She was there. The woman who had haunted Zac’s sleep for so long.

Zac had a sense of having been injured, and her voice was like a siren’s song with the power to lead him from the darkness. Or lure him more deeply into it.

“Who did this to you? Who would want to kill you? I know how much is at stake, yet when I thought you were dead…” she whispered.

For a split second Zac could have sworn he felt her lips against his.

“Why did you come? Why did it have to be you?” She spoke once more.

She paused again, and Zac could hear the pounding of her heart. Or was that his own?

“I can’t let any of that matter,” she said harshly. “You can’t die on me, Zac. I have a job to do. I have to find out why you’re here, so I need you alive….”

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

As you make travel plans for the summer, don’t forget to pack along this month’s exciting new Harlequin Intrigue books!

The notion of being able to rewrite history has always been fascinating, so be sure to check out Secret Passage by Amanda Stevens. In this wildly innovative third installment in QUANTUM MEN, supersoldier Zac Riley must complete a vital mission, but his long-lost love is on a crucial mission of her own! Opposites combust in Wanted Woman by B.J. Daniels, which pits a beautiful daredevil on the run against a fiercely protective deputy sheriff—the next book in CASCADES CONCEALED.

Julie Miller revisits THE TAYLOR CLAN when one of Kansas City’s finest infiltrates a crime boss’s compound and finds himself under the dangerous spell of an aristocratic beauty. Will he be the Last Man Standing? And in Legally Binding by Ann Voss Peterson—the second sizzling story in our female-driven in-line continuity SHOTGUN SALLYS—a reformed bad boy rancher needs the help of the best female legal eagle in Texas to clear him of murder!

Who can resist those COWBOY COPS? In our latest offering in our Western-themed promotion, Adrianne Lee tantalizes with Denim Detective. This gripping family-in-jeopardy tale has a small-town sheriff riding to the rescue, but he’s about to learn one doozy of a secret…. And finally this month you are cordially invited to partake in Her Royal Bodyguard by Joyce Sullivan, an enchanting mystery about a commoner who discovers she’s a betrothed princess and teams up with an enigmatic bodyguard who vows to protect her from evildoers.

Enjoy our fabulous lineup this month!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor, Harlequin Intrigue

Secret Passage
Amanda Stevens

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Amanda Stevens is the bestselling author of over thirty novels of romantic suspense. In addition to being a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award finalist, she is also the recipient of awards in Career Achievement in Romantic/Mystery and Career Achievement in Romantic/Suspense from Romantic Times magazine. She currently resides in Texas. To find out more about past, present and future projects, please visit her Web site at www.amandastevens.com.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Camille Somersby—She will do anything to protect her grandfather—and the future—even if it means deceiving the only man she’s ever loved.

Zac Riley—A supersoldier who will go to extraordinary lengths to carry out his mission.

Dr. Von Meter—A megalomaniac who has destroyed lives for over sixty years.

Dr. Kessler—The only one standing in Von Meter’s way.

Roth Vogel—A supersoldier with his own agenda.

Alice Nichols—A woman who knows how to get what she wants.

Special Agent Talbott—Is the FBI agent a pawn in a deadly game or a man who is willing to betray his own country?

Betty Wilson—A nurse who has more than a professional interest in Zac.

Daniel Clutter—A widower who becomes all too susceptible to Alice Nichols’s charms.

Adam—Can the memory of his five-year-old son save Zac?

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Prologue

The Secret City,

1943

Her cover was blown. She had no proof, of course, only a nagging suspicion that she was being watched.

Sliding her hand inside her purse, Camille Somersby let the cool, deadly feel of the Colt .45 bolster her courage as she hurried out to her car. Climbing inside, she slammed the door, started the engine and then struggled with the gears for a moment before easing the Studebaker from the muddy parking area onto the street.

As she made the first corner, she glanced in the rearview mirror. She didn’t think she’d picked up a tail, but she couldn’t be sure. In wartime, spies were everywhere. Especially here, in a place the locals called the Secret City.

Nestled in a picturesque East Tennessee valley surrounded by tree-lined ridges, the city—which did not exist on any map—was isolated from the outside world, despite its proximity to Knoxville.

Complete with stores, schools, a church, hospital, newspaper and both single and multifamily dwellings, the whole community had been built practically overnight by the Army Corps of Engineers to accommodate the thousands of scientists, engineers and plant personnel employed at three top secret facilities known only by their code names—X-10, Y-12 and K-25.

Security around the perimeter of the city was tight. The borders were patrolled around the clock, and no one was allowed to enter or leave without a pass. Phone calls were monitored and mail routinely censored. In such an environment, fear and suspicion were bound to run rampant.

And maybe that was all it was, Camille decided. This feeling of being watched. It could well be nothing more than her own paranoia at work. The burden of her own secrets wearing on her nerves.

Ostensibly, she was one of hundreds of young women who’d poured into the area seeking employment on the government reservation. But, in reality, Camille had been sent to observe a smaller and even more highly classified entity known as Project Rainbow. The unit was run by Dr. Nicholas Kessler, a world-renowned scientist whose research into electromagnetic fields had attracted the military’s attention at the start of the war.

He didn’t know it yet, but Dr. Kessler’s future was irrevocably tied to Camille’s. She had been sent to protect him, but if her cover had been compromised, the whole mission could be in jeopardy. It would be difficult to insure Dr. Kessler’s safety if she ended up dead in an alley somewhere.

Grimacing at the image, she shot another glance over her shoulder as she approached the gate. Flashing her pass at the guard, she waited for him to lift the barricade, then smiled and waved as she drove through.

Outside the barbed-wire fence, she relaxed a bit as she headed north toward Ashton, a small community five miles away where she’d been fortunate enough to find a cottage for rent. The massive influx of workers to the area had quickly eaten up all the government housing so that newcomers were forced to seek accommodations outside the reservation. Those commuting back and forth not only had to contend with the resentment of the locals, but with gas rationing and long lines of traffic to and from the project.

Camille had been worried at first that living away from the city might hamper her ability to carry out her mission, but so far it had worked out rather well. Ashton was a small, close-knit community, and she knew that if anyone suspicious showed up in the vicinity asking the wrong questions, she was bound to hear about it.

She’d also quickly come to appreciate the tranquility of the cottage. The house was situated on a lake, and the breezes blowing in from the water at night reminded her of happier times. When Adam was still alive.

Even after all this time, the thought of her son still brought quick tears. He’d been gone for over a year, but the pain was still as sharp and deep as the day she’d lost him. The only thing that had changed was her anger. It seemed to grow stronger and more consuming with each passing day. Anger at herself for not being able to protect him. Anger at the person who was ultimately responsible for his death.

And anger at the one man who might have been able to prevent it.

An image of that man slipped through the walls Camille had built around her heart, and, for a moment, she remembered too much. Dark eyes and a deep voice. Strong hands and a knowing touch.

The way he’d held her in the darkness. The way he’d kissed her, caressed her, moved her in ways no man had ever moved her before.

He’d been the love of her life.

And now he no longer remembered her.

But there had to be something left of his feelings for her, Camille thought bitterly. Some buried remnant of emotion that she could use to her advantage when he showed up here.

And he would come. She knew it without a doubt. That was the reason she’d been sent here, after all. To find out what he was up to and then, if necessary, stop him at any cost.

At any cost.

Her hands gripped the wheel as she thought about what that might entail. Lies. Deception. Murder.

Camille began to tremble. Taking a life, even in wartime, wasn’t something she contemplated lightly. Taking the life of a man she’d once loved so deeply would surely earn her a very special place in hell.

So be it. He was the enemy now.

God help her—God help them all—if she forgot that fact even for a second.

Chapter One

Philadelphia,

Present Day

It was the fourth night in a row the old man had come into Blue Monday’s. Zac Riley supposed he should be grateful the club had attracted a new customer. God knows there’d been few enough of those, young or old, in recent months, and if traffic didn’t pick up, he’d soon be out of a job. Again.

Still, a guy who looked to have one foot in the grave was hardly the target clientele of a waterfront blues club. And there was something about the man, apart from his age, that gave Zac the creeps. He didn’t know why, exactly, but he figured it had something to do with the dream. The sudden reoccurrence of the nightmare coincided with the old man’s first appearance in the club. And Zac had had the dream every night since.

The details never varied. He was always trapped in a cold, dark, windowless place with no way out. He could hear the clanking of metal, the steady drip of water and, in the distance, screams.

But upon awakening, what Zac always recalled most vividly about the dream was his fear. A mind-numbing terror like nothing he’d ever known before.

Afterward he would lie awake for hours, not daring to fall back asleep. But sometimes he’d drift off in spite of himself and that’s when she would come. A woman shrouded by mist. A temptress who beckoned and enticed but always remained maddeningly elusive, just out of Zac’s reach.

He had no idea if she was real or not. Maybe she was someone he’d known a long time ago—a lifetime ago—before the accident had wiped out a good portion of his memory. Or maybe she was nothing but a fantasy, a dream lover conjured out of fear and desperation.

Whoever she was, whatever she was, she’d haunted Zac’s sleep for years.

And now he had the sudden, unaccountable notion that she and the old man were somehow connected.

A chill rode up his spine as he tracked the man’s labored progress to the end of the bar where he perched, with no small effort, on a stool, then sat with arms folded, head bowed, waiting.

What’s your story? Zac wondered.

What was a guy like that doing in a place like this? The drinks were watery, the atmosphere gloomy, the location on the dark and sleazy fringes of hip and pricey South Street. There were hundreds of bars scattered all over the City of Brotherly Love. What had brought him to this one?

Zac didn’t think the old guy was homeless. He tipped too generously to be down on his luck, but he had the look of a man that time had forgotten. His heavy wool overcoat was threadbare in places, but Zac suspected it had once been quite elegant, perhaps custom-made for the man’s tall, slender physique.

Zac waited a couple of beats, then ambled to the end of the bar. Wiping off the mahogany surface, he said cheerfully, “What’ll it be tonight?”

“Whiskey,” the man muttered without looking up.

His raspy voice was like nails on a chalkboard to Zac. He poured the whiskey, then slid the drink across the bar. As the old man’s skeletal fingers closed around the glass, he glanced up. His eyes were the color of night. Dark, cold, scary.

Disconcerted by the man’s stare, Zac started to turn away, then paused. “Do I know you? Have we met before?”

The old man lifted his whiskey. “Do you think we’ve met before?”

Zac tried to laugh off his uneasiness. “Now you sound like a shrink.”

The old man lowered his empty glass. “I’m not a shrink. I’m a scientist.”

“A scientist, huh? We don’t get many of those in here.” Zac scrubbed at an invisible ring on the bar. “So what brings an educated man like yourself to a dump like this?”

“You do, Zac.”

The hair at the back of Zac’s neck rose. “How do you know my name?”

The dark eyes gleamed in the murky light. “I know a lot about you. Probably more than you know about yourself.”

“Is that right?” Zac felt the first stirrings of anger. And maybe even a touch of fear. “How do you figure that?”

“Because I’m the man who created you.”

Something tightened around Zac’s heart. Like a fist trying to squeeze the life out of him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he demanded, thoroughly unnerved now by the stranger.

The man smiled slightly as he fished a card from his coat pocket and laid it on the bar. Zac glanced down in spite of himself. Dr. Joseph Von Meter. The address was in the Chestnut Hill area, a historic neighborhood about as far removed from Blue Monday’s as one could imagine.

Zac lifted his gaze. “You’re a long way from home, old man.”

“As are you, Zac. You have no idea.”

HE CAME BACK THE NEXT NIGHT. And the next two nights after that. It was easy to avoid him on the weekend. The live music of Blue Monday’s attracted a noisy crowd—aging hippies for the most part and some suburbanites in town for a night of drinking and slumming. Zac kept his distance, allowing the new bartender to wait on the strange old man.

But the place was empty again on Sunday night, and Zac was alone behind the bar when Von Meter showed up, precisely at nine, just like the other nights.

Bored and anxious to close up, Zac had been staring out the window when the limo pulled to the curb in front of the club. A uniformed driver got out and came around to open the back door, then reached a gloved hand down to help his passenger disembark.

Definitely not homeless, Zac thought, watching the old man shuffle through the snow.

The driver waited until his charge was at the door, then he got back in the car and drove off.

A blast of cold air followed Von Meter into the club. He wore the same rumpled suit under the same shabby overcoat with the same hat pulled low over his eyes. He hobbled to the end of the bar and took his usual seat even though the stools closer to the door were unoccupied. Folding his arms on the bar, he bowed his head and waited.

Zac’s nerve endings tingled in apprehension as he studied the old man’s profile, what he could see of it, and he berated himself for not closing up earlier. He hadn’t had a customer all night. The snowstorm had kept everyone home, which was where he should have been hours ago. Had he subconsciously been waiting for Von Meter to show up?

“I know a lot about you. Probably more than you know about yourself.”

“I’m the man who created you.”

Telling himself he should throw the old goat out and be done with it, Zac walked slowly down the bar until he stood in front of Von Meter. “What’ll it be tonight?”

“Whiskey,” the old man rasped.

Zac poured the drink, then slid it across the bar. As the man’s wasted fingers closed around the glass, a feeling of déjà vu crept over Zac. They’d played this scene too many times before.

“How long do you plan on keeping this up?” he asked abruptly.

The old man set the empty glass on the table and lifted his gaze to Zac’s. His eyes were darker than Zac remembered. Dark and cold and…somehow timeless. “Until you ask the right question.”

Zac lifted an eyebrow. “Then why don’t you save us both a lot of trouble and tell me what the right question is?”

The old man licked his lips, as if savoring the taste of the whiskey. “You don’t remember much about your past, do you?”

“I don’t remember you,” Zac said. “But I get the impression you think we know each other. How did you put it? Oh, yeah. You’re the man who created me. Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me you’re my long-lost father or something.”

The dark eyes held Zac’s gaze. “I’m not your father. But we are connected.”

“How?”

He didn’t answer immediately, but instead slid his glass across the counter for a refill. When Zac complied, the old man’s gaze turned enigmatic. “Shall I tell you about the woman?”

Zac’s blood froze and, for a moment, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even breathe. Then he said angrily, “What woman? What the hell are you talking about?”

“The woman you dream about. She’s lovely, isn’t she? Ethereal. Ghostlike. Too beautiful to be real.”

Enough, Zac thought. Von Meter wasn’t just creeping him out now. He was starting to scare him. And, apart from the nightmares, Zac didn’t scare easily. “How do you know about her?”

The old man leaned across the bar. “I created her. I put her in your head. She was my gift to you.”

“You created her, you created me. Who are you, God?”

Von Meter merely smiled at Zac’s sarcasm and fished another card from his pocket. He laid it on the bar, faceup, and rose shakily to his feet. “Memories are a funny thing, Zac. In the right hands, they can be manipulated, suppressed, planted. How can you know what’s real? And do you really want to know?”

“Look,” Zac said angrily. “I don’t know what kind of head games you’re trying to play here, but I want no part of it. You come in here again, I’ll throw you out. You understand?”

“I understand everything. And soon you will, too.” With that, the old man shambled across the room to the front door and drew it open. Through the eddying snow, Zac caught a glimpse of the limo gliding to the curb, as if the driver had been summoned by a telepathic command. A moment later, they were gone.

FOR THE REST OF THE EVENING, Zac tried to ignore the warning bells clanging inside his head, the gnawing sensation in his gut that told him disaster lurked around the corner. As he got ready to close up, he tried to convince himself that Von Meter was just some weird old guy getting off by messing with his head.

But as the night wore on, so did Zac’s uneasiness.

Locking up, he grabbed his coat, then paused on his way out as his gaze lit on the card still lying faceup on the bar. His first instinct was to toss it the way he had the other one, but, changing his mind, he grabbed it and stuffed it into his coat pocket as he headed out the door.

The snow was coming down harder now. Shivering in his lightweight jacket, Zac paused in front of the tattoo parlor next door to watch. Even in the garish lights, the flakes were beautiful. White. Crystalline. Dreamlike. Their delicate beauty reminded him of something…someone…

“I created her. I put her in your head. She was my gift to you.”

Zac tried to conjure an image of the woman now, but suddenly she was more elusive than ever.

“Memories are a funny thing, Zac. In the right hands, they can be manipulated, suppressed, planted. How can you know what’s real? And do you really want to know?”

Ducking his head from the cold, Zac hurried down the street. The wind blowing off the Delaware River was brutal tonight, but luckily, he didn’t have far to go. The two-room flat he rented was just at the end of the street.

He was halfway home, lost in thought, when a cab pulled to the curb beside him. As Zac strode past, he could see that the driver was alone in the car. He sat slumped in the seat, arms folded, as if waiting for a fare.

But the streets were deserted.

Except for Zac.

His hands were in his pockets and he fingered the business card he’d stuffed in there earlier. He pulled it out now and gazed at the name and address under the streetlight.

Backtracking down the sidewalk, he rapped his knuckles on the driver’s window. “Hey, you waiting for somebody?”

The driver rolled down the glass. “Just you, buddy. Where you want to go?”

“Chestnut Hill.” Zac gave the man the address, then asked about the fare. Whistling softly at the amount, he mentally counted the cash he had in his wallet. The trip would take about half of what he had on him—his life savings—but what the hell? Who needed to eat?

Climbing into the back of the cab, Zac leaned his head against the shabby upholstery, enjoying the warmth from the heater. He must have dozed off because it seemed like only moments later that the driver was rousing him.

“Hey, buddy, you awake back there?”

Zac sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, I’m awake.” But he had the disconcerting notion that he had somehow been transported to a strange, new world. The neighborhood was one of those dreamy, Christmas-card-looking places made even more surreal by the swirling snow.

“Pretty swanky address, if you don’t mind my saying so,” the driver observed.

Yeah, Zac thought. And why do I have the feeling I’m about to fall down a rabbit hole?

He paid the man, then got out and stood for a moment, gazing around. Von Meter’s place was a three-story redbrick town house segregated from the street by an ornate wrought-iron fence. The gate had been left ajar, as if in anticipation of Zac’s arrival.

He stepped into the courtyard, a frozen wonderland with icicles dripping from a fountain and stone statuary cloaked in snow. If possible the wind was harsher here than on the waterfront, and Zac hurried up the cobblestone walkway to ring the front bell. A uniformed maid promptly answered the door. “Yes?”

“My name is Zac Riley. I’m here to see Dr. Von Meter.”

He wouldn’t have been surprised if the young woman had turned him away, but instead she smiled and curtsied and beckoned him inside the warm house. “Please come in, Mr. Riley. Dr. Von Meter is expecting you.”

“He is?”

“Why, yes, of course. May I take your coat?”

“No, I think I’ll keep it if you don’t mind.” Never knew when you might need to make a speedy exit, Zac decided, his gaze taking in the luxurious surroundings.

The foyer was large and spacious with an inlaid wood floor, a magnificent, curving staircase and a domed skylight from which one could watch the clouds by day and the stars by night. Tonight, however, the etched glass was banked with snow, giving Zac a touch of claustrophobia.

The maid led him down a dim hallway to a set of ornate wooden doors, which she drew open after a discreet knock. The room inside was richly furnished in leather and tapestries and floor-to-ceiling bookcases packed with gilded tomes. It smelled of cigar smoke and old secrets.

Von Meter stood at the window, staring out.

“Mr. Riley is here to see you,” the maid announced softly.

The old man didn’t say a word, but a brief nod of his head seemed communication enough for the maid. She motioned Zac inside, then backed out of the room. Only when he heard the doors close did Von Meter finally turn.

He looked different tonight. His hair was a dingy white, like day-old snow, and his face was even leaner than Zac remembered, the frail, taut skin appearing to have the suppleness of parchment.

“This is some place,” Zac said.

Von Meter smiled faintly. “It’s old and drafty, but it suits my needs.”

Something about the comment made Zac wonder if they’d had a similar conversation before. “It beats the dump I’m staying in now,” he said with a shrug.

“Perhaps.” The old man walked over to his desk and sat down, then gestured to a chair across from him. “But your apartment has its attractions, does it not? I’m referring to the young lady in 3C, of course.”

The muscles in Zac’s stomach tightened. “How do you know about her?”

“The two of you have become quite close in recent weeks. I’m afraid that has to end. You can’t afford the distraction.”

Zac leaped to his feet, the old man’s presumption making him suddenly furious. “What is this? How do you know about my personal life? How the hell do you know anything about me?”

Von Meter remained outwardly complacent. “Please try to calm yourself. Everything will be clear to you soon.”

He pressed a button on his desk, and, a moment later, the maid opened the door. “Yes?”

“Is Roth still here?”

“I believe he’s in the solarium, sir.”

“Would you ask him to come in?”

“Of course.”

A moment later, the door opened again, and a tall, well-dressed man with a lean, muscular build strode through. His hair, a strange silvery color, was a striking counterpoint to the black turtleneck he wore, but the most remarkable thing about his appearance was the color of his eyes—one blue, one green and both cold as ice.

As their gazes collided, a shiver went up Zac’s spine. He wasn’t one for making snap judgments, but he had an immediate aversion to the man. In spite of the expensive clothes and carefully styled hair, there was something…unseemly about his appearance. As if the man’s sinister nature lurked just beneath the surface, waiting to suck in the unsuspecting.

A nasty customer, Zac thought, and he’d met more than a few in his time.

As if reading his mind, the man smiled. “Well, well, well,” he said in a voice that might have belonged to the devil himself. It was smooth, oily, decadent. “The infamous Zac Riley.”

“You know me?” Zac said with a frown. If their paths had crossed, he was glad that memory hadn’t survived.

“Perhaps the explanations are best left to Dr. Von Meter,” the man suggested.

“Yes, perhaps they are,” Von Meter agreed. He turned back to Zac. “This is Roth Vogel, Zac. He’s here to assist in your briefing, but first, we need to get you settled. We have a room prepared for you upstairs. I’ll send someone to your apartment to pack up your things—”

“Like hell you will.” Zac shot to his feet. “I don’t know what kind of scam you’re trying to pull, old man, but I don’t want any part of it.”

He spun, but before he could cross the room, the door slammed shut, apparently of its own volition. He whipped around to find a gun pointed at his chest. His gaze lifted to Vogel’s and the man’s eyes gleamed in anticipation. Zac knew that look. He’d seen it before, on a man who’d tried to slit his throat in a dark alley one night for the twenty bucks he had in his wallet. Tried was the operative word.

“What the hell is this?” he asked through clenched teeth. “Some kind of shakedown? I hate to disappoint you, but I’ve got about ten bucks in my pocket. You think you can take it, have at it,” he challenged Vogel.

“Put that thing away,” Von Meter barked. “There is no need for violence.” When Vogel reluctantly complied, the old man said to Zac, “I apologize. You aren’t a prisoner here. You’re free to leave any time you wish.”

“In that case, hasta la vista.” He gave them both a quick salute.

A muscle twitched at the corner of Vogel’s left eye—the blue one—as if he was having a very hard time suppressing his temper. Or his trigger finger.

A nasty customer indeed, Zac thought as he strode through the doorway and down the hallway to the foyer, expecting to hear, at any moment, the sound of footsteps in hot pursuit. But no one followed him or tried to stop him as he drew open the front door and walked out.

Once on the frosty street, he hailed a taxi, climbed into the back seat, then, before they could drive off, he got out again. Ignoring the driver’s indignant curse, Zac returned to the house and rang the bell. The same maid answered the door, and this time Zac let her take his coat. When she showed him to the study, Von Meter was alone once more.

“Allow me to apologize again for Roth’s behavior.” He motioned Zac to a seat.

“What the hell was that all about?” Zac demanded.

Distaste flickered across Von Meter’s face. “You’re referring to the gun.”

“And the slamming door. How’d you manage that little trick?”

“It wasn’t a trick. Roth is a very gifted telekinetic.”

“A telekinetic, huh? And here I thought he was just your everyday asshole.”

“He is temperamental, I’ll grant you that. Impulsive. Insubordinate. Ambitious. A loose cannon, I believe is the term used these days.” Von Meter sighed. “But he has his uses.”

“Forget about Vogel,” Zac said bluntly. “What do you want from me?”

“I want to help you,” Von Meter replied. “You want to know about your past. I can supply the missing details. But first, I need to know what you do remember.”

“Why?”

“How would I know where to begin, otherwise?”

Zac supposed the explanation was logical enough, but he still didn’t trust the old man. “I don’t remember much,” he admitted reluctantly. “My parents died when I was just a kid. I was raised in a series of foster homes until I turned eighteen. After I left the system, I drifted for a while, then joined the navy. Eventually, I ended up working in the intelligence community before I was recruited into a classified special ops program, code name Phoenix.”

When he paused, Von Meter nodded encouragingly. “Please go on.”

“The training was conducted in a series of underground bunkers at the old Montauk Air Force Station on Long Island. I remember very little about my time there or the missions we carried out, but I do recall being on board a submarine at some point. There was an accident. Some kind of explosion. We crash-dove to the bottom of the North Atlantic where we were trapped for days. Most of the crew died. A hundred and something men. I think there were other survivors besides me, but I never saw them. I spent weeks in the hospital where I was subjected to long periods of isolation and rigorous debriefing sessions. After a while, I lost track of time and the details of the accident began to fade. Some days I had a hard time remembering my own name.” He paused as the feelings of loneliness and confusion washed over him once again. Then he shrugged them away. “That’s about it. I was later discharged from the navy.”

“They said you were mentally unfit to serve.”

Zac got up and walked over to the window to stare out at the snow. The discharge still rankled five years later.

Von Meter spoke from behind him. “You mentioned something about Project Phoenix. It was, and is, an operation much larger in scope than a special ops program.”

Zac turned from the window. Something the old man said rang a bell. “How so?”

“Project Phoenix is a privately funded, covert organization comprised of scientists, military personnel, and leaders from business and technology—some of the finest minds in the world. The advances we’ve made in psychotronics, telekinetic studies and interdimensional phasing, just to name a few, are far more vast and intricate than most people could even begin to imagine.”

Zac wondered if he was dealing with a lucid mind here. The things the old man spoke of were impossible. And yet…something inside him warned that Von Meter spoke the truth. And that truth was somehow directly related to Zac. That was why he was here.

He studied the old man for a moment, trying to gauge his sanity. “Even if what you say is true, what does any of that have to do with me?”

“The goal of Project Phoenix was to create an army of secret warriors—super soldiers if you will—with psionic abilities. Once their training was complete, their memories were erased and they were sent back home or back out into society until such time as they were needed. That’s why you’re here, Zac. You are being called back into service.”

“Wait a minute.” Zac’s pulse jumped in spite of himself. “Are you saying I’m one of these…super soldiers?” When the old man nodded, Zac laughed, but the sound seemed hollow even to him. “Obviously, you’ve got the wrong man, doc. If I had any special abilities, psionic or otherwise, I wouldn’t be working in a dump like Blue Monday’s. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be here.”

“But you do possess a special skill,” Von Meter assured him. “One that makes you uniquely qualified for the mission on which you are about to embark.”

“Mission? Uh, no. I don’t think so. Sorry, old man. I don’t take orders anymore, not from you or anyone else. And even if I did, you haven’t said one single thing to convince me you aren’t running some kind of con here. My guess is you need a patsy, but I’m not as desperate or as stupid as you seem to think. And, as far as this mission of yours is concerned, I’m not going anywhere but home.”

He started to rise, but Von Meter’s gruff voice halted him. “Wait. Just hear me out a moment longer. If you still want to leave after I’m finished, then you can do so with my blessing.”

Zac didn’t really care whether he had the old man’s blessing or not, but seeing as how he didn’t have anywhere else to go on a cold, blustery night in Philadelphia, he sat back down. If nothing else, Von Meter’s charade could get interesting.

“Have you ever heard of something called the Philadelphia Experiment?”

Zac nodded. “Yeah. It’s a bar on South Street.”

The old man waved an impatient hand. “I’m not talking about a bar. I’m talking about an event. The disappearance of a U.S. warship back in 1943.”

Zac eyed the old man with skepticism. “I know what you’re talking about. But the Philadelphia Experiment is a myth. An urban legend based on the navy’s experiments during the war with electromagnetic fields. Scientists were trying to find a way to make ships invisible to enemy mines by demagnetizing the hulls, but according to the legend, what they achieved instead was visual stealth. Optical invisibility. Whatever you want to call it. That sound about right?”

Von Meter nodded eagerly. “Yes, precisely. But what if I were to tell you that the Philadelphia Experiment is more than a legend?” He leaned forward, his eyes lit with an uncanny glow. “What if I were to tell you that the powerful magnetic fields created by the specially designed generators installed on that ship somehow ripped a hole in the space-time continuum? What if I were to tell you the ship didn’t become invisible? It entered another dimension. It traveled forward in time, and when it came back, it left something in its wake.”

Tingles stole up and down Zac’s spine as he gazed at Von Meter. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about a secret passage. A time tunnel, if you will. A wormhole that links the present to the past. To 1943 to be precise.” The old man’s smile deepened Zac’s chill. “We’ve found it, you see. We know the location of the wormhole, and we have every intention of sending someone through it. Someone who is uniquely qualified for such a mission. That someone…is you, Zac.”

Chapter Two

She dreamed that Adam was still alive. The vision seemed so real, it was as if that day in the park had never happened.

But even in her sleep, Camille knew it wasn’t real. Adam was dead, and no amount of wishful thinking was ever going to bring him back.

But his voice… She could still hear it in her sleep.

“Mom, can you really teach me how to play baseball?” he was asking her.

In her dream, Camille grinned down at him, her heart swelling with love. “You bet I can. I’ll teach you just like my mother taught me.”

“Why didn’t your dad teach you?”

“Because my dad died when I was little. You know that, Adam. We’ve talked about it before.”

“Did my dad die, too?” he asked solemnly. “Is that why he’s not here to play baseball with me?”

How was she supposed to answer that question, Camille wondered sadly, when the truth was something she still hadn’t come to terms with herself? Adam’s father wasn’t dead. He simply…didn’t remember them.

Luckily, the child suddenly became distracted by something else, and he let the matter drop. “Mom, why is that man watching us?”

Startled, she glanced up. “What man?”

“That man over there.” Adam was holding her hand, and his grasp tightened almost imperceptibly, as if he somehow sensed danger.

Camille followed her son’s gaze. About thirty feet from the path, a man stood in the shade of an elm tree. Sunglasses obscured his eyes, but she could tell that he was staring at them.

A chill ran up her spine. There was something…unnerving about the way he watched them. As if…he knew them.

Camille was certain she’d never seen him before. She would have remembered. He had a striking appearance, the kind you didn’t forget. Dressed all in black, he was tall and thin, with silvery-blond hair combed straight back from his face.

Camille shivered again. She and Adam had purposely drifted away from the more populated area of the park so that they would have plenty of room to play pitch without worrying about stray balls hitting toddlers. She suddenly found herself wishing they hadn’t wandered quite so far away from the swing sets, jungle gyms and mothers pushing babies in strollers.

“Adam, maybe we should go back—”

“No, Mom, please.” He squinted up at her. “You promised you’d teach me today. Can’t we just stay for a little while? Please? Pretty please?”

It wasn’t in her son’s nature to remain obstinate for long. If they left now, he’d soon get over his disappointment. He was an easygoing child. Loving and affectionate although, like his father, he had a bit of devilment lurking in those dark, soulful eyes. Eyes that could melt her heart with just once glance. And when he gave her that look—as he was now—she didn’t stand a chance.

“Okay, just a few pitches,” Camille relented, her gaze moving back to the stranger. Surely he meant them no harm. They were still within shouting distance of the playground, and they were visible from the street. It was broad daylight, a beautiful summer’s afternoon. What could possibly happen?

She spent a few minutes showing Adam how to hold the ball. “Your hands are too small now to grip across the seams, but we’ll work on that as you get older. Right now, just try to get the ball out on your fingertips. See? Like this.” She demonstrated the technique. “And keep your wrist loose and cocked back. That way you can use it as part of your throwing motion.”

After a few more minutes of instruction, she backed up and tossed Adam the ball. “Now, throw it to me, son. Just like I showed you.”

After a few tries, he was able to get the ball to her with some accuracy and catch it when she threw it back.

“I did it, Mom! Did you see me?” He jumped up and down in his excitement.

“Good job! I knew you’d be a natural!”

It was true. He’d inherited his father’s athletic prowess along with his dark good looks and innate charisma. Someday he’d be a real heartbreaker. Just like his father.

They played for several more minutes. Camille was just about to suggest they head back to the car when her last pitch got away from Adam. The sound of his laughter echoed back to her as he chased after the ball. She laughed, too, at first, enjoying the moment, but then suddenly her breath quickened in alarm.

Something was wrong.

The grass should have slowed the ball’s momentum, but instead it kept rolling and rolling, always just out of Adam’s reach. She heard him laugh again as he tried to chase it down.

She must have thrown the ball harder than she meant to. That had to be it….

“Adam! Wait! Let me get the ball. Adam!”

Out of the corner of her eye, Camille spotted the stranger again. He’d moved into the sun, and now she could see him more clearly. As she watched, he slowly reached up and removed his dark glasses. Camille gasped. There was something odd about his eyes….

A fist of terror closed around her heart. He meant to harm them. She knew that without a doubt. She had to get to Adam. She had to protect him….

But the harder she tried to catch him, the farther away he seemed.

He was almost to the street by now, still chasing the ball. Try as she might, she couldn’t reach him.

“Adam!” She screamed his name, but a sudden gust of wind tore it away. “Adam!”

The ball rolled into the middle of the street and stopped. Without hesitation, Adam darted after it. He was so focused on the ball that he didn’t see the blue sedan roaring down the street toward him….

CAMILLE AWAKENED with her dead son’s name on her lips and tears drying on her face. She thought at first the pounding in her head was the echo of her own heartbeat, but then she realized someone was banging on her front door.

Lifting her head, she squinted at the clock. Just after seven. Had she overslept?

Her gaze darted to the window where she could see the sun slipping below the edge of a distant ridge. She sank back in relief. It was evening, not morning. She must have dozed off while listening to the news. The radio was still on, and she could hear the transmission fading in and out. She reached over and snapped off the old Motorola, but it took a moment for the static to die away.

The pounding came again, more desperate this time, and someone shouted her name. She put a hand to her eyes, trying to wipe away the last of the sleep as she swung her legs to the floor. Running a hand through her messy hair, she got up and hurried to the front door.

The dream was still so fresh in her head that when she glanced through the sidelight and saw the little boy standing on her front porch, her initial instinct was to throw open the door and sweep him into her arms, even though she almost immediately recognized him as one of the Clutter children from down the road. He didn’t even resemble Adam. Her son had been dark haired while Billy was a freckle-faced redhead.

Camille drew back the door and scowled down at the child. “Billy? What’s all the commotion about? Is everything okay—”

He grabbed her hand and tugged. “You gotta come, Miss Camille. Davy says you gotta come right now—”

“Whoa, wait a minute. Come where?” Camille felt as if only half her pistons were firing while Billy operated at full throttle. She had a hard time keeping up.

“You gotta come to the mine!” His voice rose in agitation. “Davy says—”

“To the mine? You mean the old deserted coal mine up on the ridge? You boys didn’t go up there, did you? That place is dangerous—” Camille sank to her knees and gripped the boy’s shoulders. “Billy, tell me what happened. Is someone hurt?” When he nodded, her stomach lurched. “Who’s hurt? One of the twins? Donny?”

He shook his head, gulping in air as he tried to catch his breath. “No, not Donny. Not Davy, either. It’s a man. We found him in the mine. He’s croaked and everything, and Davy says he’s a German spy probably!”

Camille tried to keep her voice even, tried not to let her own panic show in her actions, but she saw Billy wince as her grip tightened on his arms. With an effort, she released him. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

The boy nodded vigorously. “Yes, ma’am, he’s real dead. Davy said to come get you on account of our pop’s not home and you’d know what to do.”

Camille wasn’t so sure about that. “Where is your father?”

“He’s at work. He won’t be home until real late probably.”

Daniel Clutter, a widower, was employed as an engineer at one of the city’s secret facilities, and his work kept him on the reservation for long, exhausting hours at a time. He’d recently hired a full-time housekeeper to watch the boys in his absence, but the woman had to be over sixty and was no match for a precocious seven-year-old, let alone his twelve-year-old twin brothers, who were almost always up to mischief. Davy, the self-appointed ringleader, was cunning and clever and utterly fearless. A dangerous combination, in Camille’s estimation.

And now it appeared that he’d led his brothers inside a deserted mine. He had no idea of the danger they could have encountered. A dead German spy was the least of it.

So what was she supposed to do? The cottage didn’t have a telephone and the road back to the mine was overgrown and impassable. She’d have to go on foot.

“Here’s what I want you to do,” she told the still-excited child. She put a hand beneath his chin. “Listen carefully. I want you to go straight home and tell Mrs. Fowler I’ve gone up on the ridge looking for the twins. I’ll bring them home as soon as I find them. Understand?”

The little boy swallowed. “Yes, ma’am, but Davy said I wasn’t to tell anybody but you. He said—”

“Never mind what your brother said.” Camille lowered her voice to a stern, no-nonsense tone, the kind she’d once used to let Adam know she meant business. “You do as I tell you and maybe, just maybe, I can keep you boys out of trouble.”

Camille turned him toward the front porch and gave him a swat on his behind. “Hurry, now. Tell Mrs. Fowler you’re both to stay put until you hear from me.”

As the boy shot across the front porch, Camille whirled. Hurrying through the silent house, she grabbed first-aid supplies from the bathroom and stuffed them into a bag, along with a flashlight and her .45. Two minutes later, she was out the door.

A path behind the cottage led into the woods, but the trail ended after a half mile or so and the terrain soon became rough and overgrown. Darkness was falling, too, but Camille didn’t turn on her flashlight. Batteries were hard to come by, and she’d learned to use them—and a lot of other things—sparingly. But in another few minutes, the last rays of the sunset would fade and the topography would become even more treacherous.

At least she knew the area. Camille had made it a priority to familiarize herself with every square inch of the surrounding countryside. She’d found all the hiding places and the discreet trails across the ridge that led straight to the city. From one of those hidden vantages, she’d memorized the rotation of the guards, the weaknesses in the city’s defenses, and she knew better than anyone how easily a spy or saboteur—or even an assassin—could slip in and out undetected.

Breathing heavily, she emerged into a clearing on the face of the ridge and immediately spotted one of the twins pacing in front of the old mine shaft. The entrance had been boarded up at one time, but some of the planks had been pried loose and the rest were broken. The fresh splintering of the wood suggested that someone had come in and out of the mine recently.

Camille hurried over to the boy, noticing in the fading light the scar above his right eyebrow which told her this was the more docile twin, Donny.

“Where’s Davy?” she asked anxiously.

Donny nodded toward the mine. “In there.” He reached for a lantern hooked on a peg just outside the entrance. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

“No, I’ll go in alone,” Camille said quickly. “You wait out here.”

“But Davy said—”

“I don’t give a damn what Davy said.” Camille knew her voice sounded harsh, but she didn’t care. She had to somehow make the boys realize how dangerous the mine was. She had to make sure they didn’t come back here. “Do you have any idea how foolish it was for you boys to come up here? Let alone dragging poor Billy along with you? It could be one of you lying dead in there.”

She waved a hand toward the mine entrance. “This place has been abandoned for years. The supports are all rotting. What if there’d been a cave-in? What if you’d gotten trapped inside? No one would have known where to find you. You could have been buried alive and no one would have ever known what happened to you.”

Donny’s eyes widened as he listened to her. Good, Camille thought. Maybe she was getting through to him. Maybe if she scared him enough, he’d keep his brothers away from this place.

“Now—” she reached inside the bag for her flashlight “—I’m going in there to find your brother and then I want you both to go straight home and never come back here again. You understand me?”

Donny gulped and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” She brushed past him to the entrance, pausing just inside to flick on the flashlight and shine the beam around the room.

The evening was hot and muggy, but inside the mine the temperature was a good ten degrees cooler. Shivering in the gloom, Camille glanced over her shoulder. Donny watched her anxiously from the entrance. When he saw her looking at him, he jumped back.

“Which way?” she asked.

Tentatively, he stepped back up to the entrance. “See that tunnel over there? When it forks, go right. That’s where Davy is.”

The series of tunnels had been dug horizontally into the hillside. The passage Camille took was narrow and, except for the beam of her flashlight, pitch-black. Thankful she wasn’t claustrophobic, she followed the metal rails that had once been used to transport loads of coal from the mine. As she approached the fork, she could hear water dripping somewhere nearby and the more ominous sound of the ancient log braces creaking beneath their weight.

“Davy?”

“In here,” came the soft reply.

The opening lay to her right, and, as Camille ducked through, she gasped in shock.

The dead man lay sprawled on the dirt floor, his face and clothing covered in blood and grime. The stench of unwashed flesh permeated the air, and Camille had to press her hand to her mouth to keep from gagging.

Davy Clutter, evidently unperturbed by either the smell or the sight of all that blood, squatted on the ground beside the corpse. He’d hung a lantern nearby, and the flickering light cast wild shadows across the walls and gave the boy a strange, demonic appearance.

He had a stick in one hand that he’d been using to draw pictures in the dirt while he waited for Camille. When he heard her gasp, he looked up, his eyes glowing eerily in the lamplight.

“Davy? Are you okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He rose to his feet. “But he’s not. Someone killed him.”

“How do you know?”

“His head’s bashed in.”

“Maybe he fell and hit his head on a rock.” Camille’s gaze slid reluctantly back to the still form on the ground. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

Davy poked the body with his stick. When there was no response, he shrugged and glanced up. “See?”

Camille tried not to be disturbed by the boy’s cavalier attitude. In wartime, death was no stranger to anyone, even children. Davy was obviously handling the situation the best way he knew how. He’d convinced himself that the dead man was an enemy spy and therefore, unworthy of compassion.

Summoning her own resolve, Camille decided she’d better check for a pulse, but as she moved toward the body, an avalanche of dirt and gravel rained down in the tunnel behind her. She glanced over her shoulder, then whirled back to Davy. “We’ve got to get you out of here. This place isn’t safe—”

A low rumble from somewhere nearby caused them both to jump. For the first time, Camille saw fear flash across the boy’s features as he moved toward her. “What’s that?”

“I think it’s a cave-in somewhere back in the mine.” Camille’s heart started to pound as she grabbed the boy’s hand. “Come on. We have to get out of here.”

Davy glanced down at the dead man. “What about him?”

“We’ll have to leave him for now. There’s nothing we can do for him anyway. Come on. We have to hurry!”

Camille propelled Davy to the opening and, once he’d scurried through, she started to follow. But a movement caught her eye, and slowly she turned back to the dead man.

His eyes were open. They hadn’t been before.

Camille put a hand to her mouth. He was alive!

Another shower of dirt and rocks spewed into the tunnel, and Davy tugged on her hand. “Come on!”

But Camille couldn’t move. She couldn’t tear her gaze from those eyes. Those dark, gleaming, seductive eyes.

The eyes of the man she’d been sent to kill.

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