A Father’s Sacrifice
Mallory Kane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is for Galen.

I couldn’t have done it without you.

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

Prologue

FBI Special Agent Natasha Rudolph drew her FBI-issued Glock .23 and eyed the burned-out building in a run-down section of downtown Washington, D.C. The broken door hung off its hinges, and as she entered, weapon first, the smell of smoke, urine and dead rats hit her like a noxious wind.

Her wrist communicator beeped quietly.

“Natasha, damn it, where are you?”

It was Storm.

“I just got here,” she whispered into her COM unit. “The cell phone signal had to come from this building.”

“I’m right behind you. Three minutes. Wait for me.”

She knew from experience that in three minutes, Bobby Lee Hutchins could be long gone.

She and fellow Agent Ray Storm had been tracking Hutchins for months, since he’d detonated an explosive device in the Mall in Washington, D.C., that had killed two people and injured over a dozen, including the daughter of a prominent U.S. congressman.

Hutchins was clever, but Natasha and Storm had finally located his mother and tapped her phone. Now they had him, and Natasha wasn’t about to let him slip away again.

“Natasha! Answer me!”

After an instant’s hesitation, she muted the wrist COM’s speaker and stepped into the dim, suffocating interior of the building, her weapon ready.

As she skirted a pile of broken glass, she heard a noise above her head. She froze, tightening her grip on her weapon.

Without moving, she examined the area. She spotted holes in the ceiling, glass and debris on the floor, fire and water damage everywhere.

Carefully, her ears attuned to the smallest sound, she started up the wobbly staircase. Something moved in the darkness beyond the stairs. Natasha jerked, but it was just a mouse. She blew out a breath of relief. She was after human vermin.

Her wrist COM lit up. Storm—trying to reach her again. She ignored it. Hutchins had slipped out of their hands too many times. She wasn’t about to lose him this time because protocol dictated she wait for backup. Agents were supposed to use their best discretion in urgent situations.

The sound of wood scraping against wood above her head sent her heart hammering in anticipation.

He was up there. She silently eased her way up the rickety stairs, careful to avoid broken steps. The creak of a board under her boot froze her in place. She stood awkwardly poised between two steps, not daring to breathe. After a few seconds of silence, she moved forward.

As she approached the second floor, she crouched low, taking the steps at a crawl, then slowly raised her head and her gun. Sucking in a deep breath, she prayed Storm really was only seconds away.

She jumped up, swinging her weapon in an arc, checking all sides. Nothing.

Cautiously, she angled around the banister.

A soft thump from behind had her wheeling around. A man threw all his weight against her, knocking her to the floor. She twisted as she fell, getting off a shot, but it went wild.

Screaming like a madman, Hutchins swung a rifle barrel at her head. Blinding pain wiped out her vision for an instant. She grasped her Glock desperately.

Then he was over her, the barrel of his rifle digging into her abdomen.

“You shouldn’a gone after my ma!” he screamed.

Natasha pointed her weapon at his chest and struggled to breathe. “Put down the gun!” she gasped.

Hutchins laughed. “You gonna make me?”

“Drop it now or I’ll shoot!” Her voice cracked with fear, but she couldn’t back down. She didn’t want to die. Not today.

He took a step back, and Natasha recognized the instinctive move—he was putting distance between himself and his victim.

“Last chance, Hutchins. Drop it!” she yelled.

His grimy finger tightened on the trigger.

She fired.

Hutchins staggered and blood blossomed on the front of his dirty T-shirt.

She scrambled up, her head spinning.

He recovered and rushed her. Before she could get off another shot, he head-butted her in the gut and her back slammed against the banister. With a loud crack, the railing broke.

Then she was falling—falling. She hit the stairs. Splinters rained around her as her weight broke through the rotten charred wood. Frantically she tried to cushion her landing, but a piece of wood stabbed her hand and her head slammed against a step’s solid frame.

A section of floor disintegrated under her weight.

Then with a jarring thud she hit bottom. The impact knocked the breath out of her. A ridge of hard-packed dirt dug into her back.

She looked up. She’d fallen through to the basement. Two floors above, Hutchins raised his rifle. Natasha tried to roll out of his range of vision, but a massive board pinned her legs.

She watched in horrified fascination as his finger tightened on the trigger. She spotted a board she could use as a shield, but she couldn’t reach it.

She felt the impact as the bullet slammed into her. The report was deafening. Her stomach lurched at the feel of hot sticky blood pooling in the hollow of her shoulder, and she wondered why it didn’t hurt.

Then it did. Pain ripped her in two, stole the last of her breath. Hutchins raised his rifle again. Instinct took over and her fingers tightened on the trigger. She looked down at her hand, surprised she still held the gun.

Gathering the last of her strength, she lifted her arm. Aiming the gun at Hutchins’s leering face, she pulled the trigger.

A horrible rumbling filled her ears. Dust and wood and drywall rained down on her. She struggled to move, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. The cold dirt beneath her and the heavy, suffocating debris on top of her threatened to crush her. Dust and grit filled her eyes. She couldn’t see.

She was trapped. Buried alive.

She screamed and pushed at the jagged boards and piles of drywall and broken glass weighing her down. A sharp edge cut into her palm. Drywall dust coated her throat. Soot caught in her nostrils.

Buried.

Panic threw her into insanity. She screamed until her throat swelled and her mouth was full of soot and dirt. Tears soaked up the dust and caked like concrete on her cheeks.

Terror crowded all rational thought from her brain. The past welled up to suck her into childhood horrors.

She was back in the mangled smoking car, the air thick with the moans of her dying parents, her face and body slick with their blood, her little arms and legs pinned beneath twisted metal.

Her screams mixed with the echo of explosions and gunfire.

But no matter how loud she screamed, nobody came.

Chapter One

Dylan Stryker looked down at his sleeping son. He’d been working with the virtual surgery program and missed Ben’s bedtime again.

In the dim glow of a caterpillar night-light, he watched his little boy’s lips move slightly with each gentle breath. He looked so small, so innocent—so vulnerable.

Dylan’s heart squeezed with guilt and grief and stinging regret. Looking away, his gaze landed on Ben’s leg braces in the corner. In stark contrast to his son’s softly lit face, the ultralight titanium sucked up the light greedily, shining with the stark whiteness of bones. They mocked him, a constant reminder that his child’s handicap was his fault.

Irony twisted his gut. He’d been named a hero for inventing the computer-driven leg supports. Now his own child couldn’t walk without them, and it was because of him. He knelt and kissed Ben’s cool cheek.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I’d die for you if it would change the past.”

The bedroom door opened. It was Alfred.

Dylan’s senses went on full alert. His chief of security never interrupted him when he was with his son. He slipped quietly through the door to the hall.

“Sorry,” Alfred said shortly.

“What is it? Another breach of the fence?” Next week was the third anniversary of the suspicious car crash that had killed his wife and injured his child. The vehicle that had run her off the road had never been found. And despite his and the government’s best efforts to cover up Ben’s survival, this time each year the tabloids always rehashed the sensationalistic rumors surrounding the crash.

HORROR IN THE HAMPTONS.

Mad Doctor Hides Hideously

Maimed Son In Airless

Underground Dungeon.

Alfred shook his head at the latest headline, his weathered face grim. “Campbell called me,” he said. “We’ve been hacked.”

Dylan cursed. “How bad?”

“In and out within a few seconds, according to Campbell. I should have waited until morning. Should have let you sleep.” Alfred’s face was lined with worry.

“No. I wasn’t asleep. I need to know as soon as anything happens.”

“What for? So you have something else on your mind to keep you from sleeping? You couldn’t have stopped the hacker.”

Dylan headed for the back stairs. “I could have tried.”

Alfred followed, laying a hand on Dylan’s arm. “He’s gone now. Go back to Ben. Try to get some sleep.”

“I can’t sleep. You know that. I might as well work.” Dylan rubbed his burning eyes.

“Son, this is almost certainly a domestic terrorist cell. Why don’t you take NSA up on their offer of protection?”

Dylan sighed. “I talked to them today.”

“You’ve decided to move to a secure location?” Hope tinged Alfred’s gravelly voice. As proud as the ex-military man was of his security measures, he’d made it clear that he’d prefer having Dylan and Ben under the government protection.

Dylan shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “We’ve had this conversation. I’m not sending Ben away. And I can’t go with him. The interface hardware is at a critical point—too delicate to be moved, and we’re still debugging the software. I can’t afford to lose even a couple of days….” He heard the desperation in his own voice. Alfred knew as well as he did the real reason he was working night and day.

Time was running out for Ben.

“So why’d you call NSA?”

“I told them that if they want their damn supersoldier technology, they’ll find me the best computer expert in the country. They promised me someone within forty-eight hours.”

SPECIAL AGENT Natasha Rudolph wiped her palms down her slacks as the doors slid shut, locking her in an elevator that was about to take her underground. Mitch Decker, Special Agent in Charge, had warned her this assignment would be difficult.

However, he hadn’t mentioned that the computer lab where she’d be working was twelve feet belowground on a secluded estate in the Hamptons. She closed her eyes as the elevator started downward.

“Agent Rudolph?”

She opened her eyes to find the military type who’d met her at the front door eyeing her hands. She realized she was clenching her fists.

“Yes? Mintz, isn’t it?” She deliberately relaxed her fingers. “I’m fine. Looking forward to getting started. It’s been a long day.” She bit her lip. She sounded like a babbling idiot. She set her jaw and silently commanded her heart to stop fluttering and her hands to stay serenely at her sides.

Alfred Mintz frowned at her as the elevator doors slid silently open.

She wiped her palms again, and stepped out into a brightly lit hall. It looked as if all the walls were made of glass. Natasha swallowed nervously. Not very substantial. She resisted the urge to glance up at the ceiling. How did these walls hold up the tons of dirt and steel above their heads?

Ignoring the burning sensation on her scalp that signaled rising panic, she concentrated on staying calm.

Mintz started down the hall, leaving her to catch up. “You may not get to meet Dr. Stryker tonight. If he’s in the virtual surgery lab, we won’t disturb him.”

They passed empty offices, furnished cubicles with computer workstations, and a door labeled Restroom And Showers that thankfully was not walled with glass.

“I thought he was anxious for me to get started reinforcing the firewall,” she said.

Just past the restroom was a longer, solid glass wall. She saw a dim glow through the glass, although the glare of the brighter hall lights kept her from seeing inside the room clearly. She had the impression of chrome and steel.

Mintz stopped at the door. He nodded, his gaze on something or someone beyond the glass.

Natasha shaded her eyes and squinted. The room was an exercise room—a very well-equipped exercise room.

And as she watched, a very well-equipped man stepped off a treadmill and grabbed a towel.

A few seconds later, the man stepped through the glass door and walked toward her with loose-limbed grace. He wore a gray T-shirt and gray exercise pants. The T-shirt was dark with sweat, and hugged the planes of his chest and shoulders. Its tail hung loose, hinting at a flat, ridged belly. The pants fit snugly over his lean hips and long legs.

His biceps flexed as he toweled his face and hair, then slung the towel around his neck.

Natasha gaped at him. Who was he? Not Stryker, surely. This guy did not look like a famous neurosurgeon. Maybe he was the young bioengineer she’d been told was building the interface implant—Jerry Campbell.

Mintz stepped aside as he approached.

When Natasha pulled her gaze away from his sweaty, sexy body and met his gaze, the lines around his red-rimmed blue eyes and the exhaustion on his face came into focus.

This was no kid. But, who—

His sharp blue eyes burned into hers.

“Dylan Stryker, this is Special Agent Natasha Rudolph,” Mintz said.

“Ah, yes. NSA said you’d be here by this evening,” Stryker said wryly, lifting one brow.

It was him. “Well, NSA and the FBI tend to respond more favorably to requests than demands.”

“I don’t have time to wait for the bureaucracy to process a request.”

His gaze flickered down her body and back up. Then he held out his hand. “So you’re the best hacker-buster in the known universe.”

She stared at the elegantly long, blunt-tipped fingers and neatly trimmed nails. His hands were the only thing about him that fit the information she’d been given. They looked like surgeon’s hands.

The only recent photos of him were long-range, grainy tabloid shots. From them she’d gotten the impression of a thin, hatchet-faced, obsessed scientist.

Boy was she wrong!

“Hacker-buster?” She shook her head. “No. Computer expert.” Her voice was steadier than her insides.

This was Dylan Stryker. Her head spun as lurid headlines filled her vision.

HORROR IN THE HAMPTONS.

Mad Doctor Hides Hideously

Maimed Son In Airless

Underground Dungeon.

It was typical tabloid fare and it made her shudder each time she thought about it, made her dread meeting Stryker’s child, whom Decker had told her was paralyzed. How could anyone keep a child in this place? Underground dungeon—underground lab. Close enough.

“Dr. Stryker.” She took his extended hand, and his intensity hit her like the back draft from a fire. Shock and awareness skittered along her spine. His grasp was firm and brief, leaving her palm feeling singed by his touch.

“So, Agent Rudolph, are you really the best?” His voice held a challenge.

“Yes, I am,” she said without hesitation.

His straight mouth tilted slightly at one corner. “Good. Perfect.”

He nodded, dislodging a trickle of sweat that slid down over his temple and down his jawbone.

He glanced at his watch, used the towel on his damp hair again, then turned to Mintz. “Get her settled and put her to work. What about equipment?”

“Brought it with her. Where do you want her?”

“In the office across from the virtual surgery lab.” He pointed farther down the hall. Then he looked at her. “How much equipment do you have?”

“I’d rather have an office upstairs—” Natasha started, but Mintz was listing her equipment for Stryker. Neither one of them paid any attention to her.

“Is there anything else you need, Agent Rudolph?”

Windows. Lots of windows. “Any chance I could work upstairs somewhere?”

“No. Out of the question.” Stryker eyed her suspiciously. “Are you sure you can handle this job?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, thankful her voice was still steady. She had a job to do. And that meant forgetting that there were truckloads of dirt and an entire mansion over her head. Her career was on the line. She had to succeed—windows or no windows.

“I assume I can start right away.” The quicker she got started, the quicker she could expose the hacker and get out of this hole in the ground.

“Alfred’ll take care of anything you need,” Stryker said with a wave of his hand.

As he turned away, his gaze met hers in a fleeting, intense glance that seared her to the bone. His clear blue eyes burned as brightly as an oxygen flame, warming her cheeks and stirring a cauldron of unexpected emotions within her.

He might be tired and unkempt, underfed and distracted, but Dylan Stryker exuded an air of command and—she searched for the right word…masculinity…that hummed through her like the ring of a perfectly pitched tuning fork. She blinked and dropped her gaze.

“Thanks, Alfred.” Stryker headed back to his lab.

Natasha felt stunned. According to his file, Stryker was thirty-three, and already known worldwide for his breakthroughs with computer-assisted mobility in nerve-damaged patients.

Natasha had studied everything the FBI had on him, including clippings from the tabloids. He’d been thirty when his wife was killed three years before.

It has long been rumored that Stryker’s infant son did not die in the mysterious car crash that killed his wife….

Natasha stared at Stryker’s broad shoulders and lean hips until she realized Mintz had left her behind again. She hurried to catch up. He used his thumbprint and keyed in digits from a pass code generator. The door clicked open to reveal a small foyer banked with elevators.

“Where are we going? I need to start work.”

Mintz punched the call button. “I’ll show you to your room first, so you can freshen up. Have you eaten?”

She nodded, finding it difficult to pull her thoughts away from Dylan Stryker. He was so completely different from her expectations. He was driven, maybe even obsessed. But there was something else about him. Something dark and haunted lurked behind his brilliant blue eyes.

“I assume you’ve been fully briefed on our situation?” Mintz asked.

“Yes, sir. I’m here to stop a hacker and construct a firewall. And of course, to help with physical security.”

Mintz shook his head. “Physical security is not your job. Two of your fellow agents are on the outside to help my staff handle that. You concentrate on the computer.”

Irritation stiffened her shoulders. “I’ve studied the aerial photos. You’ve done a good job of camouflaging the house.”

Too good for her taste. This was her first assignment since her injury. And now she understood why Decker had given her a choice. He’d told her that the staff psychiatrist had declared her minimally qualified. At the time she was furious, and eager to prove the shrink wrong.

Now she got it. How ironic that this job tapped into her worst fears. Before her injury, this would have been just another assignment, and her mild claustrophobia would be manageable. But now she was fighting for her career. If she couldn’t conquer her irrational fear of closed spaces, she’d lose her job.

She suppressed a shudder, drew in a lungful of conditioned air and repeated the mantra Dr. Shay had given her to calm her panic.

Quiet and safe. Plenty of fresh air. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

It was nighttime now, but she knew from the photos Decker had shown her that even during the day, the massive house was shrouded in darkness. “I saw the infrared photos. How do you keep from broadcasting body heat?”

“The canopy that stretches over the entire house is made of a specially designed heat-repelling mesh,” Mintz answered. “Some sunlight does get in. But it’s very good camouflage.”

“Right. The perfect hiding place,” she said wryly.

“Not perfect,” Mintz responded. “We do what we can to quash any rumors that this is Dylan’s base of operations. But occasionally somebody tries to breach the walls, or flies over in a helicopter. Usually paparazzi.”

The faint note of disapproval in his voice intrigued her. She looked at him, but his stern face gave away nothing.

The elevator doors opened and they stepped inside.

“And now it looks like we’ve got a hacker.”

“Did I understand that your computer guy said he got in and out clean?”

He nodded. “Jerry Campbell. He’s the bioengineer working with Dylan. He assured us the hacker left nothing behind.”

“Bioengineer? Who’s handling the computer system?”

Mintz cleared his throat impatiently. “Dr. Stryker wants as few people involved as possible.”

“I don’t know how good a bioengineer he is but he’s wrong about the hackers. They always leave something,” Natasha said firmly. “I need to talk with him, find out what he saw.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Why not tonight? What he tells me will help determine what other equipment I’ll need.”

Mintz shook his head. “He’s busy with Dylan tonight.”

“Well, maybe when he takes a break,” she said impatiently. She needed to get finished and get out. The assignment was already giving her the creeps.

The FBI shrink’s evaluation taunted her. Hasn’t fully dealt with her claustrophobia. She had to defeat the feeling of losing control if she was going to succeed.

“Believe me, Agent Rudolph. We’re anxious for you to get started. Get the equipment you brought set up tonight. Assess the system. Decide what else you need. Then first thing tomorrow, you can meet Campbell and have him brief you on the hacker’s movements.”

Natasha started to press him, but he held up his hand.

“Dylan’s at a critical point in the debugging process right now. I’m surprised he stopped long enough to exercise, although with the amount of tension he’s carrying around…” Mintz set his jaw. “He needs you, but he resents the time it’s going to take to bring you up to speed. Time is the one thing he doesn’t have. If you’re as good as your superiors say you are, he’ll figure it out soon enough.”

She tried one last frontal attack. “NSA is extremely anxious to get their hands on that interface.”

“NSA is not Dylan’s primary concern.”

Before she could ponder that comment, the elevator doors slid open, and they stepped out into the atrium through which she’d entered. It was laid out in brightly veined Italian marble. A mezzanine lined with bookshelves bisected the walls.

The high ceiling was crowned by a massive domed skylight. Although the sun had set, a pink and purple glow filtered through the glass dome.

“I assume the skylight is shielded, too?”

Mintz glanced up. “Yep. The mesh doesn’t block the moon and stars as much as it does the sun. And there’s clear plastic sheeting to keep out the rain while allowing a little sunlight in.”

The vise that had squeezed her chest since she got here loosened a bit. She took a long cleansing breath. At least she could see the sky—sort of.

Mintz gave her a quick rundown of the house’s layout. He pointed to the front doors. “That’s north. The staff quarters are on the east. The kitchen, the patio and Ben’s play area are that way.” He pointed southward. “And the west door goes to the family quarters. Your suite is in there, next to Ben’s.”

As he finished, a metallic thumping echoed in her ears.

“Alfred!” A toddler ran in from the kitchen area.

“This is Ben.” Mintz’s controlled drill-sergeant face creased in a smile.

Natasha’s heart twisted in compassion as the little boy ran clumsily toward Mintz. The metallic thumps were caused by bright silver braces that crisscrossed his little legs like an erector set. Beneath the clanking of the braces, she heard the almost silent whirr of a motor.

“Alfred!” Ben shouted. “Where’s my daddy?”

He was the image of his father—black hair, blue eyes. He didn’t seem to notice the braces that encumbered him.

The tabloid stories held a kernel of truth, but they were totally wrong about the child. Ben wasn’t pathetically crippled. He was bright and energetic. Still, a horrific vision haunted her—a crumpled, crushed vehicle with a baby trapped inside, crying for his mother.

She shuddered and her breath hitched.

“Agent Rudolph, are you all right?”

She forced herself to breathe evenly. “Of course.”

Ben tugged on Mintz’s hand. “Is Daddy coming?”

“Pardner, why aren’t you in bed?” Mintz said in a surprisingly gentle voice.

“I’m waiting for my daddy.”

“Where’s Miss Charlene?” Mintz inclined his head toward Natasha. “Ben’s physical therapist.”

Ben’s face began to crumple. “Not Charlene. Daddy. He can take me outside to see the moon.” Tears shimmered on his long lashes.

As Natasha watched in astonishment, the grizzled security chief lifted Ben. The boy wrapped his arms around Mintz’s neck and tucked his face into his collar.

“Your daddy’s working tonight. I want you to meet someone.”

Ben turned his head so that one dark blue eye was visible. “No.” He hid his face again. “I want my daddy.”

“This is Natasha. Can you say Natasha?”

Ben shook his head, but curiosity got the better of him and he peeked sideways at her. “Tasha?”

His little voice saying the nickname she hadn’t heard since childhood caused her to smile, even as it cut into her heart.

“Hi, Ben.” She’d never been around kids, so the ache in her chest and the tightness in her throat surprised her. He was so sweet and so vulnerable and brave. And he’d transformed Stryker’s gruff, rigid security chief into a doting grandfather.

“Come on, Ben. Let’s get you tucked in.”

Ben still peered at her sidelong, from the folds of Mintz’s shirt. “Tasha come, too?”

“Oh, no. I don’t—”

“Sure Natasha can come, too,” Mintz said. “And later, your daddy’ll come in to say good-night.”

Ben shifted and sat up straight, confident in Mintz’s protective embrace.

“Go this way, Tasha.” He pointed as Mintz headed for the west hall. He watched her over Mintz’s shoulder.

What should she say? She had no clue how to talk to a kid. “How old are you, Ben?”

He held up three pudgy fingers. “Three and a half.”

Of course. A pang of sadness hit her square in the chest. The car crash had occurred this time of year—September—three years ago. Ben had been six months old, too young to remember the crash or the pain or the sound of his mother dying. Thank God.

They entered Ben’s room to find a young woman with shiny brown hair folding back the covers on his bed.

“This is Charlene Dufrayne,” Mintz said. “Charlene, Special Agent Natasha Rudolph.”

“Oh, the computer expert.” Charlene gave Natasha a wary nod as she took Ben from Mintz. “We’ve all heard about you.”

Natasha rapidly cataloged the other woman’s appearance. Medium height, late twenties, pretty. In good shape. She’d be good for Ben.

She glanced around the child’s room. It was painted a bright blue, and filled with every toy a little boy could want. But something about it sent an eerie shiver through her.

“Okay, cowboy, let’s get you ready for bed,” Charlene said, setting him on his bed.

“I stay awake ’til Daddy comes.”

“Daddy may not come tonight. He’s very busy.”

As Ben’s eager face fell, Natasha’s heart ached. Charlene began to unlock the braces.

Mintz opened a connecting door and gestured for Natasha to precede him into the next room.

She stepped through the door, her gaze still lingering on Ben’s room. As Mintz turned on the lights and she looked around the starkly decorated room, it hit her what was bothering her.

“These rooms don’t have any windows,” she croaked. Her throat constricted.

“This is the only level of the house aboveground. That makes it vulnerable. Windows would greatly increase that vulnerability.”

Her pulse jumped as she pushed away the panic and forced herself to nod. “Vulnerability. Of course. That…makes sense.”

As an FBI agent, she understood, but no amount of rational thinking stilled her knee-jerk response to the vaultlike rooms. This was why she’d scrimped and saved until she could afford a top-floor condo in Washington, D.C., where all her walls were glass, and the sun streamed in every day.

She couldn’t get Ben’s sweet little face out of her mind. It horrified her to think he’d lived his whole life locked inside these walls.

“Is there a problem, Agent Rudolph?” Mintz’s voice was edged with ice.

She quoted her mantra for dealing with panic. Quiet and safe. Plenty of fresh air. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

“No, sir. I realize safety is your primary concern. It’s just that Ben is—” She swallowed. “He’s a growing boy. He needs sunshine and—” she faltered when Mintz glowered at her “—fresh air.”

“Ben’s needs are not your purview.”

She lifted her chin. “So far, apparently nothing is my purview. You’ve vetoed every suggestion I’ve made. I must say, your trust in me is underwhelming.”

“Not just you,” he muttered, his face grim. “Anyone.” He faced her. “Understand this, Agent Rudolph. As far as the public knows, Ben died in the car crash that killed his mother. Dylan has gone to superhuman lengths to keep the boy here with him.”

She searched his face. “You don’t approve.”

The lines in his face deepened. “I built this place to withstand an explosion the magnitude of Oklahoma City. But nobody can guard against human ingenuity. All it’ll take is one person breaching the walls, or hacking into the computers. NSA wants Dylan and his interface safe. They’ve offered to place him and Ben in a secure government location.”

“And you want that, too.” No matter how protected the estate was, the child could still be in danger. Still, now that she’d met Ben, she understood why his father refused to let him out of his sight. After only a few minutes, his innocent, angelic face had already made a dent in her heart.

“What I want is not relevant. Ben is Dylan’s son. He would give up everything for him, even his own life.”

“I get the feeling you’d do the same for either of them.”

Mintz averted his gaze as he dug in his pocket and handed her a small digital device. He cleared his throat. “Your fingerprints are already in the security system. This is your pass code generator. You’ll want to keep it on your person at all times. The code changes every forty-five seconds. Your print on the keypad plus the entry of this code will unlock any door on the estate. There will not be any security issues, understood?”

Natasha stiffened. “Understood, sir.” She took the device.

“I’ll be back in an hour to take you down to the lab.”

“I can find my way—” she started, but he’d turned on his heel and left. The door closed silently behind him.

She sat down on the bed and closed her eyes, thankful to be alone for a few moments. Her neck and shoulders ached from maintaining her composure. Now, as she flexed them, her entire body began to tremble.

Underground laboratory. Windowless rooms. No wonder Decker had worried about her ability to handle this assignment. She felt the weight of the house and the closeness of the impenetrable walls. Her lungs sucked in air greedily.

After twenty-two years, she’d thought she’d conquered her worst personal demon, until Bobby Lee Hutchins had buried her alive.

Horror slithered along her nerve endings as she recalled the endless dark. She’d been certain her life was over.

But her partner Storm hadn’t given up. He’d stayed there while the workers cleared away boards and drywall and dirt. He’d kept calling out to her even though she didn’t have enough breath to answer him.

When they got her to the hospital she had four cracked ribs, a collapsed lung and a broken leg, none of which bothered her as much as the hours of terror she’d spent buried under the debris.

She’d experienced the worst. This job should be a piece of cake. All she had to do was keep her cool for a few days until they caught the hacker.

She took a deep breath of artificially cooled air and reminded herself that she wasn’t buried. She was on the top level—aboveground. The air smelled fresh and the room was large and clean. There was no reason to feel claustrophobic.

She closed her eyes, but it didn’t help. Her demon was back. The walls were closing in.

THE HACKER grinned as his fingers flew over the keyboard. Just a few more keystrokes and he’d have his first look at Dr. Dylan Stryker’s neural interface operating software.

He’d been working toward this moment for three years, since the botched kidnapping of Stryker’s wife and son. He’d learned a lot from the extremists who had run the neurosurgeon’s wife and baby son off the road.

Idiots. Their blind devotion to their cause came in handy, but only if they had a leader to guide them. He was in control this time. There would be no mistakes.

There was nothing more satisfying than to beat the government at their own game. He’d waited a long time for another chance to prove his superiority.

Eight years ago, he’d not only cracked the FBI’s domestic terrorist database, he’d framed a young hacker for the breach. He’d needed to get rid of her—she’d been too good.

By planting subtle but identifiable clues inside the FBI’s computer program, he’d led lead investigators to the computer lab at the college she attended. Once they’d identified the computer, it was simple to trace her ID and find the evidence he’d so carefully planted.

His brilliant frame-up had made him famous in the hacking world. And now he was back. The National Security Agency had designed Stryker’s firewall, and it was impressive. But so were his skills.

Alert to any sign of detection, he typed a few lines of code, nudging the protective barrier around the software that could make the fabled computer-enhanced supersoldier a reality.

A sense of omnipotence streaked through him. His fingertips tingled and a visceral exhilaration sizzled in his groin. Nobody except another hacker could understand the feeling.

All he needed was a few seconds to gain entrance to the ultrasecure area where Stryker’s files and programs on the neural interface were stored.

He was typing the last bit of code when his cell phone rang.

He jumped. “Son of a—” He jabbed the talk button. “What? I’m in the middle of something.”

“The computer expert is here.”

Excitement spread through him like electricity. At last, a challenge. “When?”

“An hour or so ago. She’s an FBI agent—Natasha something.”

“Natasha?” His fingers went numb with shock. “Are you sure?” He stood, propelling the computer chair backward. “What does she look like?”

“Tall. Long blond hair. Do you know her?”

Natasha. “Of course not.” Sweat prickled his neck and armpits. He glanced at his computer screen. “Is she online?”

“No. She’s in her room.”

“Did she have a laptop?”

“Nope. Mintz won’t allow wireless in here.”

“I want to know the instant she puts her fingers on the keyboard.”

“I’ll try. You know how hard it is to call out. How much longer until—”

“Don’t start with me. I’ve got to think. You just make sure you’re ready.”

“Are you sure I’ll be safe?”

“God, just do your job and give me a break.” He jabbed the disconnect button.

Tall. Blonde. Rage burned through him.

That was his luck. Of course they would send Natasha. His nemesis. The only hacker he’d ever known who could even approach his talent. He’d realized her worth the first time he’d ever met her.

He sat and pulled the keyboard toward him. He cracked his knuckles and flexed his fingers, then arched his neck. A slow smile spread over his features. In a way it was like a karmic balance.

He’d almost destroyed her once because she refused to follow his lead, but fate in the guise of the FBI had intervened. They’d trained her and hired her instead of sending her to prison. At the time the irony had eaten a hole in his gut.

Now he understood. His patience, his efforts to distance himself from the radical group who’d caused the death of Stryker’s wife, were paying off in a way he’d never dreamed.

Stryker’s interface and the software that operated it were worth billions. Several foreign leaders were waiting, cash in hand, for the technology that had the potential to create a real supersoldier.

Yes, he wanted the money, but that wasn’t why he was doing this.

He finally had a chance to prove once and for all that he was the best. He was pitted against Natasha Rudolph again.

He held the advantage because he knew her greatest fear. Before this was over, she’d pay for dodging prison eight years ago. And her punishment this time would be worse—so much worse.

He put on his telephone headset and hit a preset number on his cell. He had to make sure everything was in place for his first destructive attack on Stryker’s estate.

As he waited he placed his fingertips on the keyboard. A thrill, almost sexual, shot through him, all the way to his groin. Natasha was on the other end of his computer.

It would double his pleasure to know she would die along with Stryker.

Chapter Two

By midnight, Natasha was certain of two things. Someone had definitely targeted Dylan’s computer, and she needed much more powerful equipment if she was going to build an effective firewall.

She stretched and arched her neck to loosen the tight muscles, then glanced toward the ceiling. If she had to be down here much longer, she’d go crazy. Sure the lab was brilliantly lit and air-conditioned, but that didn’t change the fact that it was buried under twelve feet of dirt, steel and wood.

A movement across the hall caught her eye. Dylan Stryker leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face. He’d appeared in the glass-walled room across from hers a couple of hours before, freshly showered and dressed in neat khaki slacks and a navy polo shirt that left his long, muscled arms bare.

Even though she’d been concentrating on the patterns in screen after screen of code, a part of her had remained acutely aware of his presence.

Mintz had told her he was working on a computerized surgical simulation program. It had only taken a few seconds’ observation for her to figure out that he was using a stylus like a surgical tool to practice attaching microscopic nerves to microscopic wires. The neural interface.

She’d read the basics of the device in a classified NSA memo. It was a rectangular box about the size of a USB plug, maybe a centimeter long. The 3-D computer-generated mock-up looked like a millipede with thousands of hairlike microfibers covering its surface. Once the device was surgically implanted into a human being, and each microfiber was attached to the proper neural sheath, the interface would feed impulses to and from nerves too damaged to receive proper signals from the brain.

No wonder the government wanted it. The possible uses were astounding. The supersoldier of fiction, with computer-enhanced reflexes, sharpened vision and hearing, perfectly timed response and accuracy, could become a reality. The thought of that technology falling into the hands of terrorists was horrifying.

Abruptly, Dylan pushed back from his workstation and stood. He pushed his hands through his hair and started to pace.

Campbell, sitting at the other workstation, yawned and said something. Dylan shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, as if trying to work the tension from his body.

His movements were spare and graceful. As he rubbed his neck, his biceps flexed and he arched his back, emphasizing the seductive curve at the base of his spine and his strong, well-shaped buttocks.

He turned toward her. Embarrassed, she dropped her gaze to the flat-screen monitor. Studying his physical attributes wasn’t getting her any closer to the hacker.

She reexamined the section of code that had grabbed her attention earlier, and suddenly the jumble of numbers and letters coalesced into a pattern.

“Why you clever little—” she whispered to the unknown hacker as she advanced to the next screen, searching for the same telltale string of numbers she’d just spotted.

Whoever he was, he was good. As she’d told Mintz, they always left something behind, but this guy’s tag was almost undetectable.

It was also vaguely familiar. She frowned at the tiny string of code. She’d seen that pattern before. A nauseating dread began to build in her stomach. Could it be Tom?

No. That would be too weird a coincidence. Although…he had always been fascinated with the fringe groups who would do anything to bring down the government. Not because he had anything against the U.S.

He loved being in control, and he’d always said the zealots who would die for their cause were ridiculously easy to manipulate.

Her heart jackhammered in her throat. If it was Tom, did he know she was here? Eight years ago he’d framed her for hacking into the FBI’s domestic terrorist database. But eight years ago she’d been naive and trusting. She was smarter now. Of course, Tom probably was, too.

Her peripheral vision picked up a movement to her left. She stiffened and casually dropped her hand to the fanny pack where she kept her weapon.

“What’s so interesting on that screen?”

It was Dylan. She glanced up at him, then through the glass toward the lab. She’d been caught off guard. Something that never happened to her.

“No,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I can’t walk through walls. Alfred believes in triple redundancy. There are doors all over the place.” A ghost of a smile flickered about his mouth, making him look younger and achingly handsome.

“Triple redundancy is a good thing.” Having plenty of doors was even better—excellent in fact. She hoped they all led upstairs.

Dylan studied the young woman the FBI claimed was the best hacker-tracker they had. She was young, but computer expertise didn’t depend on years of training. The best hackers were often under twenty-five.

He put his hand on the back of her chair and leaned over, studying her screen. “Find something?”

Her pale blond hair tickled his nose, and the scent of springtime and wild strawberries filled his nostrils. He took a deep breath, faintly shocked at his reaction. He had a sudden urge to run his fingers through her silky hair, to nuzzle the graceful curve of her neck.

What the hell was he thinking?

She cleared her throat and pulled slightly away from him. “I’ve found traces of the hacker.”

He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant, trying to throw off his body’s instantaneous response to her closeness. He straightened.

“You told Alfred the hacker couldn’t have gotten out clean.”

She shook her head. “That’s right. Everything that’s done on a computer leaves a trace. This guy is very good, but—”

“You found him.” Dylan leaned in close to the monitor again, curious about what she’d seen. At that moment she turned her head. Her brilliant green eyes were only a couple of inches away from his, her mouth so close he felt her breath.

Her eyes widened and she turned her head back to the screen.

“In less than three hours.”

“I—I haven’t found him, just his trail.”

She nervously moistened her lips and a spear of lust streaked through him.

As if she knew the effect she was having on him, she leaned farther back in her chair and took a deep breath. “Is this your first hacking attempt?”

For his own sake, he straightened and stepped away from her. He crossed his arms. “We get reports of failed attempts—maybe once or twice a month. But two days ago Campbell received an alert. It wasn’t just a knock at the door. It was unauthorized access.”

“Well, either Campbell made another mistake or this is a different hacker, because this guy’s been accessing the vulnerable areas of your system for at least two years.”

Dylan stared at her. “Two years?” He shook his head in disbelief. “That’s impossible!”

She sent him a sharp look.

“Okay. Two years.” His insides twisted in horror. He ran his hand across the back of his neck, massaging the tight muscles there. Two years. Ben!

“What kind of damage has he done?”

“He’s accessed your document files, household calendars and schedules, financial records, buying habits.”

Dylan’s jaw clenched and a cold fear engulfed him. “Buying habits. Household calendars.” He cursed vividly. “Then he knows Ben is alive. What else does he know?”

“Anything that came in or went out via e-mail.”

“Even to or from NSA?”

“That’s right.”

“Damn it!” He whirled and slammed his palm into the door facing.

Natasha jumped.

“Sorry,” he said, glancing at her sheepishly. He rubbed his hand. “So he knows about the interface. Knows how close I am to perfecting it.” Fear and rage swirled through him.

“What the hell good is a firewall then? What’s the point of all the damned computer security if—?”

She held up a hand. “He hasn’t cracked the encryption that protects your neural interface. Not yet anyway.”

He blew out a breath. “Thank God for that. But why hasn’t my software detected him? It was developed by NSA.”

Natasha smiled without humor. “That’s why he hasn’t gotten what he wants. But whoever he is, he’s that good. Firewalls are built by people. People can crack them.”

The confidence in her voice intrigued him. Dylan eyed her. She could pass for a college kid. Too young, too innocent, to be so sure of herself. He asked her a question he already knew the answer to. “Could you have gotten into my system?”

Natasha stared into Dylan’s eyes, into the lake of blue fire that burned so intensely. She resisted the urge to look away. “Yes.”

He nodded as he studied her thoughtfully. “So are you a hacker?”

She swallowed. “No.” Not anymore.

His gaze searched her face. Did he believe her?

“Okay then, who is this guy?” he asked.

The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. She looked at the screen and didn’t quite lie this time. “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him before. Since I’ve been with the FBI, I’ve run across a lot of very good hackers. This is almost certainly one of them. But to catch him, I’m going to need much better equipment.”

“Fine. I’ll contact NSA.”

“No need. My boss can have it here sometime early tomorrow by jet courier.”

“Good. Do it.”

She began to breathe easier. He’d been satisfied with her answer about the hacker’s ID. There was no way she was going to tell anyone of her suspicion that the hacker was Tom. Not until she was sure, and maybe not even then. She told herself no one needed to know she’d been so desperate for money to pay for college that she’d performed hacking jobs for the same man who might be attacking Dylan’s system—who might even be responsible for the death of his wife and the crippling of his young son.

A sickening dread spread through her, and her gut clenched.

Dylan propped a hip on the edge of her desk, way too close for comfort. His eyes blazed.

“Well, Agent Rudolph, you are good. I assume you’re old enough to be an FBI agent. What are you—twenty-five? Twenty-six.”

“I’m twenty-seven, and my name is Natasha.”

“How did you get to be the government’s best hacker-buster?”

She smiled wryly. “So you’re still not sure about me?”

His cheeks turned faintly pink. “It’s not that I question your ability—”

“You just question my ability,” she tossed back at him.

His long black lashes floated down for an instant, giving her his answer.

Normally, she couldn’t care less if some military type or stiff-necked suit doubted her expertise. But the fact that Dylan had reservations about her made her feel as if she had something to prove. She pushed that notion aside. She wasn’t here to impress him, just to do her job and get out as soon as possible.

“Let’s just say I had a lot of incentive,” she said wryly. Incentive. That was an understatement. Mitch Decker had saved her from going to prison for hacking into classified files. No matter that she’d been framed. Prison was prison. She owed a big debt to the U.S. government.

Dylan’s dark brows went up. “Incentive?”

She gnawed on her lower lip. His intensity was mesmerizing and a little frightening. When he looked at her, she felt as if she were the only person in his world. She dropped her gaze to her hands. She wasn’t answering any more questions.

“I need to contact Mitch and give him my equipment list. Until it gets here there’s not much I can do, unless you give me access to your program files.”

Dylan shook his head and stood.

“Look, Dr. Stryker. If I’m going to do my job—”

He broke in. “It’s almost midnight. You should be in bed.”

She tilted her head at him. “As you just pointed out, I’m well over twenty-one, all grown-up. I usually make my own decisions about bed.”

She hadn’t meant it to come out like that. To her dismay, she felt a flush rising from her neck to her cheeks.

The corner of his mouth turned up. He took a step backward and leaned against the door facing.

“Campbell’s working on the programming code right now. You should get a good night’s sleep and get started in the morning.”

“Yes, sir,” she snapped, and came to her feet.

Even slouched wearily against the door facing, he commanded attention. His shirt strained over his biceps and lay gently against his well-defined abs.

He exuded strength, competence, and yes—obsession. Not to mention undeniable sexuality. She’d never been in the presence of anyone so physically compelling.

He gave her a quick nod, straightened and turned on his heel. “I assume you can find your way to your room, being so grown-up and all,” he said over his shoulder.

JERRY CAMPBELL yawned loudly and twisted his stringy hair back into its ponytail. He’d stared at screen after screen of computer code until he was cross-eyed. It was almost midnight. Dr. Stryker had told him to go to bed an hour ago. He was about ready to take that advice.

But first—he glanced through the glass walls of the virtual surgery lab, searching the halls and other offices, making sure no one was around. Typing briskly, he opened his e-mail account and composed a message, quickly attached a file and pressed Send. Then he began to shut down the computer.

THE WALLS WERE CLOSING IN. Little Tasha pushed against the car seat that pinned her. But she couldn’t move. She tried not to think about the blood, or why her mama and daddy wouldn’t talk to her.

A big boom shook the car. She shrieked. That one was louder than the first, the one that had smashed the front of the car.

She saw a flash of light, and then another boom rumbled through her. She couldn’t see! Couldn’t breathe!

Daddy!

Natasha sat up, gasping for air.

Her chest heaved as spasms racked her rigid muscles. Her mind crashed back into her body. She’d been dreaming. Again.

Where was she? Not in the car where her parents had died. Not buried under mountains of debris in a burned-out building.

She was inside Dylan Stryker’s secluded estate—in the windowless pitch-dark room. No wonder she’d dreamed of being trapped.

Quiet and safe. Plenty of fresh air. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

She kicked at the tangled sheets. She had to get out of there. She’d go sit under the skylight.

As she stood up, she heard something. It sounded as if it was just outside her door. Silently, she slipped her Glock from under her pillow and slid out of bed, gliding silently along the wall, listening. As she neared the door, she saw the knob slowly turn. The door swung open a few inches, until a pale night-light from the hall sent a long shadow across the floor near the foot of her bed.

Natasha flattened herself against the wall, her eyes glued to the hand on the knob. She braced herself, then grabbed the wrist with her left hand and yanked, aiming her weapon at the intruder’s neck.

“Don’t move,” she hissed, her heart hammering.

A deafening screech split the air. Natasha jerked and almost dropped her gun.

Sirens.

Shaking her head, gripping her gun until her hand ached, she shoved the intruder back through the door and against the wall of the hallway.

A small, feminine grunt reached her ears, almost drowned out by the earsplitting screech.

It was Charlene. Natasha flipped her around to face her, but she didn’t lower her gun. “What were you doing?”

Charlene’s eyes were wide with panic. “The sirens. I knew you wouldn’t know what they were. The first time I heard them I nearly jumped out of my skin.” She laughed nervously.

Natasha stared at the woman for a beat, and frowned. Had the sirens awoken her?

Just then, Ben’s door opened. Dylan came out, his hair tousled and his trousers wrinkled. He was shirtless and barefoot. He clutched his polo shirt in one hand and his loafers in the other. His sleepy eyes were too bright, burning with azure fire.

“Charlene, get in there with Ben. Natasha, go back to your room.” He dropped his shoes to the floor and slipped into them.

Charlene scooted around Natasha, past Dylan and through the door to Ben’s room.

“What’s happening?” Natasha yelled over the siren’s screech.

Dylan glared at her. He opened his mouth, but she didn’t give him a chance to speak. She darted back inside her room for her gear. She grabbed her hiking boots, a black pullover and her leather fanny pack.

As she stepped back into the hall, the sirens finally decreased in volume and faded.

Dylan hadn’t bothered to wait for her. He’d already reached the end of the hall.

She stuffed her weapon into the fanny pack along with her badge and the pass code generator, then hopped on one foot at a time as she pulled on her boots. She caught up to him when he paused to put on his shirt.

His bare, shadowed shoulders rippled and gleamed in the low light as he tugged the polo shirt over his head.

It was impossible to ignore the yearning that had taken root inside her when he’d appeared without his shirt—the yearning to touch his hot, smooth skin.

She didn’t like the way he affected her. It was distracting—and dangerous.

“What are those sirens?” she asked.

He vaulted down the stairs. She was right behind him. “Security breach.”

“Breach? Where?”

“This way. The west side.” Dylan opened the exit door at the foot of the stairs. Campbell burst into the stairwell from the lab.

“What are you doing still down here?” Dylan frowned at his bioengineer. Campbell looked as though he’d been in a tussle. His long hair was tangled and loose around his face. He pushed it back with hands that shook.

“I was shutting down the computers when the sirens went off. Scared the crap out of me.”

“It’s after four. I thought you were going to bed hours ago.”

Dylan held the exit door for Campbell and Natasha. As she passed him, she met his gaze with a narrow, questioning look. Was she also wondering why Campbell looked as though he’d just crawled through a fence?

“I lost track of time,” Campbell said. “Where’s the breach?”

“Spotlights,” Natasha said, pointing west. She took off toward them at a jog.

Dylan made sure the exit door was closed securely, and then he caught up with her. Campbell followed more slowly.

Abruptly, the sirens stopped, leaving his ears ringing.

Natasha’s long blond hair swung around her shoulders as she settled into a graceful loping stride. Her buttocks and legs were slender, but powerful. Dylan hung back, watching her for a moment before he sped up enough to match her pace.

“Have you talked to Mintz?” she tossed over her shoulder.

“Not yet. The sirens go off whenever any significant weight is put on the fence. Usually they only last a few seconds.”

“How’d you know where it was?” She matched her speech pattern to her pace.

Dylan ran alongside her, impressed that she wasn’t huffing. She was in damned good shape.

“The sirens have a different repeat for each area.”

“Run through them for me.”

Dylan recited the litany. “And the front gate is a solid whine. It’s the most vulnerable, since it’s closest to the main house. I’ll have Alfred give you a sheet listing them all.”

“That’s okay. I’ve got them. Thanks.” She glanced behind her. “Campbell works 24-7?”

Dylan took a quick look back. “He’s almost as anxious as I am to get the interface perfected.”

“I doubt that.”

“He’s talented and loyal.”

“Yeah? If you say so. Not in very good condition, though.” Dylan smiled, hearing Campbell’s labored breathing behind them. “Sitting in front of a computer all day will do that.”

She sent him a sidelong glance, and then suddenly put out her arm and stopped him. “Hold it.”

“What?” They were about fifty feet away from the fence.

“Campbell, stop,” she tossed back over her shoulder as she unzipped her fanny pack and drew her weapon.

“Natasha, there’s no reason to—”

She gestured with her head. “Just wait here.”

Dylan blew out an exasperated sigh. He saw Alfred on the other side of the fence, talking with two of his security guards and two men he didn’t recognize.

“What’s going on?” Campbell huffed.

“She said to wait.”

Natasha approached the fence on the balls of her feet, her weapon ready. Dylan couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was graceful, strong and confident. Her pale hair shone like the moon in the darkness of predawn.

“Damn, she is so hot,” Campbell whispered. “Who’d have thought an FBI agent could look like that?”

Who indeed? Dylan nodded to himself. Hot wasn’t the word he’d use. Cool was more like it. Cool and beautiful, but with a deep undercurrent he couldn’t identify. A steel core lurked behind that beautiful skin. A barrier or a firewall? he wondered.

Still, he couldn’t deny the heat that surged through him as he watched her run. His reaction to her surprised him. He hadn’t felt anything close to a sexual urge in a long, long time.

She turned and gestured for them to come forward.

Dylan stalked up beside her and bent his head near her ear. Her hair teased his nose. “This isn’t the first time we’ve had a breach, you know.”

She stiffened and her chin went up a fraction. “Of course not. I apologize, sir.”

“Don’t. You were only doing your job.”

“Not according to your chief of security. He thinks I should stick to the computers.”

“Alfred is very territorial.”

“That would be an understatement—sir.”

Dylan smiled. He took in her profile—her small determined chin, her willowy neck, the slight upward tilt of her nose.

“Dylan.”

It was Alfred. Dylan stepped up to the fence. “What happened? Did you catch him?”

With a brisk nod Alfred passed a business card through the wire.

Dylan read the information on the card with disgust, then stuck it in his pocket. “A reporter, naturally. Get him out of here.”

Alfred motioned to the two official-looking strangers. “These are the two FBI agents assigned to help us with physical security.” Alfred’s voice was carefully bland. He wasn’t happy about the help.

Dylan turned to Natasha. “You know these guys?”

She nodded stiffly. “One of them.”

“Introduce me.”

She stepped forward just as the men approached.

The dark-haired man walked up to the fence. “Ray Storm.” He touched the brim of his baseball cap.

“Special Agent Storm,” Dylan said. “Thanks for being here.” Storm had the chiseled features and distinct coloring of a Native American.

The second man stepped up. He was taller and bulkier than Storm with the kind of pretty-boy face that had probably gotten him in a lot of trouble in high school.

“This is Special Agent Daniel Gambrini,” Storm said.

“Dr. Stryker,” Gambrini acknowledged him.

Dylan nodded. “Thanks.”

Storm stepped to one side and motioned to Natasha.

Dylan watched them while Alfred described the damage to the fence. Thank God it was minimal.

“Hey, Nat, you doing okay?” Storm said.

Natasha nodded and said something Dylan didn’t catch. Then Storm motioned Gambrini over and introduced him to Natasha.

As the agents headed back toward Alfred, Dylan turned his back on the fence. “Another damned reporter,” he said to Campbell, who had hung back out of the way. “Get back to the house. You need to get some sleep.”

Campbell nodded eagerly and headed toward the house.

“Natasha, you can grab another couple of hours, too.”

She didn’t move or comment.

He walked past her. “You want to walk with me?”

She glanced at Alfred, who’d just been handed a camera by one of the security guards, then at her fellow agents. She still held her Glock in both hands and stood perfectly balanced, ready for anything. She obviously took every aspect of her job very seriously.

Dylan realized that made her extremely attractive to him.

Dawn was breaking, and the world had turned that colorless gray that made it hard to distinguish light from shadow. Yet her hair still blazed pale gold.

“You didn’t know the second agent?”

She shook her head. “He just transferred in. Took the place of an agent who recently resigned to work in a detective agency with his wife.”

“But you know Agent Storm?”

She sent him a sidelong glance. “Storm? Best undercover man in the Bureau. You can depend on him.” She glanced over her shoulder. “What’s going to happen to that reporter?”

“Alfred will threaten him with prosecution and he’ll back off. Like I said, this happens occasionally.”

She put her weapon away and looked across the lawn toward the house. “A whole lot of money went into designing this place to be totally hidden. How often is occasionally?”

“Every few months or so. It’s impossible to remain totally hidden. This time of the year it’s worse. Next week is the third anniversary of my wife’s death.” The words still felt raw in his throat.

“And your son’s, as far as the media knows. Right?”

Dylan heard the edge in her voice. She sounded like Alfred. He frowned. “It was the only way I could keep him safe.” Not willing to listen to any recriminations, he headed back toward the house. Natasha fell into step beside him.

“Why not let NSA set you up in a secure facility?”

Dylan rounded on her. “What do you know about the NSA’s idea of a secure facility?”

“A little, but—”

“They were kind enough to give me a tour of one that’s based—well, nearby. Its first level is fifty feet underground.”

Natasha’s eyes widened.

“My lab would have been on the third level down. The day-care center and the living quarters were on the fourth level. NSA offered me two choices. Ben could stay there with me, or he could be placed with strangers under a fake name until I finished their damn project.” The idea still sent nausea clawing up from his gut.

“I can’t bear to let him out of my sight. He wouldn’t understand. He’d think I’d abandoned him.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “And I couldn’t bury him under fifty feet of rock and dirt, either.”

“No—of course not.” Her voice sounded strangled. “So you offered them a third choice.” She cut her eyes at him then back to the ground in front of them.

What was the matter with her? Dylan’s defenses rose immediately. Did she disapprove of his choice? Ben was his son—and he was protecting him in the best way he knew how. “That’s right. If they wanted their precious supersoldier, they’d give me what I wanted.”

“So they set up this fortress for you, and now you believe Ben is safe.” She pressed her lips together in a thin line and wrapped her arms around her middle.

Dylan stared at her. Whatever was hidden under her cool exterior, it was exposed now. She looked haunted. He could understand her being upset about Ben being confined to this place. He hated it, too. But her reaction was out of proportion.

“We wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was safe. Protecting my child is my first priority.”

She didn’t look at him. Instead she turned her head and looked at the house. An almost unnoticeable shudder rippled through her.

“Ben is happy here,” he said defensively. “He has the run of the entire house. He has his own camouflaged, secure play area with a wading pool and sandboxes and specially built toys.”

He wasn’t sure why he felt he had to justify himself to her. He just knew that when she looked at him, her green eyes dug deep inside him to a place he hadn’t explored in a long time. A place that hurt.

She nodded jerkily.

“Look, Agent Rudolph. I love my son. I’m protecting him. Did you see how quickly and easily that intruder was caught? I’ve got the best security money can buy.”

She turned those green eyes on him. “Then why are you still worried about his safety?”

He felt as though she’d head-butted him.

Anger flared in his chest, and a worm of guilt gnawed at his gut. He jammed his hands into his back pockets to keep from clenching his fists. Careful to speak calmly, he gave her the truth.

“Because despite all this, I know there can never be a place safe enough. There is evil in the world, murderers and fanatics who will do anything, even harm an innocent child, to get what they want.”

She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Then explain something to me. If you’re so concerned about Ben’s safety, why don’t you just stop? Tell the NSA to shove their neural interface.”

Shock cut through him like lightning. “You think I’m doing this for them? For the government?” A harsh laugh scratched his throat. His chest tightened as he tried to wipe away the vision that never left his mind. The sight of that hulking twisted metal at the bottom of the ravine. The sick certainty that it was his fault.

As Natasha watched Dylan’s face in the soft light of dawn, the truth hit her like a bucket of icy water.

Ben’s awkward braces. His nerve damage. The fervor that burned in his father’s eyes.

She’d been so preoccupied with overcoming her own fears and her concern for the child that she’d missed the obvious.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “The interface. You’re doing it for Ben.”

Dylan’s face registered sadness and desperation. “He’s in a growth spurt right now.” His voice was tortured. “His body is sucking energy into growing bone. Even with intense physical therapy, the neurological damage is progressing faster than his body can fight it. He’s losing muscle, and with loss of muscle goes the loss of nerve tissue.” He scrubbed a hand across his face, and started walking again.

“We’re so close to success. Campbell is working on the final debugging. He’s already finished the prototype implant. It’s ninety-nine percent done. But in order for it to work it needs viable nerve and muscle to stimulate. I only have a few weeks before the damage to Ben’s body is too great.”

“A few weeks?”

He nodded. “I need to implant the interface and tie the microfibers into Ben’s nervous system before the nerves that control his legs all die.”

Natasha matched her pace to his. “So it’s Ben who’s running out of time,” she said, sadness gripping her heart in its heavy fist.

He nodded. “There aren’t enough hours in a day. I could complete it tomorrow, or it could take a year. I’ve got to believe it will happen tomorrow. If I could, I’d let NSA move the prototype, but it’s much too fragile.”

“Who’ll be operating on Ben?”

Dylan’s brows raised. “Me, of course.”

She was surprised. “You? Don’t you think you’re too emotionally involved?”

“It doesn’t matter if I am or not. There are only three neurosurgeons in the world who have the expertise to handle this intricate microscopic surgery.”

“Only three?”

He nodded grimly. “Two besides me.”

“Who are they?”

“There’s no way you’d know them. One is Mohan Patel, at the University of Mumbai in India. The other is Frederick Werner. He’s at Johns Hopkins. I studied under him.”

“Why couldn’t one of them do the operation?”

“Because Ben is my son.” His expression darkened. “I don’t need someone else to do the surgery. I’ve been preparing for this for three years. Besides, it’s all moot if I can’t complete the nerve mapping in time.”

“And the code? It’s still buggy?”

“There’s at least one more error we can’t find.” He sighed. “Campbell and I have looked at it too long. We need a fresh eye. And now we’ve got a hacker trying to steal the code almost certainly to sell to some foreign government. That’s why I asked NSA to send me the best.”

They reached the entrance to the back stairs. Dylan pressed his thumb against the pad and keyed in the current pass code. He held the heavy security door open for her.

As she walked past him, he caught her arm. His hot touch branded her through the sleeve of her sweater. She looked up and met his haunted gaze.

“Help me debug the computer program. Build a firewall no hacker can get past. Give me the time I need to finish. If anything happens to the program or the prototype, my son will lose his last chance.” His voice cracked. “Do you understand what that means?”

She nodded, thinking of the wire braces propped beside Ben’s little bed.

“I doubt you do. In another few weeks, Ben won’t even be able to use the braces.” Dylan’s voice cracked.

Shock and denial pierced her chest. “What do you mean? He seems to handle the braces just fine.”

“Once the nerve damage progresses by another ten percent, he won’t be able to move his legs at all. The braces will be useless, and my son will be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life.”

Her heart squeezed painfully. “But I thought the interface—”

His anguished gaze answered her. Must have viable muscle and nerve. Not even Stryker’s genius could stop the damage from becoming permanent.

She had a fleeting vision of that vital, healthy little boy stuck in a wheelchair, the cold metal sucking the life out of him. Trapped as surely as if he were buried alive.

Nausea swirled through her and a trickle of sweat slid down the back of her neck.

Dylan gripped her arm. “Can you do it?” His eyes glittered in the dim night. “Can you hold the hacker at bay until I finish the prototype? It’s Ben’s only chance to be normal.”

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