth Greenwood’s name had come up during the investigation. With no suspects in Swan’s death and insufficient evidence to pursue the fraud, the case had languished.

When the bank had come to the attention of Homeland Security once more, Corbin had volunteered for the undercover assignment. Beth Greenwood’s employment at Quetech Industries had been too much of a coincidence. She’d worked with Timothy Swan before. She’d spoken to the accountant about the case before his death. This was the second time her name had been linked to Cayman Holdings.

For the past two weeks, Corbin had worn a suit and tie and gossiped over the water cooler. Two weeks hadn’t given him enough time to unravel the complicated financial dealings. All he had were his suspicions, but they were adding up quickly.

“If you tell the truth,” Corbin said. “I’ll do what I can to help you.”

He wasn’t lying to her. Not exactly. As long as she turned over state’s evidence, he’d put in a good word with the prosecutor.

“What are you saying?” Beth rapidly shook her head. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Those men attacked me.”

“What did they want?”

She ducked her head. “How should I know?”

“Then why aren’t we going to the police station?”

Since he’d left the army for stateside government work, he’d seen plenty of embezzlement scandals. In his experience, white-collar criminals didn’t hire killers when they were caught red-handed—they bought boats and disappeared in the Caribbean. Beth and Quetech Industries were involved in something far more sinister than simple embezzlement.

She shook her head. “It’s complicated. The less you know, the better.”

“Look, I’d rather be listening to Janice’s rendition of ‘Total Eclipse of the Sun’ than having this conversation, but those men had guns. They used bullets.”

One of them was embedded in the hood of his car. Evidence he’d check later.

The dark gray clouds overhead gave way, and a steady drumming of rain tapped against the car roof. The couple playing Frisbee dashed toward their vehicle, giggling and holding hands. The man held the Frisbee over the woman’s head in a poor attempt to shield her from the rain.

Beth’s distress tugged at Corbin, cementing his resolve. He had to keep his distance, both mentally and physically. He’d seen how her sort operated. Once she knew she was caught, there’d be a sob story, a tearful plea for clemency.

Except he wasn’t in the business of providing sanctuary. “Do people just randomly kidnap you, or is this Friday special?”

The canister of pepper spray shook violently, and her breath came in quick, sharp gasps. “What about my car?”

As the shock penetrated her defenses, her bravado slipped.

“Your windshield is shot out. We caught them off guard. You’re fortunate you weren’t hit.”

Her breath came in sharp huffs. She glanced through the rain-streaked windshield at the park, a frown puckering her forehead. “I can’t just abandon my car.”

“Breathe,” he said. “They’ve probably stolen your car.”

“Are you always this positive?”

“It’s a gift.”

Beth Greenwood didn’t look like someone who’d launder money for terrorists, but what did he know? His midwestern childhood had been poor training for covert military ops. Everyone lied. Four years ago, his brother had trusted the wrong person, and that one mistake had cost his life. The loss had devastated their entire family. His sister-in-law and his nephew had suffered the worst. When Corbin had followed in his brother’s footsteps and joined covert ops to settle the score, he’d kept the truth from his family. They’d been through too much already.

His parents didn’t know what he did for a living now, or what he’d done in the army. They thought he was a desk jockey, and he let them believe the lie. He didn’t want them to worry. After seeing what his sister-in-law was going through, raising a child alone, he’d known he had to choose between having a family and having this profession. He’d called off his engagement to his high school sweetheart. He’d chosen the job.

“I c-can’t seem to stop s-shaking for some reason,” Beth stuttered.

He tamped down a wave of sympathy for his frightened passenger. His personal life and his work life never mixed. Never. He existed in two different worlds. When he was with his family, the job didn’t exist. When he was on the job, everyone else was an enemy. His ex had complained he kept too much hidden. She’d taken his secrecy personally. She’d never understood that it was all part of the job.

“It’s the adrenaline.” He slipped out of his jacket. “Take deep breaths and focus on a pleasant memory.”

“Like what?” Beth asked. “I can’t think of anything.”

Her chest rose and fell in an uneven cadence. The sight of her bare foot, the painted toenails curled against the cold, tugged at something in his chest. She was going to hyperventilate soon.

“What was your favorite hobby as a kid?” he asked, an emotion he didn’t want to identify spreading through him.

He didn’t want to like her. He didn’t want to feel sorry for her. This was a job, and in this job, the risk of betrayal was the difference between life and death.

“Horseback riding.” She covered her mouth with her free hand, her words muffled. “I loved horseback riding.”

She hesitated a moment before lowering the pepper spray. As she reluctantly accepted his coat, his fingers brushed against the silk of her blouse. The rumble of the car engine and the steady patter of rain faded into the void.

“That’s a good memory,” he said. “Think about that.”

“Sometimes we’d take drives on Sunday,” Beth’s voice grew quiet, and her eyes focused on something beyond the rain-dotted windshield. “I’d pretend I owned a horse, and my dad was taking me to the stables.” Her breathing had slowed, and her vacant gaze drifted over him. “We didn’t have the money. It was just a way of pretending. You know, how kids do sometimes?”

“Sure,” he said. “What about your mother?”

“She died when I was six. Car accident. I don’t remember much of her. Just impressions.”

He’d only known Beth for two weeks, but he’d become familiar with her routine. He recognized the floral scent of her perfume and the steady cadence of her walk when she passed his office. He didn’t know why she fascinated him, and he didn’t like the feeling. Not one bit. Feelings had a way of making a person distracted and weak.

She wrapped her arms around her body and chafed her upper arms. “Take me back downtown.”

“I live near here.” He stalled. “I need to stop by my house. Then I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

There was a bullet hole in the hood of his car, and the woman sitting next to him had become a liability to a terrorist cell laundering money. He didn’t know the extent of her knowledge, and he wasn’t letting her out of his sight.

She raised the canister once more. “All right. But I have the pepper spray, remember?”

“I’m not likely to forget.” That stuff was potent. Residue had both their eyes watering in the confined space of the car. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I did save your life. A simple ‘thank you’ would suffice.”

He considered his original cover story. Considering the shock she’d had, he doubted she’d read too much into his earlier conversation. The less she knew at this point the better. He had a greater chance of inspiring her confidence if she didn’t see him as a threat.

“I’m sorry.” She ducked her head. “But I don’t trust anyone from Quetech Industries right now.”

“Why not?”

“I have my reasons.” She swiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “Are you former military? I heard rumors.”

“I served.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong. I promise you that.”

“Sure.” He blinked rapidly against the sting of the toxic spray. “Don’t rub your eyes, it will only make them worse.”

He shifted into gear and pulled out of the parking lot. His rental house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac populated by nondescript houses in a bedroom community. The previous occupants had been college kids, and his neighbors preferred having a quiet, single man next door instead of a noisy frat house. Keeping a low profile had been difficult with the welcoming bandwagon of visitors and casseroles.

He parked in the drive and left the engine running. He glanced at Beth’s shivering frame and cranked the heater.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

“Okay.” Her complexion ashen, she clutched the passenger door handle as though she might leap out of the car at any moment. “Please don’t take long.”

She was terrified, that much of her story he believed. Were they blackmailing her? Somehow that was easier to swallow—picturing her as the innocent victim. What did it matter? That sort of thinking got people killed. He had a mission to accomplish. This wasn’t the time to go soft.

“I’ll be quick,” he said.

A little time alone gave her a chance to stew over her present circumstances. Given the current technology, even if she stole his car, she wouldn’t get far. Without transportation, she was at a considerable disadvantage. It was cold and raining, and she was in a strange neighborhood. There was no place to hide.

He took the shallow porch stairs two at a time and punched his security code into the panel. Once inside, he quickly unlocked his safe and retrieved his Glock. He strapped the holster around his shoulders.

Glancing outside, he caught sight of Beth’s silhouette shimmering in the rain against the soft glow of the streetlight. If she finally decided to call the police, he’d deal with the interference. The police tended to be battering rams when he needed finesse, but at this point, he didn’t have much choice.

Keeping vigil before the window, the lights doused to prevent glare, he retrieved his phone from his pocket and dialed a memorized number.

The voice on the other end answered with a curt, “What do you have?”

“A problem.”

“Go ahead.”

A pair of headlights flashed across the window. A vehicle pulled into the next driveway over, and Corbin squinted through the sheeting rain. He recognized his neighbor’s familiar battered minivan with a parade of stick people marching across the back window.

“This is more than embezzlement,” Corbin said. “Someone tried to grab the accountant in the Quetech parking garage. They were professionals. Armed.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.” Corbin raked his hand through his hair. “The civilian prevented an engagement.”

“Then you were right about the terrorism connection.”

“Looks that way.”

“We’ll see if they left any evidence behind in the garage. Anything else?”

“Cayman Holdings isn’t listed in Quetech’s public records, but I traced an email about the bank.”

“Where’s the accountant now?”

“She’s with me,” Corbin said.

As long as she didn’t bolt, she had a chance at partial immunity. Maybe she hadn’t meant for things to go as far as they did. Maybe she hadn’t realized where the money was being funneled. Maybe she wanted to repent. The Bible said there’d be more joy in heaven for one sinner who repented than for ninety-nine righteous men.

Or maybe he just wanted to make excuses for her because he’d seen her hovering near the door of the break room during the monthly celebration of birthdays and anniversaries. She’d lingered just beyond the crowd of coworkers as they laughed and joked, looking in, but never crossing the threshold.

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts, then turned and snatched his identification from the open safe.

None of that mattered. She was in his custody, whether she knew it or not. She was suspicious of him, a disadvantage. Right now, she was probably weighing her options. Trying to decide if she was more afraid of him, the police, or the men in the garage.

Given that he didn’t trust her allegiance, he wasn’t confident how she’d react to his true identity.

Another pair of headlights flashed across the front window. The hazy shape of another car snagged his attention. His neighbor, Ruth, and her husband drove a sedan, but he couldn’t decipher the make and model from this distance through the rain-streaked window.

“You still there?” the voice on the other end of the line demanded.

Corbin stepped closer, and his breath fogged the glass. “The accountant needs protective custody.”

“I can’t authorize the expense until we know for certain she has viable information.”

“She’s become a liability. Those men weren’t taking her out for ice cream.”

“I trust your judgment, but I need something concrete. Find out what she knows. I’ll walk this up the chain and see what I can do.”

A car door slammed.

Corbin’s scalp tingled. “We’ll talk later.”

He raced out of the house and skidded to a halt. His driver’s door hung open, and his jacket lay neatly folded on the seat. Rain trickled down his collar, and he muttered an oath.

Beth hadn’t called the police. She’d run. Strike Three.

TWO

Beth cut through several yards, grateful for the chain-link fences and caring pet owners who kept their guard dogs safe by the fire when it rained. Ominous clouds blocked the setting sun, rapidly darkening the twilight. Enormous trees dotted the landscape of older homes. Above her, leaves in brilliant shades of autumnal gold and crimson remained caught in that stunning moment before the branches grew bare for winter. The wind whipped between the close-set houses, turning the chilled rain into icy, stinging pellets.

Her heels sank in the rain-soaked grass. At least she’d had the presence of mind to grab her shoe in the parking garage. She spotted the glowing lights of a gas station in the distance and traversed a low retaining wall into an alley behind a row of houses. She dodged between garbage cans and detached garages, making her way toward the streetlights at the far end of the block.

Who was Corbin Ross?

One thing was obvious—he was no financial consultant. He’d handled the terrifying situation in the parking garage with far too much aplomb. He’d also known she lived in an apartment. A lucky guess? Maybe. He’d said he’d served in the military, but he hadn’t elaborated. Had he been with Special Forces? Was he a mercenary?

He could be working for the Feds, for Quetech Industries or for Cayman Holdings Limited. None of which boded well for her.

Huddled beneath the awning of the nearby gas station and tucked in the shadows, she ordered an Uber. For the next fifteen minutes, she danced from foot to foot and rubbed her hands together in an awkward dance to keep warm.

She’d collided with Corbin moments after hitting Send. What had he seen? At the very least, he’d lied to her. He certainly wasn’t a financial officer living in the suburbs. Corbin might have saved her life, but he hadn’t earned her trust. Whatever his loyalties, he was hiding something.

With each passing set of headlights, she searched for his car. Would he try and follow her? If he was with the Feds, would he call the police?

From what she’d learned from her dad, the Feds didn’t call in the local police unless they were desperate. They thought cops leaked information like sieves, and they were overly cautious with their loyalties. A fact that might work to her advantage depending on Corbin’s true identity. She didn’t want the world; she only wanted to survive until tomorrow.

Keeping out of sight, she followed the driver’s progress on her phone app and only stepped from her cover when the car pulled beneath the lighted awning.

The Uber driver barely blinked at her unkempt state. Beth mumbled “Union Station” and collapsed on to the worn upholstery.

Once at the train station, she hunched her shoulders and ducked her head, keeping her gaze averted from the ever-present cameras. An overweight security guard wearing an ill-fitting uniform gazed at her from his post. She flashed a smile, and her stomach clenched. How did criminals manage? Appearing innocent while terrified was harder than it seemed and infinitely more exhausting.

She checked the time on her phone, and her pulse picked up rhythm. She’d left Corbin’s house forty-five minutes ago. Time was ticking away. Earlier that week, she’d made a shorter trip from this same station, and had purposefully left her luggage behind on the train. Ensuring the porter found it before a thief had been tricky, but not impossible. She retrieved her backpack from the unclaimed luggage department and ducked into the bathroom.

A harried mother ushered a crying toddler into the stall beside her. As Beth changed, the hassled mother spoke with false cheerfulness to the sobbing child about their impending vacation. An announcement for the next train came over the PA system.

The mother breathed a sigh. “See? That’s our train. An hour late for delays and repairs. If you’re good on the trip, I’ll let you play Super Why on the iPad.”

The allure of digital distraction appeased the toddler more than the promise of a lengthy, dull train ride. Beth waited until they left the restroom before she exited the stall.

She stuffed her clothing in the trash and stared into the mirror. The face looking back at her was pale and drawn, a fitting match for the ball cap, hoodie and jeans she’d donned.

The PA announced the imminent departure of the next train once more, and she tugged her lower lip between her teeth.

For the past month, she’d been in training for her new identity. The instructions from her dad’s former informants when she’d arranged for her false identity had been specific and succinct: Think about your disappearance at least as much as you thought about what put you on the run in the first place.

She crossed the vaulted lobby and froze. A man in a suit was speaking with the uniformed security guard. He flashed identification.

Pivoting on her heel, she ducked behind an automated kiosk, then peered around the edge. The man tucked his badge into his breast pocket, and she sucked in a breath. There was no reason to assume the man was here for her. Corbin didn’t know how she was escaping the city. She tamped down her twinge of guilt. Even if he was with the Feds, she’d turned over all the evidence she had.

She shouldn’t have to die, as well.

The security guard motioned the suited man toward the restroom, and she spun around. They passed beside her, and she carefully circled the kiosk. Once both men were out of sight, she approached the counter and exchanged her ticket. She’d initially planned on heading south on the California Zephyr in the morning, but the unexpected attack in the garage had forced a change in her itinerary. If someone had been keeping a watch on her, she’d best alter her original route. The attendant grumbled but eventually agreed if she paid an extra fee.

Fifteen minutes later she took her seat in a roomette on the Empire Builder train. Her heel tapped against the floor, and she glanced over her shoulder. Loading the train took an eternity, and she peered out the window on to the platform. The excursion was crowded, filled with families and vacationers, but nothing suspicious caught her attention.

The harried family with the upset toddler struggled their way down the narrow aisle in a squall of luggage, cheerful promises of the fabulous trip ahead, and the faint odor of apple juice.

Beth shut the door and tugged the curtains over the square window of her private roomette—a tiny space featuring two facing seats and an overhead bunk that pulled down. The wheels finally chugged, and the train lurched. She exhaled her pent-up breath. As the station faded into the distance, her pulse gradually slowed to a normal rhythm.

An hour into the trip, she almost felt as though she could breathe normally again.

A knock on the door sent her heart leaping into her throat.

“Yes?” she asked, her voice strangled.

“Complimentary beverage and snack service.”

She hesitated, then realized she hadn’t eaten since lunch. Her stomach rumbled. She stood and opened the door.

Corbin Ross stared back at her. “Going someplace?”

She attempted to slam the door, and he blocked the move with his foot. “We need to talk.”

Corbin crowded into the tiny room and closed the pocket door. “Your destination is Portland, I believe. Plenty of time to tell me everything you know about Quetech Industries.”

He’d sat in the lounge car for the past hour sipping water and gathering information as the scenery chugged by the window. Beth had the means and opportunity for the money laundering, but the motive remained frustratingly elusive. People did not operate randomly. Greed and revenge covered most crimes. Though some criminals merely liked to watch the world burn, she didn’t seem the type.

She glanced behind him. “Does this mean I don’t get a snack?”

At the defeated look on her face, he almost felt sorry for her. Almost. “Not complimentary.”

Beth slumped on to a chair, and he took the opposite seat. He’d never seen the accountant dressed casually. Wearing a ball cap and jeans with her face scrubbed of makeup, she appeared younger and more vulnerable. His focus slipped, and he steeled his resolve. This wasn’t personal. This was the job. Losing his concentration had the potential to cost lives.

“How did you find me so quickly?” she asked, her expression wan and defeated.

The terror alert was high during the holiday weekend, which meant there was a field agent at Union Station. Corbin had put out a watch for Beth, but her change of plans had caught him off guard.

He’d nearly missed the train. “My keen powers of intellect and deduction.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I caught a break.”

“Are you with the FBI?”

“Homeland Security.” He retrieved his identification from his pocket. “Cyber Division.”

She snorted. “That figures.”

“Don’t you want to check up on me? You should be more careful. I might have forged this identification.”

“At first I thought you might be a mercenary. Except no self-respecting thug would wear his hair cut that way.”

“I was undercover.” He ran his fingers through the close-clopped strands. “Defeats the purpose if I look like a thug.”

He’d been out of the military for two years; maybe it was time to change barbers.

“I bet.” She set her chin in a stubborn line. “I have nothing to say.”

“I don’t believe you.” A muscle ticked along his temple. She was out to save her own hide, which made her both desperate and dangerous. “The truth will set you free. Eventually. Federal prison isn’t that bad.”

“I’m not upset because I’m going to federal prison,” she spoke through clenched teeth. “I’m upset because I’m going to die.”

“Relax.” He took off his dark-rimmed glasses and polished the rain-smudged lenses on his sleeve. “You’ve been reading too many spy novels. I’m not going to kill you, Beth.”

“I’m not worried about you.” She leaned forward and clutched her head. “I can’t believe I didn’t even make it out of the city.”

Given the fate of the last accountant who’d tangled with Cayman Holdings, she had good reason to be afraid.

“Tell me.” He replaced his glasses. “How much does it cost to disappear these days?”

Her gaze remained fixed on the toes of her pristine sneakers. “I wouldn’t know.”

The shoes were new. The brim of her baseball cap was stiff and unbent. She’d planned her escape in advance. While he had to admire her careful preparation, something she’d done had tipped off the men in the garage.

“You’re lying,” he said. She hadn’t purchased this ticket under the name Beth Greenwood. “I’m curious. How does an accountant find the sort of men who deal in false identities?”

“Forensic accountant.” She corrected. “I’m a forensic accountant.”

“There’s a difference?”

“About twenty-thousand dollars’ in student loans.”

“You don’t have any student loans.”

Her head shot up. “How long have you been investigating me?”

“Long enough,” he said. “You left two jobs precipitously. I know why you left Quetech, but why did you leave your first job out of graduate school?”

“Oldest story in the book. A relationship gone wrong.”

“That’s not what your file says.”

Her mouth opened and closed. “What does my file say?”

“You should know better than me.”

He schooled his features to remain impassive. Beth Greenwood was an enigma. She was twenty-eight years old, and she’d earned a bachelor’s degree and an MBA from Georgetown. Her father had been a Chicago policeman. She was single and lived alone. Her credit rating was excellent, and she carried zero debt. She didn’t have a car loan, a mortgage or even a student loan payment. She didn’t have pets. Not a dog, not a cat, not a fish. She’d spent more days in hotels the previous year than she had in her apartment.

Her current circumstances bore an eerie resemblance to his own. He ran a finger beneath his collar. He hadn’t had time to change, which meant he was still wearing his suit from work. Beth had worn his suit jacket in the car, and her floral scent lingered in the lining.

A lot of people traveled for work. Not everyone owned a pet.

She glared at him. “Am I under arrest or something?”

“Not yet.”

“Then I have nothing to say.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And I’d like you to leave. This roomette is private.”

And tiny. They sat face-to-face on seats that pushed together to transform the room into a sleeper car. Their knees practically touched. Outside the tinted window, lights darted past in the twilight. Beth grimaced and flipped shut the curtains. He tapped his index finger against his knee. She wasn’t wholly alarmed by him if she’d closed the curtain against onlookers. A good indicator that he could negotiate her cooperation.

“What do you know about Cayman Holdings?” he asked.

Her complexion paled. “Nothing.”

“Those men didn’t try and kill you for nothing.” His gaze narrowed. “You’re terrified for a reason.”

“If I’m not under arrest, then I’m not obligated to speak with you.” She pursed her lips and stared at the curtained window. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“Your dad was a cop, Beth. You know how this works.” Corbin had no choice but to appeal to her conscience. “This is bigger than you and me.”

“I did what I could to help.”

His stomach growled, and he checked the time on his phone. “Let’s get something to eat. I’m hungry.”

No need to rush her. There was nowhere to run on a moving train, and he doubted they’d been followed this far. Beth had purchased her ticket at the last minute, and no other passengers had booked travel after he boarded. Her attackers were probably sitting vigil outside her Chicago apartment.

Her gaze flicked toward him. “If you knew where I was, why didn’t you question me before we left Chicago? Wouldn’t that have been easier?”

“No time.” He’d counted on her having the information with her. Why run unless she had insurance? Minneapolis was the nearest field office large enough to handle the assignment. “The train was an unexpected detour, I’ll grant you that.”

“That’s why I chose it,” she said. “I still don’t know how you found me so quickly.”

“Trade secret.”

If she hadn’t tripped over the garbage bin, he’d be chasing his tail around the airports and car rentals.

Beth rubbed a weary hand over her eyes, and his emotions softened. No matter her connection to the men who’d tried to grab her earlier this evening, she’d had a shock, and she was still recovering. If he was going to gather information, he had to go easy. Patience wasn’t exactly his strongest virtue, but they had plenty of time to kill.

He stood. “C’mon. I’ll buy you dinner.”

She hesitated before nodding. “All right. But only because I’m starving, and you’re buying.”

“Excellent. We’re making progress already.”

“I have a feeling I’ll pay for this free meal later.”

“Spoken like a true accountant.” He held up his hands. “Forensic accountant.”

His correction earned a reluctant smile. He quickly glanced away.

They made their way down the cramped aisles. Forced to walk single file, his hand hovered near the small of her back in an unconsciously proprietary gesture. Upon reaching the dining car, they claimed an empty booth. The windows domed over them, the passing lights sparkling through the beaded rain. The setting might have been romantic save for the circumstances.

His phone buzzed, and he frowned at the number. “You mind if I take this?”

“Go ahead.” She rolled her eyes. “Like you care what I think.”

The rebuke stung more than it should have. He’d been raised on the Golden Rule. Some part of him always wanted to believe in the inherent goodness in people, and that part was going to get him killed someday if he wasn’t more careful.

“Mr. Ross?” the elderly female voice on the other end spoke.

“Yes.”

“This is your neighbor, Ruth. Remember I brought you dinner when you moved in?”

“Yes. I remember.” He had three others in the freezer. For reasons he couldn’t explain, married women believed that single men were perpetually in dire need of lasagna. “It was delicious. How can I help you, Ruth?”

“You know I don’t like to pry, but you said I could call you anytime.”

“Absolutely.” He lifted his eyes heavenward. “Anytime.”

“There’s a strange car parked in your drive, but no lights on inside. I thought I saw the beam from a flashlight. I can’t tell with all this rain. But something seems suspicious.”

A flicker of apprehension sharpened his focus. “What kind of car?”

“You know, a car. Four doors...”

That narrowed it down. If his house was being searched, the intruder hadn’t tripped his alarm. He’d have been notified by now.

“Are there any other cars parked on the street?” he asked.

He’d fielded more than one late-night encounter with a drunken college kid looking for a party who hadn’t gotten word the frat boys had moved.

“Let me check,” Ruth said.

A lengthy pause followed. The waitress appeared at their table. Following Beth’s order of a chicken salad croissant, Corbin angled his phone away and requested a club sandwich.

“I’m back.” Ruth declared. “Just the car in your drive.”

“I’ll take care of it, Ruth.”

“Would you like me to call the police?” she asked, a trill of hope in her request. “I can hang up with you and call them right now.”

“It’s, uh, probably my girlfriend,” Corbin assured her. He didn’t need an unsuspecting officer stumbling into this mess. “She’s watering the plants while I’m out of town. I appreciate the call. If you see anything else out of the ordinary, let me know. Talk soon.” He disconnected the call before she could continue the conversation.

Beth glanced up from her glass of water. “Everything all right?”

“Not exactly.”

He rested the phone on the table and stared out the window. There was no way the men from the parking garage had discovered his identity. The address listed on his car registration and his Quetech Industries employee paperwork didn’t match where he currently lived. They hadn’t followed him, or he’d have seen their car.

Beth tilted her head. “What is it?”

If they hadn’t traced him, then they must be tracking Beth. But how? Or had she deliberately given someone his address?

His determination hardened. Beth Greenwood had worked with Timothy Swan on the Cayman Holdings case. She had information she wasn’t sharing. She was running. She’d get them both killed if he didn’t stay on his guard.

He had to assume the worst—that she was a knowing accomplice to a money-laundering scheme that was funding a sleeper terrorist cell. At the very least, she must be profiting. Why else would she be involved?

His lips twisted in a cynical smile. “Give me your phone.”

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