A slew of foreign obscenities bespoke his pain as he sank to the ground. She didn’t wait to translate. She spun around and ran for her horse, shouting commands to Jewel behind her. “Get out of here! Get back to the ranch. Get help. Go!”
“Whitney!”
Glancing back at the frantic warning was her mistake. The man was on his feet in hot pursuit. She braced for his attack.
She shifted her weight to her left and kicked with her right. But he was ready for her this time. He caught her ankle and twisted her knee, pulling her off balance.
Pain shot up past her thigh and she hit the ground hard, flat on her back, knocking the wind from her chest. The clear blue sky swam above her. She squeezed her eyes shut against the dizzy sensation and tried to suck in precious oxygen, but the effort seared her throbbing lungs.
A heavy weight fell on top of her, crushing her back into the uneven jabs of small rocks beneath her. Her eyes shot open in a breathless cry of pain and she saw the man in black above her. His forearm pressed down on the base of her throat. She was vaguely aware of lifting her hands and trying to push him off her.
Her mouth opened and closed, struggling to bring air into her deprived lungs. The sky above her swirled into a blur. She blinked her eyes clear and tried to move her legs, but the weight of his body trapped her. Her fingers turned to mush and lost their grip on his coat. A hammering sound pounded in her ears. Jewel’s horse? Or the erratic pulse beat of a body fighting for air to breathe?
A drop of blood from her assailant’s battered face hit her cheek and singed her skin. But she couldn’t turn away from the grim touch with his arm anchored at her throat. He was choking her, she realized amid the gray haze that drifted into her mind and robbed her of rational thought.
She was going to die on the side of a mountain in the middle of nowhere, far away from family and friends and any chance of rescue.
With one final surge of energy she punched her hand up and knocked the cap off his head, exposing the shaggy length of his black hair. But it was the even blacker void of his familiar, spiritless eyes that snatched the last lingering breath of air from her throat.
She’d seen that face a hundred times, plastered on the walls and transmitted over the data screens in the Confidential war room.
Dimitri Chilton.
With nothing left inside her, no fight, no breath—no hope—Whitney surrendered to the blackness that consumed her.
Chapter One
“We’re here, Romeo.”
Agent Vincent Romeo opened his bleary eyes and studied his surroundings before ever lifting his chin from the pillow of his chest.
The Lonesome Pony Ranch looked pretty much the way his pilot escort had described it. Low, sprawling hills nestled between two mountain ranges. Horses grazing in snow-spotted pastures. A log house perched on top of a hill, surrounded by ranch buildings and guest cabins. Clear blue sky.
And not a skyscraper in sight.
Vincent unfolded his long legs from the tight confines of the chopper and stepped onto the concrete helipad. He rolled his cramped shoulders and tested the air by inhaling deeply. Nice. No trace of smog. His city-trained lungs would probably rebel.
He swiped his hand down his face and jaw, trying to shake the lingering fatigue. He could use a shave and a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.
But when the President of the United States summoned you at one in the morning for a special assignment, you didn’t say no. Even if twenty-four hours earlier you were finishing up a weeklong stakeout that ended in a messy gun battle, leaving one agent wounded and a hit man dead.
That could have been you, Vinnie. He could hear Melissa’s tearful voice in his head, even five years after she’d dumped him at the altar with that grand speech. Yeah, his job was dangerous. He put his life on the line every time he strapped on his badge and gun. But somebody had to walk the line between the good guys and the bad guys. Somebody had to make the world a safer place.
His father had walked that line. He’d known the risks long before that bullet had claimed his life.
Vincent knew the risks, too.
He strapped on his badge and gun, anyway.
“You coming, Romeo?” The dark-haired pilot who had picked him up at the airport, Frank Connolly, was already striding down the hill to a battered tan pickup truck.
Obviously fit and strong, Connolly’s uneven gait piqued Vincent’s curiosity. Like his father, had Connolly, too, been struck down in the line of duty?
Vincent didn’t ask. He wasn’t here to indulge his curiosity or to make friends.
He was here to do a job.
Tucking memories and philosophizing neatly away where they couldn’t distract him, Vincent reached behind his seat to retrieve his gear. He traveled light. He already carried the important stuff, either on his person or inside his head. But it paid to be prepared for any contingency. He slung the black nylon duffel bag over his shoulder, and joined Connolly in the truck.
As they pulled up in front of the ranch house, a blond-haired man opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch. The weight of authority he carried on his shoulders easily identified him as the boss of this operation. He crossed to the top of the steps and waited for Vincent to approach.
By the time Vincent had set his bag on the wooden bench beside the front door, the boss had been joined by Connolly and two other men, who introduced themselves as Court Brody and Patrick McMurty.
The boss introduced himself last. “Daniel Austin.”
Vincent unzipped his black leather jacket and reached inside. He pulled out the wallet that carried his badge and ID and flipped it open. “Vincent Romeo. National Security Agency.”
Daniel glanced at the identification and returned it. His firm handshake welcomed him and urged him to get down to business all at the same time. “The war room is downstairs, but I think we can do this right here.”
Vincent handed him an envelope sealed with a stamp marked POTUS. “President of the United States, huh?” Daniel recognized the eagle logo, then slipped his thumb beneath the flap. “He wants to oversee this mission personally, is that it?”
“The hostage is of personal importance to the president.”
Daniel paused. His clear brown eyes sent an unmistakable message. “She’s important to us. And we call her Whitney around here.”
Vincent acknowledged the warning with a silent nod. He folded his arms across his chest, distancing himself from the palpable urgency of this unusual business meeting. He made no apology for studying the group of men as closely as they scrutinized him. Each man seemed at ease with his surroundings, at ease with the type of job they’d been asked to do for their country. Daniel, Frank, Court—even Grandpa McMurty.
Patrick McMurty was some kind of retired sheriff or military officer. The upright carriage and balanced stance of an alert man ready for trouble were recognizable to Vincent’s trained eye. According to the briefing
