An avid reader since childhood, Beverly Barton wrote her first book at the age of nine. She wrote short stories, poetry, plays and novels throughout high school and college, and is now a New York Times bestselling author, having written over sixty books since she was first published in 1990. Beverly lives in Alabama with her husband.

Also available by Beverly Barton

DANGEROUS DECEPTION

AMNESIA

CLOSE ENOUGH TO KILL

THE MURDER GAME

THE DYING GAME

BEVERLY BARTON

A TIME TO DIE

www.mirabooks.co.uk

In loving memory of Wilhelimena “Willie”wood,

who lived her religious beliefs, setting an example

for family and friends. You left this life much too

soon, but your deep faith in a heavenly eternity

comforts those you left behind.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A special thank-you for invaluable technical

and medical research assistance.

Roger Waldrep

Steven L Romiti, MD

PROLOGUE

THIS ASSIGNMENT sucked big-time. Lexie would rather be just about anywhere than here in Gadi covering the presidential inauguration ceremonies. Newly elected President Tum was an evil, arrogant son of a bitch who had massacred a hundred thousand of his own citizens in an ethnic cleansing. And the world had turned a blind eye. Even UBC, United Broadcasting Center, for whom she worked as a TV journalist had thought this man’s official takeover of power was so insignificant that they had sent only her—a rookie reporter—and a lone cameraman to cover the event. Their escort/bodyguard, Mr. Kele, was here somewhere in the crowd, a moth-eaten-looking rogue who made Lexie’s skin crawl. But at least the guy carried a gun and spoke the language.

“There he is. President Tum. Get as many close-ups of the cocky little bastard as possible,” Lexie told Marty Bearn, her cameraman.

Marty and she had met for the first time on their recent plane ride from Atlanta, the home base for UBC. She had bellyached to him about this crap assignment until she’d vented as much frustration as she could, and he had shown her photos of his bride, a cute little brunette with big doe eyes. She had wondered what a cutie like his Sherry saw in a big, hefty oaf like Marty, with his shock of auburn red hair, hee-haw laugh and oversize teeth. But by the time they arrived on the Dark Continent, Lexie understood Marty’s appeal. He possessed a laid-back, easy-going nature, an appealing personality and a caring attitude. Not to mention that he was hog-wild, crazy in love with his wife. What woman could resist a man who loved her that much?

“Look at him strutting up to the podium like a little bantam rooster,” Marty said. “I bet he’s not more than five-six without those high-heel boots he’s wearing. He’s definitely got a Napoleon complex.”

“He’s a monster, if you ask me,” Lexie said off-camera. Then she returned to reporter mode, keeping her voice low as Marty began filming again.

Prior to Babu Tum’s arrival, she had commented on the outdoor event being held in an open courtyard half the size of a football field. As Marty had cinematically scanned the area and the large crowd of citizens who had been herded into place like mindless cattle, she had considered how she would present this news event to her audience. Later, once back at the studio in the U.S., she would create a voiceover to describe today’s farce. A fake election. A dictator president. A subjugated people. She supposed it was possible that UBC would use the entire piece Marty and she created, but she seriously doubted it. The “powers that be” would cut it down to a two-or three-minute segment and put their own spin on the soon-to-be forgotten event. One more African dictator assuming official power was hardly newsworthy, was he?

Unfortunately, Lexie was not proficient in the native language, so she managed to pick up only a word here and there, occasionally piecing words together to figure out a sentence. Where was their guide when she needed him? Lost in the crowd, not worth the two hundred dollars a day UBC was paying him.

Oh, well, it probably didn’t matter that she couldn’t understand every word of Tum’s speech. Overall, the man was simply blowing his own horn.

Less than five minutes into Tum’s speech, which had been interrupted half a dozen times by shouts Lexie did understand—Long live President Tum—a ripple of apprehension tapped up her spine just as droplets of perspiration trickled between her breasts. In one life-altering moment, she instinctively knew something horrible was about to happen.

A single rifle shot rang out—the long-range weapon hitting its mark. Babu Tum’s dark eyes widened in shock and realization as the bullet entered his forehead.

“My God!” Marty Bearn gasped. “Tum’s been assassinated.”

Tum’s guards, whose presence on the podium with him had apparently not deterred the assassin, aimed their weapons, searching the crowd for the killer. One by one, three of Tum’s six-man advisory council dropped as shot after shot rang out. While the other three men took cover, the crowd went wild, screaming and running, everyone hysterical with fear. Caught up in the frenzy, Tum’s guards began firing into the crowd, killing at random, taking down unarmed civilians.

“Let’s get out of here!” Marty called to Lexie.

“No way in hell!” she yelled back. “This is history in the making. Keep rolling. We don’t want to miss a thing.”

“Damn it, Lexie, we’ll get ourselves killed.”

“Keep rolling!” Being on the scene for this story could make her career as a journalist. Once she got this footage back to Atlanta, her face and name would become famous overnight.

As if from out of nowhere, a group of armed warriors surrounded the courtyard, returning fire in an attempt to protect the crowd by taking on Tum’s guards. While the gunfire continued, Lexie described what was happening and Marty filmed the scene as it continued to unfold. What appeared to be a four-man team, all wearing black, their faces masked by some sort of camouflage paint, each carrying a rifle, stormed forward, waging war on three times their number. One man in particular stood out, at least in Lexie’s mind. Towering a good six-four, his sheer size distinguished him from the others.

“They’re not Gadian,” she said into her microphone. “From what I can tell, these soldiers are all Caucasian, except one. Apparently they’re either mercenaries or special agents of some type who were sent to assassinate President Tum or—”

Marty Bearn grunted loudly, then clamped his left hand over his chest and went down on his knees, all the while clutching his camera in his right hand. Bright-red blood stained his shirt and seeped between the fingers of his left hand.

“Marty!” Lexie screamed.

She dropped down beside him as he crumpled into a heap at her feet. Oh, God. Oh, God! “How bad is it?” she asked as she tried to pull his hand away from the wound.

He tried to speak, but couldn’t. A gurgle of bloody saliva erupted from his mouth.

“Marty! Don’t you dare die. Do you hear me?”

His hand clutching his chest went limp. Lexie’s heartbeat drummed inside her head. Please, God, help him. Don’t let him die. She lifted his hand from the wound, then gasped when she saw the damage a single shot had done, the entry wound almost directly over his heart. Then she looked into Marty’s face. She knew he was dead.

Just to make sure, she felt for a pulse.

Nothing.

This was all her fault. He had wanted them to run, to get away, but she’d insisted they stay and keep filming. I’m sorry, Marty. I’m so sorry.

She loosened the camera from his hand and rose to her feet. She had to find a way out of this nightmare. There was nothing she could do for Marty. Not now. It was too late for anything except remorse.

Doing her best to avoid getting caught in the crossfire, Lexie tried to make her way out of the courtyard, but too many dead bodies blocked her path, men and women cut down by Tum’s retaliating guardsmen. Keeping low, pressing the camera to her breasts, she visually scanned in a circular motion, seeking an escape route. She spied an open gateway directly to the left of the podium, where several guards remained. In her survey, she had noted that only a handful of Tum’s soldiers were still standing. Whoever the hell this elite squad of assassins were, they were good. Very good. Good enough to eliminate seventy-five percent of their foes in record time.

The gunfire overrode the screams, which seemed like a rumble beneath the roar. The scent of sweat mixed with the metallic odor of blood as the sweltering African sun blasted down on the dead and wounded.

The taste of fear coated Lexie’s dry mouth.

What should she do? Stay here and risk being killed? Or run for her life? Neither option appealed to her, but what other choice did she have?

Going strictly on gut instinct, she made a mad dash for the one escape hatch open to her. She crawled halfway there, then stood and ran as if the devil were chasing her.

Almost there. Almost there. Just a few more feet.

Wham! The bullet hit her in the back with thundering force, knocking her flat as pain shot through her like a wildfire raging along every muscle and nerve.

She had come so close, had almost escaped.

Her body floated downward, as if in slow motion. She tried to make sense of what had happened and why. She lifted her gaze as she fell and saw three of Tum’s guards go down in rapid succession, blood spurting from their splintered heads. When she hit the stone floor of the courtyard, her tight grip on the camera holding the footage of the day’s events loosened. Try as she might, she could not stop the camera from skidding out of her reach. She had risked her life and Marty’s for nothing. He was dead, and she was probably dying.

Slipping in and out of consciousness, Lexie had no idea how long she lay on the hot, bloody stone floor. Five minutes? Fifty minutes? Five hours?

“You can’t take her with us,” a man’s voice said, his accent decidedly British.

“If I don’t, she’ll die,” a deeper, harsher voice replied. American, Lexie thought somewhere in the deepest recesses of her addled brain.

Seconds later, she felt a pair of large, strong arms lift her as if she weighed no more than a child. He crushed her wounded, agonized body against his hard chest. She managed to focus on his face for half a second, not long enough to really see him, catching only a glimpse of smoky-gray eyes before passing out.

GEOFF MONDAY, the SAS officer who had been second in command on their secret assignment, which had sent a select group of American and British soldiers into Gadi, came up to Deke. He nodded toward the closed door across the hall from where Deke was waiting to speak to Lexie Murrough’s doctor.

“Any change in her condition?” Monday asked.

Deke shook his head.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” Monday told him. “She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Yeah, I know.” It wasn’t as if this UBC reporter had been the first innocent civilian he’d wounded or killed, but she was the only American. Civilians died in wars every day, casualties of hatred, revenge or sheer madness. So why was Lexie Murrough any different? Because she was a woman? Because she was a fellow American?

“You risked your career, not to mention your neck and mine, to save her,” Monday told him. “She’s going to live, thanks to you.”

“She’s paralyzed because of me, because my bullet hit her spine.”

The closed door opened, and two military doctors emerged. One walked away down the hall, while the other approached Deke.

“Captain Bronson?”

Deke nodded.

“Ms. Murrough is awake and asking questions,” the doctor said. “She wants to know the name of the soldier who rescued her.”

Every nerve in Deke’s body tensed.

“You can go in to see her, if you’d like.”

Deke shook his head. “Tell her you don’t know who the soldier was.”

The doctor gave Deke a quizzical look, then said, “If that’s what you want, but I’m sure she’d like to thank you.”

“I don’t want her thanks.” Deke turned and walked away. How could he face the woman—a girl really, only twenty-four—and accept her thanks, when he knew it had been his bullet that hit her and probably paralyzed her for the rest of her life?

CHAPTER ONE

Ten years later…

LEXIE MURROUGH gazed out of her office window overlooking the Market Street Bridge, which was now a pedestrian-only crossing. When arranging the furniture in her office, she had made certain the beautiful view was available to her throughout the workday. For the past two years, she had called Chattanooga home, ever since she’d joined forces with billionaire heiress Cara Bedell to found a charitable organization to help the underprivileged worldwide. Although Lexie was listed as the group’s president and was the person who oversaw the day-to-day running of the charity, Cara not only provided the bulk of the funds for Helping Hands, she often took an active role in the decision-making. Since joining forces for such a worthwhile cause, Lexie and Cara had become good friends.

There had been a time when Lexie had taken friendship for granted, when she’d taken many things for granted. But that had been another Lexie, the young and very foolish rookie reporter who had thought the world revolved around her. In the span of five minutes, her entire life had changed forever. The cute, feisty college cheerleader who’d been voted Most Likely to Succeed and had reigned as homecoming queen her senior year at the University of Georgia had died in a godforsaken African country on a sweltering June day ten years ago. But unlike her cameraman, Marty Bearn, Lexie had been reborn, given a second chance at life.

“Daydreaming again?” a female voice inquired, breaking into Lexie’s thoughts.

Lexie sighed, then turned and smiled at her assistant, Toni Wells. “I was just enjoying the view.” Lexie didn’t discuss her past with her friends and associates. Her therapist had helped her understand that in order to move forward, she had to let go of the past. Not only of the lost hopes and dreams, but of the guilt and the anger.

“I come bearing gifts.” Toni placed a lidded foam cup on Lexie’s desk. “Fat-free mocha, no whipped cream.”

“Thanks. You’re a sweetie.” Lexie picked up the cup, snapped back the plastic lip of the lid and took a sip of the hot coffee. “This is just what I needed.”

Toni sat in a chair across from Lexie’s antique desk—a gift from Cara—crossed her long, jeans-clad legs and relaxed as she sipped her own drink, no doubt something sinfully rich and loaded with calories. Toni was one of those fortunate women who never gained an ounce and ate like a lumberjack.

Years ago, when she’d been in her early twenties, Lexie had never worried about her weight. But inactivity and overeating had added a good thirty pounds to her five-five, medium-boned frame. It had taken her years to shed twenty of those pounds, and she now had to watch every bite she ate in order to maintain her weight.

Lexie studied her young assistant. Antoinette Wells was twenty-five, tall, slender and exotically lovely, with curly black hair, a café-au-lait complexion and striking hazel eyes. Her mother, an African-American poet, and her father, a white third-generation Georgia politician and now a state representative, had divorced when Toni was twelve.

“Don’t look at me that way,” Toni said. “I didn’t bring any doughnuts or Danish today. And I can’t help it if I inherited skinny genes from both parents, can I?”

Lexie laughed. “Heredity can be a bitch sometimes, but in your case, it was a blessing.”

“Only in the looks department,” Toni said. “At least you don’t have the complications I do, dealing with a mixed heritage.”

“You’re right. Life isn’t perfect for any of us, is it?”

“Ooh, you’re in one of those moods, huh?”

Lexie scooted back her chair and turned it so that she faced the window instead of the room. With her back to Toni, she said, “I went for my six-month checkup yesterday, and the news was pretty much what I expected.”

“No change?” Toni’s voice held just a hint of pity.

Lexie shook her head. “No change. And after all this time, there isn’t likely to be any further improvement.” Emotion welled up inside her, tightening her throat. But she didn’t cry. Wouldn’t cry. At this point in her life, tears would be a waste.

Toni came across the room and stood behind Lexie. “Do you want the pep talk now, or should I save it for later?”

“Now would be good.” Lexie heaved a deep sigh.

“You’re young, beautiful, have a job you love and friends who adore you, and even if you can’t run, you can walk.” Toni let her hands drift down from where she’d been gripping the back of the chair to touch Lexie’s shoulders. She gave her a reassuring squeeze, then grabbed the chair again and whirled Lexie around to face her. “And the only reason you don’t have a man in your bed is because you won’t make the effort. How many times has Lieutenant Desmond asked you out on a date this past year?”

“You could have stopped before bringing up Bain Desmond. From now on, he’s off limits during any pep talk.”

“Why?” Easing her hips against the side of Lexie’s desk, Toni sat on the edge.

“Why? You know why.”

“Explain it to me again.”

“Because Bain Desmond isn’t the type of man I want as a boyfriend,” Lexie said. “He’s a police detective. He carries a gun. He shoots people.” She had an aversion to guns and to the men who carried them, especially in a professional capacity. “Besides that, actually dating Bain would ruin our friendship.”

“What’s wrong with Farris Richardson? He wouldn’t know one end of a gun from the other.”

Lexie wrinkled her nose. “If you like our accountant so much, why don’t you date him?”

“I have Jafari now. Why would I ever want anyone else? But you, on the other hand, have no one warming your bed at night.”

“When did finding a man for me become your goal in life?”

Toni sighed dreamily. “Since I’ve fallen in love. I suppose I think all my best friends should be as happy as I am.” She looked Lexie right in the eyes. “Of course, you might not find a guy as wonderful as Jafari. He’s definitely one of a kind.”

“I’ll make you a deal. If you can put Jafari out of your mind for a few hours, I’ll do my best to forget my visit with Dr. Burns yesterday. Then we can actually get some work done before lunch. I’m meeting with Cara at one. Would you order lunch in for the three of us? I want you to sit in on this meeting and tell her some of your ideas about the charity auction she’s hosting to raise funds.”

“I have a lunch date with Jafari, but since we’re having dinner together this evening, he won’t mind if I cancel.” Toni eased off Lexie’s desk and headed for the door. “Want me to order something now and then pick it up around noon?”

“That would be great. Thanks.” Just as Toni opened the office door, Lexie called, “Let Robert, Vega and Malik know that I’m going to bring Ms. Bedell by today to say hello to everyone.”

“Will do. I’ll forewarn the workers that the Queen Bee will be buzzing through on her way in and out this afternoon.”

“Look, Toni, despite your personal feelings about the human rights policies of some of Bedell, Inc.’ s worldwide business partners, you need to remember that Cara Bedell signs your paycheck and mine. And she only took over her father’s business two years ago. She can’t change everything overnight. Give her credit where credit is due. Okay?”

Toni shrugged. “Okay.”

Alone again in her office, Lexie reached over to where her cane leaned against the edge of her desk. Using the cane to brace herself, she lifted her body slowly and stood. Discomfort, but no pain. Pain was in the past, as was the struggle to relearn how to walk. After several operations and five years of physical therapy, she had gone from being an invalid to a partial invalid to completely mobile. Except for a decided limp and the use of a cane, Lexie was for all intents and purposes normal. As Toni had pointed out, she couldn’t run, but she could walk. Considering how close the bullet had come to severing her spine, she was damn lucky she wasn’t paralyzed from the waist down.

Just as she took a couple of steps, her cell phone rang. During working hours, she kept it on her desk, just in case she received any personal calls. Leaning on the cane with one hand, she reached out with the other, picked up the phone and checked the caller ID.

Smiling, she flipped open the phone and said, “Hello, Lieutenant Desmond.”

“Hello, beautiful.”

“Thank you, sir. You certainly know how to make a girl’s day.”

“I should hope so.” He chuckled. “Look, the reason I’m calling is…well, I need to do some of my Christmas shopping, and I thought you might help me get started tonight. What do you say?”

“Only if you buy me supper first.”

“It’s a small price to pay for your assistance.”

“This is not a date,” she warned him. “It’s just two friends getting together.”

“That’s right. You and me. Just buddies.” Bain chuckled again. “You really don’t have to go over the same territory every time we go out. No matter how charming and persuasive I am, you’re not going to have sex with me.”

Ignoring his last comment completely, she said, “And you won’t wear your gun.”

“I’ll be off duty tonight, so that won’t be a problem.”

“Good. Then pick me up here around six and we’ll grab burgers at Steak and Shake before we hit Hamilton Place Mall.”

“You got it.”

After they ended their conversation, Lexie made her way across the room slowly, carefully, until she reached the row of file cabinets on the opposite wall. As much as she liked Bain, they really were just friends and nothing more. She didn’t know why she felt compelled to keep reminding him of that fact. Although they’d never talked about it, they each knew the other was in love with someone else. He with a woman he wouldn’t admit he loved and she with a man she didn’t know—a man with smoky-gray eyes.

She had met Bain through a chance encounter. About eighteen months ago, she and Cara had run into the CPD lieutenant and his date one evening at a local restaurant. Bain Desmond had been the lead detective during the investigation into Cara’s half sister’s death, which had turned out to be the responsibility, albeit accidental, of her own father. And, unable to cope with what had happened to his daughter Audrey, Edward Bedell had committed suicide. As his only remaining child, Cara had inherited the vast Bedell, Inc. conglomerate and all the responsibilities that entailed. Lexie would have had to be blind to have missed the sexual vibes radiating between Cara and Bain. And she would have had to be an idiot not to realize that both of them were pretending—to each other and to themselves—that there were no vibes.

After propping her cane against the wall, Lexie opened the middle file cabinet and flipped through until she found the Gs. Gadi. The country where she had met death head-on and survived had become her pet project. Of all the people in the world who needed help, her heart went out to those in the small African nation steeped in poverty and ignorance. But at least they were no longer under a vicious dictator’s rule. Ever since President Tum’s death ten years ago, the country had undergone numerous changes, and after a four-year civil war, they were now reemerging as a democracy.

Lexie had brought several Gadians into the Helping Hands organization, with three working here at the Chattanooga headquarters. Robert would complete his internship with the organization and return home by year’s end. Another young Gadian would take his place. Malik and Vega were permanent employees now and had applied for U.S. citizenship.

Just as Lexie lifted the file from the cabinet, a thunderous boom rocked the building, shaking the walls and shattering the windows. Losing her balance, she toppled over, hitting her hip against the carpeted floor and her forehead against the edge of a filing cabinet. Her cane sailed across the room and struck the side of her desk.

My God! What had happened? Could it have been an earthquake? Surely not one of such magnitude here in Chattanooga. But if not an earthquake, then what?

HE TOSSED the detonator into the Dumpster in the alley beside the building across the street from the four-story structure occupied by Helping Hands. Then he removed his gloves, stuffed them into his coat pocket and emerged onto the sidewalk. A small crowd of onlookers had already congregated, so he simply joined them, just one more curious, concerned person wondering what had happened.

He had constructed the bomb in the laundry room of his apartment complex late last night, putting it together with the expertise he’d gained during his year of instruction by the Majeed. The small explosive would harm only those within a twenty-five-foot radius and was not intended to kill or create extensive damage. It was nothing more than a first warning of the terror yet to come.

Within minutes, sirens shrilled through downtown Chattanooga: the police, firefighters and paramedics racing to the scene. Now, before the situation escalated, he slipped away from the crowd and entered the building, going straight to the men’s restroom on the ground level.

After checking the room to make certain he was alone, he pulled the prepaid cell phone from his pocket and dialed hurriedly. The phone rang several times, then went to voice mail. He waited, redialed and got her voice mail again.

Pick up the phone, bitch. The bomb didn’t explode in your office. You’re all right. I wouldn’t kill you so easily. You have to suffer greatly before you die.

After his third attempt to reach her, she answered. “Hello?”

Her voice was shaky. Good. She was unnerved, at least.

Placing a folded handkerchief over the phone, he deliberately disguised his voice as best he could and said in a raspy whisper, “This is only the beginning of the end for you and Cara Bedell and Helping Hands. I warn you now that there is a special time for you to die, a time I have chosen.”

“What? Who is this? Did you—”

He ended the call, leaving her asking questions he did not intend to answer. Not now. Not yet. Let her worry. Let her learn the true meaning of fear.

WHENEVER he was between assignments for the Dundee Private Security and Investigation Agency, Deke Bronson made a point of being at the downtown Atlanta office on Wednesdays because office manager Daisy Holbrook always brought a homemade meal for the employees’ lunch on that day. The agents had nicknamed Daisy Ms. Efficiency, because she seemed to be able to juggle a dozen different things at once, do each extremely well and accomplish them all on time. Daisy wasn’t the matronly type, as one would expect from a “mother hen.” She was young, cute as a button and slightly plump, with big brown eyes and a warm, outgoing personality. Everyone adored Daisy, even Dundee’s CEO, Sawyer McNamara, who was a stern, by-the-book, don’t-mix-with-employees kind of guy.

“Is that chili I smell?” Lucie Evans asked as she entered the employees’ lounge, better known as the break room.

“Chili and corn bread,” Deke replied as he ladled a huge helping of Daisy’s famous homemade chili into a deep bowl.

“And apple-dapple cake for dessert,” Geoff Monday added.

“There’s vanilla ice cream in the freezer to top off the cake,” Daisy said as she sliced the two large skillets of corn bread into pie-shaped pieces. “One of these is Mexican corn bread and the other is plain.”

Geoff Monday placed his arm around Daisy’s shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. “Ms. Holbrook, you certainly know the way to a man’s heart.”

Daisy blushed. Everyone at Dundee’s—everyone except Geoff—knew that Daisy had a major crush on the former SAS officer. Deke had wondered if maybe he should clue his clueless British friend in on the obvious, but not being the type of man who interfered in other people’s lives, he’d kept quiet. Besides, if Geoff knew how Daisy felt about him, he would probably stop casually flirting with her, and that would end all of Daisy’s hopes and dreams. Poor Daisy. She had to know that a guy like Monday would never settle down, especially not with a sweet kid like her.

Deke chose the smaller of the two round tables in the break room, set down his bowl filled high with chili and topped with a huge slice of Mexican corn bread, and settled comfortably into the cushioned chair. He was officially off today, but no way would he miss one of Daisy’s meals if he was in town. Noting that Geoff and Lucie were the only other two agents there, he assumed everyone else was on assignment.

“Just us today?” Geoff asked, apparently thinking along the same lines as Deke.

“Ty’s supposed to come in later,” Daisy replied.

“I leave first thing tomorrow for another boring, nobody-else-wants-it assignment,” Lucie said.

Geoff rolled his eyes. Deke grunted. Daisy gave Lucie a commiserating half smile. They all knew that Sawyer deliberately chose the worst jobs for Lucie. Why he did, no one other than Sawyer and Lucie knew. And why he didn’t just fire her, and why she kept taking everything that Sawyer dished out, was something else only the two of them knew. Everyone who worked at Dundee’s was aware of the ongoing feud between the CEO and the Amazonian redheaded agent, but no one knew when or why it had started. Years ago, the two had been FBI agents, so the most logical explanation was that something had happened between them back then.

Lucie and Geoff joined Deke. Instead of sitting down with them, Daisy prepared a tray of food and headed toward the door.

“Where are you going with that?” Lucie asked.

“Mr. McNamara has requested lunch in his office,” she replied.

“Too good to eat with the peasants.” Lucie shoved back her chair, stood and held out her hands. “Here, let me take it to him.”

Grinning, Daisy shook her head. “I believe Mr. McNamara wants to eat his lunch, not wear it. Don’t think I’m not aware of what would happen if you served him.”

With that said, Daisy balanced the tray with one hand and opened the door with the other. Just as she crossed the threshold, she stopped abruptly, coming face-to-face with the big boss himself.

“I was on my way to your office with lunch,” Daisy said.

“It’ll have to wait,” Sawyer replied. Not unpleasant, but not friendly. And certainly all business. He eased past her and entered the break room. His gaze traveled to the table where his three available agents had begun devouring Daisy’s delicious chili. “Good, you’re all here.”

Deke knew what that meant. Either a delayed lunch or no lunch at all. Sawyer was about to give one or more of them a new assignment.

“I’m not going anywhere until I’ve eaten lunch,” Lucie said, not even glancing at their boss.

Sawyer bristled. Deke noticed only because he possessed an uncanny ability to read people. That intuitive instinct had given him an advantage as a member of the Delta Force and later as a mercenary. Sawyer’s jaw tightened, his gaze narrowing as he took a deep breath. The guy was reining in his impulse to tell Lucie Evans to go straight to hell.

“Daisy?” Sawyer motioned to the office manager. “Bring that tray in here. We’ll eat lunch while we discuss the new assignment.”

After Daisy placed the tray on the table where the others had congregated, she hurried out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Sawyer glanced from one agent to another, then eyed the meal in front of him. “I just got off the phone with Cara Bedell of Bedell, Inc.,” he told them.

“Someone hasn’t killed that worthless brother-in-law of hers, have they?” Deke asked. He’d met Grayson Perkins when he’d been called in as a backup agent for Domingo Shea the last time Bedell, Inc. had used Dundee’s services.

“As far as I know, Mr. Perkins is alive and well,” Sawyer said. “But it seems there was a bombing at the headquarters of Helping Hands, one of Cara Bedell’s pet charities. The building is in downtown Chattanooga. The bomb exploded on the first floor and seriously injured three employees, one of whom has since died.”

“And Ms. Bedell wants Dundee’s involved because…?” Geoff asked.

“Because the president of Helping Hands received a threatening phone call shortly after the explosion.”

“Was the threat directed at him?” Geoff asked.

“Her,” Sawyer corrected. “Yes, the threat was directed at the president as well as at Ms. Bedell and the organization itself.”

“Why would anyone threaten a charity organization?” Lucie shook her head, bouncing her copper-red curls. “You know, we’re living in a really screwed-up world.”

“How astute of you, Ms. Evans,” Sawyer said sarcastically. “Bronson, I want you and Monday to drive over to Chattanooga as soon as you finish lunch and can go home to pack your bags. I’ll leave it up to the two of you to choose who guards Ms. Bedell and who guards the Helping Hands president.”

“Who’s going to head up the investigation?” Deke asked.

“The Chattanooga PD,” Sawyer replied. “Lieutenant Bain Desmond is in charge. As for who will be Dundee’s investigator—”

“You could send me,” Lucie suggested.

“I could, but won’t. You already have an assignment that starts tomorrow. I’m calling in Ty Garrett to handle the investigation for Dundee’s.” Sawyer looked from Deke to Geoff. “You two have worked with Ty before. You know he’s good at what he does.”

Geoff reached in his pants pocket, pulled out a quarter and grinned at Deke. “Flip you for the heiress. You call it.” He tossed the coin.

“Tails,” Deke said.

Geoff caught the quarter in his palm. Grinning broadly, he said, “Heads. Sorry, old chap, but I get Ms. Bedell.”

Deke shrugged. It didn’t matter to him. One client was the same as the other. One woman no different than any other.

“I’ll have Daisy put together some preliminary info and e-mail it to both of you. You should have the report by the time you arrive in Chattanooga,” Sawyer said.

BAIN DESMOND met the two Dundee agents at three-thirty that afternoon, when they arrived at Helping Hands’ headquarters. The CSI team was working the scene when Geoff and Deke arrived.

“What can you tell us?” Geoff asked as they rode up in the elevator with the police detective.

“The bomb was placed in a storage room. If the maintenance man hadn’t been in there getting some supplies, he’d be alive. The bomb probably wasn’t intended to kill anyone. The area of destruction was limited, so we surmise it was detonated as a warning.”

“A warning to Helping Hands, its president and Ms. Bedell. Is that right?” Deke asked.

“From what the caller said, yeah, that’s right.”

When the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, Lieutenant Desmond emerged first. “The ladies are pretty shook up. I told Cara…Ms. Bedell, that hiring around-the-clock bodyguards probably wasn’t necessary, but she insisted. And what Ms. Bedell wants, she gets. Money talks,” Desmond grumbled.

“Her money shouts over at Dundee’s,” Geoff said.

Desmond nodded. They followed him down the hall to where one of the office doors stood wide open, revealing three women. When they entered, one woman turned and faced them, one glanced over her shoulder at them, and the other remained seated, partially blocked from Deke’s view by the other two.

He recognized Cara Bedell immediately: tall, statuesque and redheaded. Although not as pretty as Lucie Evans, there was something about Ms. Bedell that reminded him of the Dundee agent. They were approximately the same height and size, but Lucie was a few years older and her hair a deeper, darker shade of red.

Ms. Bedell moved forward, her hand outstretched. “You’re from Dundee Security?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Deke shook her hand. “I’m Deke Bronson.” He hitched his thumb in Geoff’s direction. “This is Geoff Monday.”

“I assume that Sawyer explained the situation, and you understand that I want you two on the job until we find the person behind today’s bombing,” Cara said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Deke replied.

She turned to Desmond. “I expect daily updates from the police department. And I want any information you can legally share with Dundee Security to be shared with Mr. Bronson and Mr. Monday. Understood?”

“Yeah, I understand,” Desmond said, a flash of irritation in his gaze.

Cara Bedell turned to the tall, slender African-American woman with curly black hair and striking hazel eyes. “Take tomorrow off, Toni. I don’t want anyone coming to work here until we get heavier security in place.”

“No problem, Ms. Bedell. After what happened, I’m not eager to come back.” Toni turned to the seated woman. “Jafari is waiting for me downstairs. I’ll call you at home later. Are you’re sure you’re all right? You don’t need to go to the ER or…?”

“The medics checked me out,” the woman said. “I’ve got a bruise on one knee and a slight bump on my forehead. I’m fine. Go home. Call me tomorrow. I should know by then if we can return to work Friday.”

Deke and Geoff watched Toni as she exited the office, both quite aware of how attractive she was. Then Deke faced the seated woman. Beautiful didn’t quite describe her. Exquisite might come close. Blond hair hung below her shoulders in soft, loose curls. Blue eyes were framed by thick, dark lashes. A peaches-and-cream complexion was touched with a fading summer tan. He blinked once, twice and then closed his eyes for a couple of seconds, certain his vision was playing tricks on him.

When he reopened his eyes, his gaze connected with the lady’s. Momentarily robbed of breath, he stared at her. It had been ten years, but seeing her again, he felt as if it had been only yesterday. Hers was the face that had haunted his dreams ever since that bloody day in the capital of Gadi when she had gotten caught in the crossfire between his team and Babu Tum’s guards.

She rose from the chair, leaning heavily on a decorative wooden cane with a bronze handle. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She took a step toward him, then held out her free hand.

“I’m Lexie Murrough, the president of Helping Hands.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.