Proof of Life: Super Agent Series, Book 3 Read online

  Blood ties run deepest—and deadliest.

  Super Agent Series, Book 3

  No matter how many times he patches the holes in the wall, CIA Deputy Director Michael Stone can’t forget the night a terrorist took him hostage in his own home. Or the mistakes that transformed him into an overwhelming force to keep his country safe. And now that his niece, the daughter of the Republican candidate for President, has been kidnapped just days from the election, Michael vows to do whatever it takes to get her back.

  Dr. Brigit Kent, a consultant for the Department of Homeland Security, knows this particular kidnapper well. Exposing him, however, will reveal her sister’s secret ties to a terrorist group. The only way to keep her sister safe is to blackmail the sexy, rock-solid deputy director. A move that puts her directly in his line of fire.

  Brigit is undeniably beautiful, brilliant, cunning. But is she friend or foe? The answer to that question could break Michael’s personal code of honor—and his heart.

  Warning: Bullets and blackmail, good luck and laughter. Surprises and secrets and love ever after…

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  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

  Macon GA 31201

  Proof of Life

  Copyright © 2009 by Misty Evans

  ISBN: 978-1-60504-806-2

  Edited by Sasha Knight

  Cover by Natalie Winters

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: October 2009

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  Proof of Life

  Misty Evans

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Mark, protector and companion on all my journeys. You’re the real deal, and I’m the lucky one.

  A branch in my family tree belongs to the Irish, so I’m using their help in saying thanks to all who contributed to this book. Hearty Irish wishes go to Sheri Humphrey for reviewing Brigit’s injuries and guiding me in realistic treatments. More good wishes go to Val Pearson for supplying a name for my peace-loving Irish poet. Thanks, Val!

  I don’t have to look far to find a four-leaf clover with incredible kids like Sam and Ben, and invaluable friends like Nana, Angela, Donnell, Chiron, Tessy and Ree. You guys never fail to inspire, motivate and love me whether I’m laughing or grumping.

  I love research and making new friends in the process. In this story Brigit would not have come to life without the help of Dr. Cynthia Clark. Thank you, Dr. Clark, for opening my eyes to endless possibilities for Brigit’s work as a consultant for DHS and answering my questions with excellent care to details.

  Miles and miles of Irish smiles go to my local librarian, Sue Mannix, who guided my research into the world of Irish history, religion, politics and good old-fashioned heart. The Irish are an incredible people and I’m glad I got to know them better in this process because of you.

  And to my editor, Sasha, I offer never-ending thanks for your patience, understanding and ability to make me feel like the luckiest writer on the planet. I’m wishing you a beautiful rainbow, complete with an overflowing pot of gold.

  Chapter One

  Arlington, VA

  Halloween

  The grandfather clock in the corner chimed, its deep baritone vibrating under a sheet of protective plastic. The antique clock, unlike the west wall of Michael Stone’s home office, had escaped damage when the bullets flew. If only his chest had been as lucky.

  Michael stopped sanding the section of Sheetrock in front of him to rub the scar under his shirt. For the sixth time in as many months, he was patching and sanding holes, trying to cover up the past. But just like the drywall dust that had infiltrated every corner of his office, reminders of the hostage incident infiltrated every corner of his mind.

  The edge of one of the filled bullet holes was ridged. Another had sunk. He should just knock them out and start over. He should do the same with the memories.

  Julia. Conrad. Raissi. The names swirled in his brain, making his gut clench and his forehead sweat. No matter how many times he cut out and patched the holes, betrayal, obligation and failure rose from the dust to mock him.

  Starting on the ridged patch, he gritted his teeth as the sandpaper chewed up the dried mud and dust fell to the ground. Time, he told himself, as the grandfather clock chimed again. I just need more time.

  Using his shirt sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead, he pushed the past behind the carefully constructed wall he’d built in his mind. He should have been at Ella’s school, watching her parade around, all smiles and six-year-old self-confidence in her Wonder Woman costume instead of trying to fix something that couldn’t be fixed.

  Halloween had become so dangerous Ella’s school had decided to put on a trunk-or-treat, complete with parade, to keep the students protected. The fact that kids had lost the freedom to enjoy trick or treating saddened Michael. It saddened him even more that he was loathe to go watch his niece enjoy the substitute version because he couldn’t go anywhere in public without a battalion of security. As Deputy Director of the CIA and brother-in-law to the next president—if the pre-election day polls were accurate—his autonomy no longer existed.

  These days, it didn’t matter if you were an adult or a kid. Freedom was a precious commodity choked off by criminals and terrorists.

  Goddamn terrorists.

  Throwing the sandpaper down on the tarp at his feet, he headed for his desk. A week’s worth of newspapers covered one corner. His stuffed briefcase lay next to them. The European Directorate was waiting for his signature on a dozen different projects.

  Michael wheeled his office chair out and sat down hard. He booted up his laptop, drumming a staccato on the top of his desk with his fingers as he waited for the opening screen to ask for his password. Before it could flash the message, his attention was drawn back to the wall. Raissi’s smirking face danced over the holes.

  Adrenaline buzzed in his veins as he shut the laptop with a firm snap. No way was he getting any work done tonight. He should call Kinnick, his bodyguard and sparring partner, and hit the gym. Fighting was the only way he’d found to jack the energy and the memories from his psyche.

  He’d taken up mixed martial arts which combined kickboxing with the two other phases of combat—takedowns and submission holds. Fights required all three types of skills, and knowing which phase would give you an advantage over your opponent gave you control of the fight.

  Even outside the ring, control was power.

  Thad Pennington, Republican candidate for U.S. President, was mere days and percentage points away from taking control of the White House. He’d already offered Michael directorship of the CIA after the election, but Michael had turned him down. Unlike a majority of D.C.’s political pundits, he didn’t want his legacy handed to him on anything other than merit.

  Thad was also Ella’s father. A father on the campaign trail and missing the Halloween festivities. Yet another reason Michael should have been at Ella’s school. She needed a substitute father more and more while her biological one pursued the dream of power.<
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  Across the room, Raissi’s face faded into poorly patched bullet holes once again, standing out in bas-relief from the smooth surface surrounding them. A heavy, burning sensation tugged at Michael’s chest. Letting out his breath, he rocked his chair back and forth, his fingers absently probing his scar.

  Holes. His life was full of them. Work, social life, family. His goddamn chest. And every time he patched one, it seemed to have the opposite effect. The holes kept getting bigger, spreading like a disease.

  The phone on his desk rang, jolting him out of his thoughts. A vacation from them was such a relief, he snagged the receiver without looking at the ID.

  “Stone.”

  “Michael?”

  It was only two syllables, but his sister’s high-pitched voice, cracking with strain, brought him up straight. “What is it, Ruthie?”

  She sobbed and the hair on the back of his neck rose. “It’s Ella. She’s…gone.” Another sob. “Kidnapped. We don’t know who’s got her. Oh, Michael, what are they doing to my baby?”

  The world screeched to a halt. As the next beat of his heart echoed inside his head, he rose from the chair, his body kicking into phase one of combat.

  ~ * ~

  Washington D.C. suburbs

  Brigit Kent unlocked the door to her loft, dropped her overnight bag on the floor inside and flipped on the lights. After traveling nonstop in Europe for the past week, she wanted a hot shower, a pint of Cherry Garcia and a couple hours of BBC America.

  On the kitchen counter she found a basket stuffed with various fruits and chocolates, an official Department of Homeland Security ID badge with her photo and name on it, and a note from her assistant Truman Gunn.

  Welcome back to your home away from home. JOE secured your assignment with DHS. I’ll catch you up on all the spiffy details first thing tomorrow. White House, eight o’clock. Wear the suit.

  T.

  P.S. TiVo’d Mistresses for you.

  Brigit shed her Burberry trench coat, unwrapped a Godiva and popped it in her mouth. JOE stood for Jolly Old England, Truman’s nickname for her employer, Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service. The Department of Homeland Security thought they were getting a freelance consultant on domestic terrorism, and they were, but while she was working for DHS, SIS had an undercover job for her.

  What neither SIS nor DHS realized was Brigit had her own agenda while she was in Washington.

  She pulled the Cherry Garcia from the freezer and kicked off her boots in the living room. She flipped on the TV, anxious to catch up on her favorite show. Before she could find the TiVo remote, though, a breaking story on Headline News caught her eye. Eleanor Pennington, the daughter of Republican nominee Thad Pennington, had been kidnapped.

  Frowning, Brigit turned up the volume and sat on the edge of the couch. A reporter on the scene at Eleanor’s school reported scant details before summoning several people nearby to give eyewitness accounts.

  Gooseflesh rose on Brigit’s arms as she listened. No one had actually seen the girl being kidnapped, but she had disappeared from a school function out from under the watchful eyes of adults and Secret Service agents. No contact from the kidnapper had been made except a single phone call—Eleanor’s voice crying for her mother.

  Proof of life.

  A tremor went down Brigit’s spine and the little girl in her head cried out, the old nightmare of a locked door and the fire surfacing. Her gaze darted to the photo next to the TV. She and her younger sister, Tory, were grinning at the camera, arms thrown around each other’s neck in childhood abandon. A different proof of life.

  As if her body had a will of its own, Brigit rose from the edge of the couch and returned the ice cream to the freezer. She slipped on her trench and slid her sore feet back into her boots before retrieving her handgun from her overnight bag and heading for the door. At the last minute, she went back to the kitchen counter and grabbed the DHS badge. That and the kidnapping had just made her assignment for SIS a slam dunk.

  Leaving the lights on in the loft, she closed and locked the door behind her, slipping her handgun into the pocket of her trench coat.

  Chapter Two

  Ashford Heights, MD

  Midnight

  Ashford Heights lay on the north side of Washington, D.C., one of the many suburbs off Interstate 270 popular with up-and-coming power players who eschewed looking like players and portrayed themselves as natural-born leaders instead. Houses were modern versions of old plantations. Churches, with their lily white steeples, were beacons to a bygone time as well. Private schools had devoured the public school district, all of which had dress codes, security guards and entire wings dedicated to the next generation of Washington’s elite.

  Blinding lights from video cameras and media vans bounced inside Michael’s car as the armor-plated Lincoln Navigator shot through the gates of Ashford’s most prestigious subdivision. Security officers flanked both sides of the entrance, the SUV’s headlights illuminating letters on their jackets as the driver maneuvered the vehicle up the winding drive. Along with the media, the FBI, Secret Service, state and local cops were all working the story of the year.

  The Navigator stopped in front of a two-story Colonial, a modern echo of an eighteenth-century Monticello. Columns lined the veranda and potted topiaries bookended the ruby-red-colored door. Light from the front windows fell in soft sheets across the backs of white, slat-backed rocking chairs.

  Michael steeled his nerves to walk up the wide plank stairs and enter the house. In his time at the CIA, he’d faced much tougher situations. Never, though, had he experienced such a crawling fear in his stomach. Never since his father had been killed had he felt such guilt.

  Images of Ella flashed behind his eyes in a kaleidoscope of memories. The pink knit hat she’d worn in the hospital after her birth, the way her blue eyes had widened when she’d blown her first bubble with the gum he’d snuck to her behind her mother’s back, the sound of her laughter as his dog, Pongo, had licked a scoop of ice cream off her cone.

  Failure kicked him in the gut. I should have been there for her. I could have protected her.

  He rubbed his eyes, forcing the dampness in them to retreat as he swallowed the brick in his throat. The darkness of the night mirrored the darkness in his mind.

  “Deputy Director?” Brad Kinnick stared at him from the open car door.

  Filling his chest with the cool fall air, Michael gave Brad a nod and slid out. The bodyguard moved aside and focused his attention on the crowd of official cars in the circular drive and security personnel stationed around the house.

  After his credentials were checked at the door by a young FBI agent, Michael was ushered into the foyer. In the hours since the kidnapping, Thad had flown home from Ohio while Michael inserted himself into the police and FBI’s investigation at the school, stepping on a few toes in the process. As a CIA officer he had no jurisdiction on U.S. soil. His reputation, however, and the fact that every man and woman looking for Ella understood his need as her uncle to make sure the investigation was expedient and thorough, had bought him priceless professional courtesy.

  Thad grasped Michael’s hand in a tight grip. Fatigue shadowed his brother-in-law’s face and lined his forehead. “Anything?”

  Michael wiped his shoes on the rug out of habit. His sister Ruth’s penchant for cleanliness came from their mother’s gene pool. Genes that entirely skipped Michael’s. “No solid leads yet. Any news on this end?”

  “The phone call at ten was it. She cried for Ruthie, and the connection went dead. We never heard the kidnapper’s voice. No ransom demand, nothing.”

  Thad massaged his forehead with one hand, dropped it to his side. His eyes pleaded with Michael. “What do they want?”

  Thad knew the answer to the question, but needed to hear the truth from someone else. Someone he trusted. Michael met his stare. “They want you to stop running for president.”

  “Why?”

  That answer wasn’t so pat. “Could
be a hundred and one reasons.”

  Thad shook his head and led the way into the study. Two FBI experts sat at his massive cherry wood desk—computers, modems and tracking equipment covered the top. Behind them, two other agents examined files, talking on cell phones and looking over the seated agents’ shoulders. Thad’s focus dropped to a framed photo of Ella on the coffee table next to his leg. His sigh was almost inaudible. “So if I hold a press conference and announce I’m withdrawing my bid for election, whoever took her will give her back?”

  The forty-nine-year-old senator didn’t expect an answer this time. He simply needed to process the facts. Michael faced the fireplace and crossed his arms over his chest. “Best case, yes.”

  “You know I’d do anything to get my little girl back,” Thad said. “But are you sure that’s what they want? The FBI said they could just want money or a favor of some sort, like releasing one of their compatriots from jail.”

  “If the kidnappers wanted money or anything else, they would have asked for it already. This is a show of power. They want you to back down.”

  His brother-in-law slumped into a high-backed chair, hope draining out of him. Knowing he needed to collect his thoughts, Michael withdrew and left him alone.

  At the desk, he asked the agents specific questions and watched their body language as much as he listened to their verbal answers. They were stumped. Ella had disappeared after the parade. Multiple times during the evening, she’d run out to the parking lot during the trunk-or-treat and gone back inside the school to warm up with hot cocoa and giggle with her friends.

  At some point, while Ruth chatted up their mothers, Ella, Wonder Woman costume and all, had simply vanished.

  Ella had escaped her adult guardians’ watchful eyes and ears on several occasions before. With unrestrained zeal, she chased butterflies into wooded areas, held her breath underwater for endless seconds too long, and jumped from heights that would intimidate military operatives.