Robert Baynard had passed away two years prior.
She compressed her lips and accessed an FBI site that listed names on every foreign bank account, including some of the most recognized names in the world…and the deceased Robert Baynard’s.
She sat back in her chair and rubbed a hand over her face. She needed to think about this finding. Her purpose in her research was to compile evidence that would prove her client’s innocence. But finding a large sum of money like this…
After sitting there another long minute, she stood and walked into her bedroom. She shed her work-from-home attire of loose pants and a button-down blouse and traded them for workout gear. She typically visited the gym, but today she could use some fresh air, and a run would clear her head.
Dressed in her spandex and running shoes, she left her condo and navigated the stairs down to the street.
She took off in a fast walk to warm up, which turned into a speed walk and then a jog. By the time she reached the first mile, her muscles were warm enough that she hit her stride. In her college days, she’d been a cross-country runner, and she’d kept that habit for life. She’d been the only person in JAG training with stretch marks from carrying twins and the endurance to power through a run with a double stroller.
Accept and overcome—that had been her motto since the moment she saw those positive lines on a pregnancy test and remembered that what Oz told her was set in stone. I do not want a wife or kids—ever. If something comes of this, I trust you’ll take care of it.
And something had come of it—two little bundles in blue onesies and matching curlicues on their heads.
She turned a corner and stretched her legs, reaching for the end of the block before she even had it in her sights. Air pumped in and out of her lungs, and she tasted the city on her tongue—a strong chemical taste of air pollution from traffic mixed with a hint of the coffeeshop she’d just sprinted past.
Her findings about Baynard…she still couldn’t wrap her head around them. Next step would be to contact the bank and find out why an account in a dead man’s name showed recent transactions.
Two more blocks blurred by. She hit a red light and stood on the corner, jogging in place to keep her muscles warm while waiting for the crossing signal. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a white delivery van.
She took off across the street, and the screech of tires whipped her head around. The van cut in front of her, and she barely stopped before slamming into the front fender.
The doors opened. She dodged to the side, heart drumming in her ears, and this time from adrenaline and not an endorphin high. Everything that came next became a sensory overload—darkness, pain as she was tossed into the back of the van. The ripping noise of duct tape being pulled off the roll and then the taste of the cloth hood her kidnappers threw over her head as they wrapped her head—hood and all—in duct tape so she couldn’t scream.
Someone kicked her in the thigh, and pain exploded up to her hip. She toppled to her side, and then they bound her wrists and ankles. She gasped for air. Even though she was in good shape from running, she needed more oxygen than she could gather through her nostrils.
She struggled. Then more pain…and blackness.
* * * * *
“No bead on Lars.” The announcement brought the heads of every person seated at the meeting table around to look at the speaker. Frisco closed the door behind him and strode to the table in that loping walk that he’d adopted for a stint in Berlin when he impersonated a dignitary and never dropped.
Oz lifted his gaze to Frisco. “Lars hasn’t been in the wind that long. We won’t worry yet. And we will not accuse him until after we’ve heard his side of the story.”
“You’re seriously going to let this go on, Oz? It’s breaking the creed you set, Father. He has to be betraying us.” Frisco nudged his glasses up his nose.
Oz issued a growl. “There has to be a reason he isn’t telling us.”
“Do we care about reasons when the covenant is broken? He broke the contract with The Guard and we can no longer aid him.”
“He is not a turned agent. He is not working for the Russians.” Oz spat every word through clenched teeth.
“I knew he was a traitor from the start,” Madeline muttered.
Oz slammed a fist into the table so hard that the wood gave a crack like it split down the middle. He leaped to his feet, glaring from one face to the next. “There is no more discussion about Lars until I start it—understand? Now go do your jobs and quit sitting around spreading gossip.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned from the table and walked out of the chamber. The air in the church suffocated—he needed to get the fuck out of here.
On the way to the door, he caught the tap of a foot. His gaze locked on the man seated in the back pew—a familiar face underneath the wide-brimmed hat he wore. The man cleared his throat, and Oz walked back to him, settling a hand on his shoulder.
The man lifted his head to look at Oz. “I seek confession, Father.”
He squeezed his shoulder. “Follow me.”
The private booth they closed themselves into gave the man a place to deliver intel to Oz. Five minutes later and he had all he needed concerning a woman just delivered to a safehouse.
“Do you require time to rest, or are you prepared for another mission?” Oz eyed him.
He folded his arms. “I’m ready. What do you got?”
Oz filled him in on a case of human trafficking that was coming to light. Something they’d been working on for months and finally Madeline had success on decoding. He pointed to the man’s wrist and the chip inside. “Take the jet.”
“Thank you, Father.” He grinned at Oz and walked out of the church.
Oz watched him go. Before he disappeared through the doors, Oz’s phone rang, drawing his attention. The number meant nothing to him, but they rarely did. If this person had access to his phone number, that meant he knew Oz.
“Morgon.”
The voice of his commanding officer, now a Navy general, could never be mistaken. Oz still heard his commands echoing in his damn dreams.
“General Kilbourn.” A smile spread over his face at this old connection but resurrected a few that plucked his heartstrings as well. “To what do I owe the honor? Have you finally retired and are calling to offer me your brass hat?”
“No, goddammit. I call you once in eighteen years and your only response is to grab for my rank.” The harsh tone had Oz snapping his mouth shut on any further comments.
“This is no joking matter,” Kilbourn bit off.
“What can I do for you, General?”
A heavy beat of silence hit Oz before the man replied.
“My daughter is missing.”
The effect of those words hit Oz like a sonic boom after an explosion. Except this looked more like a nuclear mushroom cloud.
Jesus fucking Christ. Rose.
“What the hell happened? Where did they take her from?” Tingles shot up from his fingertips to his face, and he realized his blood vessels had constricted with the shock. This was typically the time when people passed out, but he held on to the threads of control.
“From somewhere in DC.”
“You don’t know?” he practically bellowed into the phone. His voice resounded off the high church ceiling.