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Frozen Memories
Cassie Miles
Amnesia made her forget him. His love will bring her back.Their mission is compromised. Their cover is blown. And FBI Special Agent Spence Malone has found his partner – and love of his life – disoriented and suffering from drug-induced amnesia. NSA Cyber Crimes expert Angelica Thorne has forgotten her name, her mission and worst of all, Spence and their nights of passion. And now they’re in a race against an unseen enemy bent on nuclear destruction. Spence vows to protect her and help her to remember…everything. All Angelica knows for sure is that when Spence holds her in his arms, she feels so right. Why then, does everything else seem so wrong?


Amnesia made her forget him. His love will bring her back.
Their mission is compromised. Their cover is blown. And FBI Special Agent Spence Malone has found his partner—and love of his life—disoriented and suffering from drug-induced amnesia. NSA cybercrimes expert Angelica Thorne has forgotten her name, her mission and, worst of all, Spence and their nights of passion. And now they’re in a race against an unseen enemy bent on nuclear destruction. Spence vows to protect her and help her remember…everything. All Angelica knows for sure is that when Spence holds her in his arms, she feels so right. Why, then, does everything else seem so wrong?
Leaning down, Spence kissed her forehead.
The light touch of his lips set off a chain reaction of shivers that had more to do with her internal engine than with the snow and cold. Her inner machinery had definitely come back to life. She exhaled on a soft moan.
“What else?” he murmured.
Resisting him wasn’t going to be easy. “Nothing much.”
“It’s okay. You can tell me.”
But maybe she’d better not. Though his tone was gentle and cajoling, she knew he was digging, probing, interrogating. If he discovered the gaps in her memory, what would he do? He said he was a federal agent, but that didn’t mean he was innocent.
She turned the tables with a question of her own. “What do you do for the FBI?”
Frozen Memories
Cassie Miles


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CASSIE MILES, a USA TODAY bestselling author, lives in Colorado. After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Harlequin Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.
A salute to the geniuses who work at NORAD and still
manage to run the Santa Tracker every Christmas.
And, as always, to Rick.
Contents
Cover (#uddf8a2af-10e5-55fb-8ad1-96e857cded6a)
Back Cover Text (#u6cfcca7f-4e0f-507b-ac99-1326362550dc)
Introduction (#u9e9c69fa-53bd-5f2f-837f-e6e0dcea8403)
Title Page (#ubafe6979-0223-560d-bd19-988b5cb17707)
About the Author (#u5a832c88-a867-5768-acd5-c6a3ea564668)
Dedication (#u7c4ab4cb-7f2c-5d34-9e9f-c6a6aaeeed27)
Chapter One (#ub2a9b7f8-8077-5691-aeed-6bc5c82601f7)
Chapter Two (#u6ba46c33-a376-587a-8120-56a5704300cf)
Chapter Three (#u2115cf50-481b-588d-8e52-a22d58bda5cc)
Chapter Four (#u92ecf83d-a06f-5708-82c1-4e8a62a4c660)
Chapter Five (#u75924733-0ded-59cb-a437-00c121efb645)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ud9902ce9-98f7-5e28-af7f-04658544f7c4)
Jagged branches clawed the arms of her sweatshirt and tangled with her bare hands as she fought her way to the edge of a clearing in the mountain forest. Falling snow blanketed the open space. Spears of afternoon light cut through the snow and clouds, but she still couldn’t see all the way across, to the wall of pines on the opposite side. She shivered violently. If she tromped straight through the clearing, she’d leave tracks. They’d find her.
Who were they, those men with guns? What did they want from her? She peeked over her shoulder but didn’t see them following. Her ears prickled, but she didn’t hear them coming after her.
They’d left her on the floor in the back of the van. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t opened her eyes. They must have thought she was unconscious. One of them had nudged her with his steel-toed boot, but she hadn’t given any sign of wakefulness. They’d talked about whether or not they should take her into the cabin with them. And they had decided not. They hadn’t wanted to carry her. If she froze in the van, they didn’t care.
Glad that they were so stupid, she’d waited until they’d gone inside. Then she ran. Without a parka. Without mittens. Without boots. Wearing only sneakers and a hooded sweatshirt over a flimsy pair of hospital scrubs, she’d staggered into the storm. The cold should have awakened her, but she’d felt lethargic. Her legs were heavy; her feet weighed her down like cement boots. She lurched through the trees, uncoordinated, unable to keep her balance.
As she’d gone farther, her physical abilities had improved. But that didn’t mean she was out of the woods—literally out of the woods. Making an unfunny joke, I messed up the punch line. Still, she chuckled. When she stretched her mouth, her lips cracked. I always wanted to die laughing.
My God, what was wrong with her? She ought to be terrified. Instead, she felt oddly giddy and confused.
The gusting wind threw icy flakes into her teeth. Her clothes were cold and wet. Her shoes soaked through. She’d seen photos of people who were frostbitten, with their fingers and toes turning black and falling off. But she’d also heard that dying of hypothermia was supposed to be peaceful, like drifting into a gentle sleep.
Sleep would be good, maybe just for a minute. Her eyelids closed. She imagined a boat pulled by snow geese with a glittering snow god at the helm. All she needed to do was climb aboard. Looking down, she smoothed the white feathers of her gown. Sleep was so very good. Or not! Delusions were a symptom of hypothermia. Her mind was going. She needed to find warmth as soon as possible. Leaving a track across the clearing was a small price.
She charged forward with the storm beating at her head and shoulders. The accumulated snow was almost up to her knees. When had it started? When would it stop? With the sun blocked out by the snow clouds, she could only guess that it was afternoon.
Reaching the forest on the other side was a relief. She staggered up a hill. Her lungs throbbed. Her thigh muscles ached. She shivered madly.
Then she saw lights.
Nothing had ever been more beautiful. As she moved closer, she realized she was approaching a snow-packed road, a large building and a two-story cabin with lights in the windows. Left, right, left, right, she lurched toward the glow, the warmth, the light that would save her. Closer and closer, she tried to call for help but her throat was as frozen as the rest of her.
The larger building beside the house was a church with a snow-covered cross above the entrance. These had to be kind, decent people who wouldn’t turn her away. They had to be.
She climbed the two stairs to the wraparound porch. With the last of her strength, she knocked.
The door was opened by a barrel-chested man with a neat, white beard. He wore a plaid flannel shirt and red suspenders. At the far end of the room, a fire danced on the hearth.
“My dear girl,” the old man said. “Come in and get warm.”
She stumbled across the threshold into a charming, pine-paneled cabin with dozens of photos on every wall and cute knickknacks on every flat surface. The main features—apart from the fireplace—were a long dining room table with enough room to seat fourteen and an upright piano. As the old man closed the door, heat shimmered around her and wakened her senses. Her skin tingled. She’d made it. She was alive, painfully alive.
The sounds of classical music rolled down the staircase, and a woman’s voice called from the second floor. “Clarence, is someone here?”
“It’s a young woman, Trudy. The poor thing is half froze.”
“She’s out in this weather? Good heavens, I’ll come down and help you take care of her.”
“Okeydoke.”
Lacking the strength to remain standing unassisted, she clutched the back of a chair. Her vision blurred. The prickling of her fingers worsened. Her skin was on fire.
“Take it easy.” The old man braced his arm around her. “You’re going to be all right.”
She looked up at him. His cheeks were rosy, and his eyes were a bright blue that matched a stripe in his plaid shirt. She moved her mouth, wanting to thank him, but no words came out. When she licked her lips, she tasted blood.
“I’m Clarence,” he said. “Pastor C. W. Lowell.”
She noticed his short, military haircut. “Air force?”
“You are correct. I was a chaplain for twenty-three years.” He looked into her eyes. “Now you know all about me. Let’s hear about you. What’s your name?”
Her mind was blank. Her name, what the hell was her name? She could have made something up but didn’t want to lie. And so, she spoke the truth. “I don’t...remember.”
“Not surprised,” said a small woman in a long nightgown and bathrobe as she shuffled down the staircase. “I’m Trudy, and you’re probably in shock.”
I’m in shock. That must be it. She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her jaw against the flaring pain. Everything burned—her arms, her thighs, her hands and feet, her nose, even her earlobes. She would have passed out, but gentle hands guided her into a tiled bathroom. Trudy shouted directions to her husband while she seated her on the closed toilet. Together, she and Trudy peeled off her wet clothing and shoes.
“Dry off with the towel,” Trudy instructed while she grabbed fresh clothing from the pastor, who stuck only his hand into the bathroom. “These jammies ought to fit. They belong to my granddaughter, and she’s your size. How tall are you?”
“Five feet nine inches.”
“I used to be tall.” Trudy glanced into the mirror above the sink, gave herself a smile and adjusted her long silver braid. “Lately, I’ve been shrinking.”
“Still beautiful,” she said, and she meant it.
“Later, we’ll get you into a bath. For now, we need to warm you up slowly and get your blood circulating. You’re not frostbitten but close. Hurts, doesn’t it? You’re very brave.”
She appreciated the compliment. Though running away from those thugs didn’t seem particularly courageous, she’d survived what was clearly a bad situation. What if the bad guys came this way? “Danger,” she mumbled, “dangerous men...they’re after me.”
“You’re safe now. Clarence doesn’t look like a tiger, but he’s a very good protector.”
She fastened the last button on the warm, dry pajamas and stumbled to her feet so she wouldn’t fall asleep on the toilet. Though her skin still stung like fire, she felt stronger as she hobbled into the front room. After sinking onto the sofa, she pulled up the wool socks on her poor, frozen feet and tucked a fuzzy yellow blanket around her shoulders.
Pastor Clarence placed a mug of fragrant lemon tea on the coffee table. “Don’t drink too fast,” he warned.
“But you need to rehydrate,” Trudy said.
She nodded and took a sip. “I want...to thank you.”
“You’re doing much better.” Trudy handed her a tube of lip balm. “Are you well enough to recall your name?”
Carefully, she applied the salve to her cracked, chapped lips. Her mind was blank. “Maybe...in a minute.”
Trudy sat in the overstuffed chair nearest to the sofa and tucked her robe snugly around her. “You said there was danger.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s ease into your memories gradually,” Trudy said. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
“A van...there was a van...men with guns.”
Trudy shot a nervous glance toward her husband, but her voice stayed calm. “What color was the van?”
She took another sip of tea. The liquid soothed her throat. “I think it was black...or dark blue.”
“I want you to concentrate,” Trudy said. “Tell me about the men. How many of them? Did they say each other’s names?”
“Four of them. One had an accent... Southern, I think.”
The pastor scowled. He went to a window at the front of the house and peered into the storm, on the lookout for danger.
“Where was the van parked?” Trudy asked.
“At a cabin...a log cabin.”
“And what did this cabin look like?”
“I think the door was painted green.”
“One story or two?”
She cleared her throat. The words came more easily if she whispered. “Don’t know... I couldn’t see it very well through the trees and the snow. Those men...they might come after me. I didn’t cover my tracks very well. I’m sorry.”
“You did the right thing, getting out of the storm, and I appreciate the warning.” Clarence opened the door to the front closet and reached up to a high shelf. “If we’ve got wild-eyed criminals running around in my forest, I sure as heck want to be ready for them. What else can you tell me?”
“Their weapons were HK417 assault rifles.”
“That’s mighty specific, little lady. How come you know so much about guns?”
She shrugged.
“You might be in the military.” He took a hunting rifle down from the shelf and set it by the door. Then he removed a long wooden box from the closet and carried it to the table.
A sign flashed in her mind. “Peterson Air Force Base.”
“That’s not too far from here. Is that where you’re stationed?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Another image replaced the first. She was staring into the maw of a tunnel large enough to drive a couple of semitrucks through. This huge half circle abutted the mountain, Cheyenne Mountain. It was the entrance to the underground NORAD complex, and she wasn’t supposed to talk about it—not even with nice people like Trudy and the pastor.
She’d said too much already, should never have given her trust so freely. What did she really know about Pastor Clarence and his wife? Nothing! The pastor unloaded a SIG Sauer and two Colt revolvers from his wooden box. Plus there was the rifle by the front door. These two definitely weren’t helpless woodland creatures.
“Honestly, Clarence.” Trudy rolled her eyes. “If you’re going to play with your guns, put down some towels so you don’t scratch my table.”
He put the revolvers away in the box and tucked the SIG into his waistband beside his suspenders. “I’m going upstairs. The windows up there make better vantage points.”
“Before you go,” Trudy said, “would you please call 911? I’d like to get the sheriff up here. And an ambulance.”
“Not for me,” she said.
“I’m afraid it’s necessary, dear.”
She didn’t want to go to the hospital. Turning herself in would violate her mission. Her mission? What mission? “I’m already feeling a lot better.”
“Except you can’t remember your name.” Trudy leaned forward to pour. “More tea?”
“Yes, please.” She studied the older woman. Trudy’s movements were disjointed, her right arm seemed stiff, and her hands were twisted in a knot. Under her flannel gown and robe, she was very thin, possibly sickly. “If I can borrow a coat, I’ll be on my way.”
“Don’t be silly.” Trudy’s voice was sharp edged. “In this weather, you won’t make it a mile. I didn’t haul myself out of bed and help you get warm only to have you go running outside to freeze again.”
“You’re right.” She sank back against the sofa. “I’m sorry...for waking you up.”
“I wasn’t sleeping, just lying down. It’s too early for bed.”
“She has rheumatism and a nerve disorder,” Clarence explained as he picked up his cell phone. “There’s only so much we can do to alleviate the pain. The one thing that relaxes her is music.”
“I used to be a music teacher,” Trudy said with a wistful smile. “And I’m still the choir director at our church.”
When she’d first entered the cabin, she’d heard a symphony from upstairs. “You didn’t have to turn off your CDs because of me. I adore classical music.”
“You’re sweet to say so,” Trudy said.
She sat up straighter on the sofa, roused by a vivid memory. “I play the violin.”
“Do you?” Trudy lightly applauded. “I’d love to hear you play.”
If it would keep them from sending her to the hospital, she could play all the Mozart concertos with Beethoven thrown in on the side. She’d do whatever was necessary to evade the danger that encroached on all sides. From the thugs in the van to the vicious storm to her unnamed fear of being hospitalized, everything appeared to be against her. She felt as doomed as a skier racing downhill, trying to escape a churning, roaring avalanche. Her chance of survival was slim.
Chapter Two (#ud9902ce9-98f7-5e28-af7f-04658544f7c4)
Through the ragged curtain of falling snow, FBI Special Agent Spence Malone spotted headlights approaching. “About time,” he muttered.
Spence wasn’t running this operation, but his directions had summoned two vans—one for the local SWAT team and another from the FBI—to this isolated mountain cabin with a dark blue van parked in front. It had been twenty-seven minutes since he called for immediate emergency backup.
His tension was epic. When it came to making sharp, street-smart decisions, he trusted the instincts he’d learned at an early age in foster care. But this assignment was different. Not only was he dealing with a global situation, but his partner was the woman he loved.
Spence feared that he’d made the wrong decision by not going after her when he found the van. He could easily have followed her tracks into the forest. But he’d wanted to make sure these four thugs were apprehended and secured. Backup was required.
He bolted from his rented SUV and charged toward the vans. The SWAT commander and an agent in an FBI jacket joined him on the road. A wall of pine trees separated them from the cabin.
After introductions, Spence filled them in. “My partner is missing, and I think these men grabbed her.”
“Her?” Ramirez, the agent, yanked off his FBI watch cap and combed his fingers through his thick black hair.
“Agent Angelica Thorne is NSA, not FBI. We’re partners for the duration of this assignment.” And the assignment was top secret. They didn’t need details about Angelica. “I followed her tracking signal to the van and checked inside, where I found evidence.”
“Evidence?” Ramirez questioned.
“Her prints and hairs,” Spence said dismissively. “Trust me, she was in that van.”
“But not anymore,” Ramirez said.
“As far as I can tell, she’s in the wind. But she left these four goons behind. I’ve been observing them with a heat sensor. They’re all in the kitchen.”
The SWAT commander gave a quick nod. “Armed and dangerous?”
“Yes,” Spence said. “I’ve got questions for them and would appreciate if you keep them alive.”
“Consider it done,” the commander said. “I’ll deploy two snipers in the trees, just in case. And we’ll storm the house from the front and side.”
“Go for it,” Spence said. “I’m sitting this one out.”
He and Ramirez returned to his SUV, where he picked up his rifle, infrared goggles and a backpack. He needed to hurry. Dusk had fallen. Soon, it would be dark.
“Should I come with you?” Ramirez asked.
“Not necessary.” If Spence couldn’t find Angelica, he might as well throw himself off the nearest cliff. He wouldn’t be able to live with the guilt if he lost her. “I need you here to take those four into custody.”
“No problem. We’ve got a cage at headquarters that’s just the right size.”
Ramirez chewed on his lower lip. Spence guessed the other agent was fighting to suppress his excitement. There probably wasn’t much action at the FBI offices outside Colorado Springs. Spence held up his cell phone. “Call me when they’re in custody.”
Ramirez exchanged numbers with him. “Tell me about the NSA agent. How did she get grabbed?”
“This is the first time Agent Thorne has been in the field.”
“Inexperienced,” Ramirez said with a disgusted shake of his head. “Am I right? The chick is a typical rookie.”
“Don’t say chick.” Spence retrieved his phone. “And there’s nothing typical about her.”
“Sorry, man.” Ramirez raised both hands, placating. “I’ll call when we’ve got these guys.”
Spence took off at a jog, heading into the forest in the direction he had already tracked. It wasn’t her fault that she was missing. It was his. He shouldn’t have left her alone, not even for a minute. If his brain had been working, he would have refused to be her partner in the first place. This assignment wasn’t the type of thing she was accustomed to handling.
Angelica worked in the Cyber Security branch of NSA. She’d been there for three years and had a reputation as an outstanding hacker. Though she usually stayed behind her desk, she was chosen for this assignment because her dad was a retired general in the air force who lived in the area. People around here knew her family, and the gates of the North American Aerospace Defense Command, or NORAD, complex were more likely to open for somebody familiar and friendly. As soon as they’d arrived, she’d proved useful in cutting through military red tape. He wasn’t sure if that was due to her high-ranking contacts or her dynamite body.
He saw her footprints in the snow. Branches had been broken on the pine trees. She’d come this way. He dug into his pocket for his GPS device. The blip from her implanted tracker was loud and clear. She was close, less than a mile away. He dared to hope that she’d be all right as he moved quickly through the trees.
She’d charmed him six months ago, on the first day they’d met at Quantico, where she’d come to do a consultation. If he’d been a movie producer looking for a woman to play the part of a secret agent, Angelica would have been number one on his list. She was five feet nine inches tall with long, slender legs and classic curves. Her black hair fell straight and sleek to her shoulders. And she was stylish in high-heeled boots, tailored clothes and expert makeup that showed off her mysterious green eyes. One thing was for damn sure, Angelica didn’t look at all like a computer geek—which was exactly what she was, an NSA expert called in to advise on an FBI hack.
To say that he and Angelica got along well together would be an understatement. From their first kiss, he’d known that she was special. They’d started dating after that first case was closed, which shouldn’t have been a dating-in-the-workplace problem because he never expected to work with her again.
Behind his back, he heard the sounds of the SWAT team assault on the cabin. His shoulders tensed as he listened for gunfire. First, there had been three loud explosions from flash bangs. Then there were loud shouts. He counted gunshots. One. Two. A spray from an automatic, two more, then there was silence. The whole thing had taken less than five minutes, a good sign. Quick operations were usually successful.
He hoped that his and Angelica’s mission would also be swift and effective. They were investigating an attempted hack at the supposedly impregnable NORAD complex. With Angelica’s technical expertise and his experience in undercover ops, their collaboration should have gone smoothly, except that she’d been abducted within twelve hours of their arrival.
At a clearing in the forest, he paused. Obvious tracks went straight across the middle. The fact that she hadn’t taken time to disguise her route told him that she must be desperate. He charged across the snow and up the hill on the opposite side.
Spencer saw the lights of a cabin beside a church, an obvious safe haven against the storm. The wind had erased most of her tracks, but he still saw indentations as he rushed toward the two-story cabin. The lights were less than ten yards away. He could smell the smoke that rose from the chimney.
The gentle strains of a violin wafted through the air as he pulled off his glove and rapped on the door. There was no answer. He hammered more loudly and shouted, “Open up. FBI.”
The door opened, just a crack, and a voice commanded, “Step back.”
When Spence saw the barrel of a rifle, he decided to cooperate. An elderly, bearded man came out onto the wide, covered porch and pulled the door closed. There was a Santa Claus thing going on with the white beard and the red suspenders, but this old guy wasn’t jolly and smiling. He aimed his Remington at Spence’s chest. Bad Santa.
“I’ll need some ID,” the man growled.
Spence reached inside his parka pocket and took out his badge. “I’m looking for someone.”
“What for?”
“She might be in danger.”
“I’m going to let you inside. But if you make one false move, you’ll be sorry.”
As soon as the door opened, Spence saw her. With perfect posture, she perched on a wooden chair, wearing flannel jammies and playing a violin.
He called out, “Angelica.”
Abruptly, she lowered the bow and stared at him.
An elderly lady, who seemed to be the mate of the man who opened the door, chuckled. “Angelica is a perfect name for you, dear. You play like an angel.”
“A snow angel,” her husband said.
Unable to keep his distance, Spence strode across the room toward her. He needed to gather her in his arms, to stroke her hair and whisper reassurances that he would never leave her unprotected again.
“Stay back.” She stood and faced him. “How do you know my name?”
* * *
ANGELICA, MY NAME is Angelica. She thrust and parried with her violin bow, fighting to keep the guy in the huge parka away from her. Angelica! The word echoed inside her skull, and she liked the sound. It felt right. She remembered a rowboat with that name written in fanciful letters across the stern. And so, Angelica, what are you going to do now?
“He claims to be with the FBI,” Clarence said.
“We’ll see about that.” Her first priority was to deal with Parka Guy. “Give your rifle and backpack to Pastor Clarence.”
He spread his hands. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
She touched the tip of her bow to the center of his chest. The slender, fiberglass stick looked ridiculously delicate and flimsy against his girth and strength. His shoulders were as wide as the Frankenstein monster. He could snap that bow in half and use the horsehair strings as a garrote if he felt like it. For that matter, he could snap her in half, too. If she had any sense at all, she’d be shaking in her socks.
More forcefully, she said, “The rifle. Do it.”
In a few swift moves, he unfastened the rifle. He also removed the backpack, which he held toward her. When she didn’t take it, he growled and dropped the pack on the floor next to his gloves.
He unzipped the front of his parka and flipped back the fur-lined hood. His complexion was ruddy from being out in the snow, and he had a tiny scar on his chin that she somehow knew he’d gotten in a barroom brawl. Everything else about him was perfection. Square jaw, wide mouth, high cheekbones and the most intense, ice-blue eyes she’d ever seen. His gaze was mesmerizing and predatory like a wolf.
“Now,” he said as he thumped his very solid chest. “You recognize me now, right?”
Though there was something familiar about his towering height, the pattern of stubble on his chin and the blond streaks in his hair, she couldn’t say for sure that she knew him. And she really wanted to. It’d be a shame to beat this handsome man to death with her violin bow.
“On your knees,” she snapped. “Hands behind your head.”
“Oh, my,” Trudy said with a gasp. “Sounds like you’ve done this before.”
Had she? Where were these commands coming from? How did she know what to do when threatened? Classes... She remembered the exercises; she’d taken training. Every agent in her division was required to learn the basics of law enforcement and firearms. “Quantico,” she whispered.
“That’s right,” he said. “You trained at the FBI facilities.”
The FBI? She was an agent? It hardly seemed possible that a real federal agent would attempt to subdue an attacker with a violin bow. “I don’t think I’m in the FBI.”
“You’re in the NSA, in the Cyber Security division.”
Sure, why not? She turned away from Gorgeous Parka Guy, flipped the violin onto her shoulder and played the opening notes of “Blackbird” to show there were no hard feelings. Perhaps a silly, delusional thing to do, but it seemed like a positive gesture.
Angelica asked Pastor Clarence, “Would you please reach inside his jacket and disarm him?”
“Wait,” Parka Guy said. “I can save us a lot of time if I take off my own weapons.”
“Fine.” Angelica perched on the edge of her hard-back chair and continued to play the classic Beatles song. She segued to “Yesterday.”
Concern about Gorgeous lingered in the back of her mind, but she wasn’t scared of him. The opposite, in fact. She felt safe, ridiculously safe considering that she’d just escaped from four thugs and she was some kind of agent who had special training. She really ought to worry, especially since he was carrying two Glocks, an eight-inch serrated hunting knife and a small-caliber pistol in an ankle holster strapped above his heavy-duty boots.
Stripped of his weapons and his parka, he approached her, stood and waited for her to finish her violin solo. Gently, he took the instrument and the bow from her hands and laid them on the long, wooden dining table. He came back to her, leaned down and gazed directly into her eyes. “Say my name.”
Her breath caught in her throat. The whirlwind of confusion buffeting inside her head went still, and she was suspended, floating in midair. She felt neither cold nor hot, neither right nor wrong, neither safe nor terrified. She was simply there.
“Spencer,” she said. “Spence Malone.”
And then she was in his arms. The cold from outdoors still clung to his Irish fisherman’s sweater, but the internal heat from his body raised the temperature. She snuggled against him, inhaling the natural scent of lamb’s wool and warm man.
He whispered in her ear, “You couldn’t forget me.”
Apparently, she’d guessed correctly.
Chapter Three (#ud9902ce9-98f7-5e28-af7f-04658544f7c4)
Now she knew his name was Spence Malone, but Angelica had no idea what that meant to her. He was incredibly good-looking, just exactly her type. She glided her hand across his rock-hard chest and down his arm. Even through his thick sweater, she felt the ridges of his biceps. Were they lovers?
He tilted her chin so she was gazing up at him. His blue eyes flicked from left to right, reading her expression. “Seems like you’ve forgotten a few things,” he said.
“A few.” She shrugged.
“What do you recall?”
“There were four men, big guys, dumb as dirt.” His penetrating gaze was like a truth-seeking missile, and she wasn’t sure how much she should reveal. She turned toward Trudy and said, “Remember? I told you about them. One had a Texas accent. They were armed with HK417 assault rifles. They took me to a cabin.”
“And she mentioned a van,” Trudy said helpfully, “a dark blue or black van.”
Leaning down, Spence kissed her forehead. The light touch of his lips set off a chain reaction of shivers that had more to do with her internal engine than with the snow and cold. Her inner machinery had definitely come back to life. She exhaled a soft moan.
“What else?” he murmured.
Resisting him wasn’t going to be easy. “Nothing much.”
“It’s okay. You can tell me.”
But maybe she’d better not. Though his tone was gentle and cajoling, she knew he was digging, probing, interrogating. If he discovered the gaps in her memory, what would he do? He said he was a federal agent, but that didn’t mean he was innocent.
She turned the tables with a question of her own. “What do you do for the FBI?”
“Mostly administrative stuff,” he said in a silky voice. “Do you remember where we are?”
“Near Peterson Air Force Base.” Luckily, the pastor had provided her with that much info.
“Do you know why we’re here?”
“For one thing, my parents live near here.” Before she could think twice, she said their names. “Peter and Lana Thorne.”
“General Thorne?” Pastor Clarence straightened his posture, almost as though he was snapping to attention. “You’re their daughter?”
“One of their daughters,” she corrected.
Her memories came fast and furious as a mental family portrait formed. There were two girls and two boys. Angelica was second or third oldest depending on who was doing the counting. She and her sister, Selena, were identical twins, and they always argued about who was born first. The youngest—a boy who chose the marine corps over the air force, much to his father’s chagrin—had moved out last year. Though Dad was mostly retired, her parents kept their six-bedroom house in the hills above Manitou Springs.
She was looking forward to visiting them and having them meet Spence, which meant he must be important to her. Since it wasn’t her habit to introduce casual lovers to the parents, Spencer Malone must have a different significance. Maybe she worked with him. He was a born leader, similar to her high-ranking father. Both were tough, competitive and feisty.
She gave him a grin. “You and Dad are going to love each other.”
The gleam from his cool blue eyes dimmed. “You introduced me to your father yesterday.”
“Indeed.” Couldn’t be. That’s not something I’d forget. She treasured every moment with her mom and dad. Family was everything to her.
“We were at their house for dinner. You don’t remember?”
“Give me a minute. It’ll come back.”
He sat her on the hard-back chair. His touch became less sensual and more clinical as he massaged her scalp. “Does your head feel sore? Is there a possibility of concussion?”
“I was afraid of this,” Trudy said as she clenched her fingers into a knot. “It’s amnesia, isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” Spence said. “She needs a CT scan. And she ought to be examined by a doctor.”
“We put in a 911 call,” Trudy said. “It felt like an hour ago.”
“I’ll call again,” Clarence said. “They warned me about slow response time on account of the weather. And there was a pileup accident on I-25. When I told the dispatcher she wasn’t bleeding and didn’t appear to have broken bones, he suggested I drive her myself if it was possible.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Spence said.
“Wait!” Angelica waved both hands to interrupt the plans that were being made for her. She was wide-awake, sitting right here, and she didn’t like having other people take control of her life. “I don’t need a hospital. I didn’t hit my head.”
Spence hunkered down in front of her. He captured her fluttering hands and held them. “Would you remember if you had?”
“Did you find any bumps on my head?” she demanded. “No, you did not. And my skull doesn’t feel concussed. There are plenty of other places on my body that are painful, but not my head.”
“Where does it hurt?” he asked.
“My lips are chapped and were bleeding.” She yanked her hands from his grasp. “My feet are stiff and sore. My throat is scratchy.”
“She has bruises,” Trudy said. “I noticed them when she was changing clothes.”
Shrinking back in the chair, Angelica wrapped her arms protectively around her midsection. She knew very well that she had injuries. Both her knees were scraped. A massive contusion spread from her rib cage to her lower pelvis on her right side. Though she couldn’t see her back, she felt an occasional throb of pain.
The physical damage might have come from a hard fall or a car wreck. She might have been beaten but didn’t remember, didn’t want to remember. She’d been doing her best to ignore these aches and get back to the business at hand—whatever that was.
She glared at Spence. “No way do I have a concussion.”
“There are other ways to lose your memory.” He placed his hand on her knee, reestablishing contact. “You could have been drugged.”
She glanced down. Her eyelids closed. For an instant, she caught a glimpse of what had happened. A brief sliver of memory revealed itself, and she saw things as they had occurred instead of as they were now.
Her wrists were fastened to the arms of a chair with duct tape. She wasn’t uncomfortable but firmly secured, immobile. Behind her back, disembodied voices talked about dosage. They mentioned a drug.
She repeated their words, “A derivative mixture of benzodiazepine and propranolol.”
When she looked up, she saw Spence nod. “Those are drugs that could be used to induce memory loss.”
“I knew that.” Oddly enough, that was her first outright lie. She knew zip about drugs and memory loss, but she wanted desperately to speak with some kind of authority.
“If you were drugged,” Spence said, “we need to take you to the hospital for tests. Be reasonable, Angelica. I want you to be checked out. I feel responsible.”
“Please don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Feel responsible.”
She bolted to her feet. Even though she couldn’t exactly identify her career at the moment, she was dead certain that she was well respected in her field. She’d always been an achiever, proud when her slacker sister teased her for being “daddy’s little darling.” Ever since Angelica hit her first home run in T-ball, she’d been a winner. Valedictorian and senior prom queen in high school, magna cum laude from college, and she’d received dozens of grants in computer cryptography, science and hacking.
The past was becoming clear to her. She worked at the Cyber Security division of NSA and focused on cryptography and hacking. Her long-term memory was reassembling itself. The short-term still eluded her.
In any case, she didn’t want to be tucked away in a hospital. Though she didn’t know why, being here—in the field—was an opportunity for her. Going into the hospital meant admitting defeat. She needed to convince Spence that she was okay, and they should get back to work. “I’m fine.”
“Do you remember dinner?” he asked.
“Of course, I do.”
“Prove it.”
Dinner at the home of General and Mrs. Thorne with one outside guest followed a certain ritual. Angelica, along with her brothers and sister, had attended hundreds of Lana’s simple but elegant dinners. This one wouldn’t be much different.
“The centerpiece on the table was made of pinecones painted orange and blue...” It was football season, and her father was a season ticket holder. “In a salute to the Denver Broncos.”
“What did we talk about?”
She knew this one: the primary topic for every true Bronco fan. “We discussed the quarterback. Elway was mentioned.”
Spence nodded, and she brightened. I’m going to get away with this. She continued, “Mom served Cornish game hens and cheesy potatoes. The pie was pecan.”
She could tell by his expression that she’d nailed the menu of her mom’s favorite dishes. “Is that accurate?”
He gave another terse nod. “Do you remember why we’re here?”
She took a leap of logic. He was FBI; she was NSA. He had come looking for her. “We’re on assignment together.”
“I still want you checked out,” he muttered. Then he looked toward Pastor Clarence. “Can you give me a ride to my car?”
“Sure, but I need to dig out the driveway to the garage. And that might take half an hour or forty-five minutes.”
“I’ll hike,” Spence said as he started loading his weapons back into their holsters. After he slipped into his parka, he picked up the extra-large backpack and dropped it at her feet. “I brought your clothes, boots and a jacket. While I’m finding the car, you can get dressed.”
“I’m not going to the hospital,” she said firmly. “I’ll call my dad. He can pick me up.”
“Not a chance.” Spence forced his words through a tight-lipped grin. “I want General Thorne to like me. That’s sure as hell not going to happen if I tell him how I slacked off on the job and let his daughter get kidnapped. And then, even worse, I have to call him for help.”
Though Angelica didn’t want to turn to Daddy for help, she considered having Spence rescue her to be equally frustrating. She hefted the pack by one strap and slung it over her shoulder causing a pain that crawled up and down her spine. She held her breath and willed the hurt to stop. She didn’t have time to be injured. She refused to be taken out of the game.
Spence said she was kidnapped. Kidnapped? That must be why those thugs had her in the van and why he’d been searching for her. “Did they demand a ransom?”
“No.”
Well, of course not. Kidnappers wouldn’t ask the FBI for money. “What about my father? Did they contact him?”
“This isn’t about money,” Spence said. “At least, it’s not about the piddling amount that a kidnapper could demand.”
She didn’t understand. If her kidnappers hadn’t been after money, why did they take her? “Is it because—”
He stepped up close, interrupting before she said too much. He gave a quick glance over his shoulder at Clarence and spoke to her softly. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“But I—”
“Later.” He took the backpack from her grasp, asked directions from Trudy for someplace private and carried her pack up the staircase and into a guest bedroom. Pillows were stacked at the head of a queen-size bed, and the brightly patterned duvet was neatly made. With the door partially closed so the pastor and his wife couldn’t hear, Spence whispered, “I’m guessing that they kidnapped you because of the computer codes you were working on before we left. That’s the bad news. The good news is that you must have hit a nerve. You’re on the right track.”
“Would computer codes be worth more than a ransom?”
“Hell, yeah.” He raked his fingers through his sun-streaked hair. “The weapon codes stored at NORAD can be used to activate, launch, deploy and shut down various missile and satellite systems, mostly for ICBMs. Foreign governments would pay a small fortune for that information.”
“I got it.”
“Do you remember the kidnappers or what you told them?”
“I’m drawing a blank.” What if she’d given up the codes? She might have already betrayed their mission. This investigation might have a real unhappy ending. “I’m sorry.”
“Once we get back to the hotel, I have a technique that’ll help you remember.” He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Get changed. I’m going to pick up the car.”
When he left her alone in the bedroom, Angelica placed the backpack on a cedar chest at the foot of the four-poster bed, which was one of the few surfaces free from knickknacks or photos. She unzipped the main compartment. The soft beige turtleneck, the jeans and the lightweight, superwarm Patagonia jacket were familiar. As she changed into the clothes, she remembered when she’d bought them, remembered trying them on, washing them and taking them out of the dryer. Her memory seemed back to normal, except for recent events.
It was as if a neuroprogrammer had reached into her skull and erased chunks of her brain. Last night and yesterday were totally blank. Until Spence had explained the investigation at NORAD, she didn’t know why she was here. What kind of computer hacking did she do? Who taught her? And then, there was Spence. He was the most fascinating puzzle of all. She remembered him but didn’t know if they were tangled in a hot-and-heavy relationship or if they were just friends.
When she raised her arms to slip the turtleneck over her head, her torso twisted and she felt a stab of pain from the big, nasty bruise on her side and hip. Unwilling to admit how truly lousy she felt, Angelica forced herself to stand erect. Wearing her own clothing felt good. Even better, she found a makeup kit and toiletries in the backpack.
Confronting the mirror that hung above the dresser was horrific. From her snarled black hair to her chapped cheeks to her hazel-green eyes, which were road-mapped with red squiggles, she was a mess. How could Spence even look at her without gagging? If she ever hoped to find out what kind of relationship she had with him, damage control was necessary.
After she combed her hair, put on lotion and dabbed at the worst parts of her face with makeup, she looked around the guest bedroom. On the top of the dresser was an army of clay figurines that were obviously sculpted in kindergarten classes. And there were tons of framed photos of kids in costumes, playing games, skating and skiing.
Trudy was the opposite of Angelica’s mom, who kept tidy scrapbooks and limited her displays to formal pictures, such as wedding photos, graduation pictures and framed diplomas. Angelica figured she was more like Trudy, favoring snapshots of kids with dirty faces and stolen moments caught on film. She liked to think that pictures were a good way to capture memories, her memories.
Eyes closed, she attempted to focus. She visualized the headquarters where she worked, an attractive space filled with bold artwork, curving corridors, horizontal windows and computer screens with cascading streams of numbers. She imagined her desk in a smallish, orange-and-white office with a window, an ergonomic chair and a white desk that extended the length of one wall. Her gaze zoomed in on a framed photo of her and Spence, laughing and embracing. In another intimate picture, they were holding hands and walking at the edge of a frothy ruffle of surf.
The sound of a ringtone from downstairs pulled her out of her reverie. Spence’s ringtone, it played the opening notes to Camelot. He’d changed it to that theme after they saw a revival of the musical at the Arena Theater.
Vivid images of what happened after they went back to the hotel after curtain call rushed through her. She tasted the fizz of champagne, smelled the scent of fresh roses, felt his huge hands encircling her waist as she opened her mouth for his kiss. The definitive answer to one of her questions became clear. Their relationship was anything but casual. Deep and intense, they were lovers.
Chapter Four (#ud9902ce9-98f7-5e28-af7f-04658544f7c4)
Spence zipped up his parka and took his cell phone outside onto the snow-covered porch that stretched across the front of the cabin. The caller ID displayed: “SA RAMI.” It had to be Special Agent Ramirez calling to let Spence know that the SWAT takedown was successful. But the first words Ramirez said were, “I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“One of the suspects got away.”
He launched into an explanation of what had happened at the nearby cabin, but Spence stopped him. “That’s enough.”
“You need to understand that—”
“You and a trained team of SWAT officers failed to apprehend four mindless goons in a sneak attack.” In spite of the cold, Spence was steaming. “Spare me the details.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Ramirez complained.
Spence hadn’t forgotten that SA Ramirez was quick to sneer at Angelica’s rookie status. “Is SWAT in pursuit?”
“They are, but this guy got out of his cuffs, grabbed a weapon and—”
“He’s armed?”
“Oh, yeah, he was slick. He took off like a jackrabbit. They aren’t going to catch him.”
And why aren’t you chasing him? Spence had little respect for feds like Ramirez who left the real work of law enforcement to the cops while they stood around posing in their black suits and their FBI windbreakers. Part of Spence’s investigation at NORAD would include checking out Ramirez’s office, and he wouldn’t be surprised to find a mole. Even a half-assed spy wouldn’t have much problem outsmarting the likes of Ramirez. His boss, Supervisory Special Agent Raquel Sheeran, was another story. She was as sharp as a stiletto.
Spence ordered, “Arrange for the three in custody to be delivered to the FBI offices.”
“I already have.”
The escaped thug complicated the situation. Spence couldn’t leave Angelica and the elderly couple unprotected while he hiked back to pick up his vehicle. But he wanted to get Angelica checked out by a doctor as soon as possible. Being in two places at one time wasn’t an option.
Though he hated relying on Ramirez, he needed help. He leaned against the porch banister and peered toward the church next door. Though the storm was pretty much over, a blanket of snow lay heavy on the unplowed road and the parking lot. Night was starting to fall, but it wasn’t totally dark. The glow of starlight filtered through the clouds.
“Ramirez, I want you to drive here. Bring one other man.” Spence gave directional driving instructions and used Pastor Clarence’s address for Ramirez’s GPS. “Do you understand?”
“Got it.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Pastor Clarence came onto the porch. In spite of his age and potbelly, he moved with the stealth of a hunter. “I can help you find that van at the cabin,” he said. “Angelica mentioned a green door. I know exactly where it is.”
The old man wore a red knit cap, again making Spence think of Santa. But the pastor’s red gloves were clutched around his rifle instead of a bag of toys. The parka that was belted around his ample midsection was black.
“I’m getting picked up,” Spence said. “Besides, you need to be here when the ambulance arrives.”
“The sheriff can figure it out. He’s a real crackerjack.”
“Yeah? Well, he’s not winning any prizes as a first responder.” Spence had to consider the possibility that sweet old Clarence hadn’t, in fact, contacted the emergency dispatcher. Santa might be lying. “How long ago did you make that call?”
“A while.” He tugged on his beard. “Something’s fishy. What was your phone call about?”
“There’s a dangerous armed man on the loose. I’ll get Angelica to the hospital. An officer from SWAT will be left behind to protect you and your wife.”
“I can take care of my family.” Clarence puffed out his chest. “I don’t want some SWAT punk hanging around.”
“You need protection.” Spence was fairly sure the old man was hiding something but didn’t have time to dig for the truth. “The punk stays, and that’s an order.”
“Hah!” The pastor threw back his head. “I’ve been retired for fourteen years. I don’t obey orders unless they come from my sovereign.”
“Who’s that?”
Clarence pointed skyward. “My Lord in Heaven.”
Spence gazed across the snowy crossroads toward the dark, impenetrable forest. A shaft of moonlight illuminated the simple cross above the church’s entryway. Clarence was a man of God, but that didn’t mean he was without sin. “What does your Lord say about lying?”
“You know the Commandments.”
“Do you?”
The pastor fidgeted and sputtered, and Spence could see the truth struggling to get out. If he stood here quietly and waited, Clarence would confess whatever he’d been holding back.
The pearly white landscape spread before him, so ethereal and beautiful that he almost ran inside and grabbed Angelica to show her. Better that he didn’t; she might not be enthusiastic about the wonders of snow after being nearly frostbitten to death. The only marks in the unbroken snow were his tracks and Angelica’s. Hers were almost erased by the drifting wind.
At the edge of the forest, he saw movement. It could be deer or elk or his own imagination, but he didn’t think so. He took his night vision goggles from a parka pocket and held them to his eyes.
He saw a man, staggering from the forest. He disappeared behind the church. A moment passed while Spence waited anxiously for the man to reappear.
Beside him, the pastor cleared his throat. “There’s something I ought to tell you, Spence.”
“Not now.”
“It’s important.”
A light shone through an arched window at the far end of the church. The man—the fugitive—had found sanctuary. Or so he thought.
Spence grabbed the pastor’s arm and spun him around. “I saw the fugitive, the man who escaped custody. He’s in the church. When the agent and the SWAT officer get here, send them in that direction.”
“What about me? I could be your backup.”
“Stay here. Protect Trudy and Angelica.”
Spence pivoted and leaped from the porch. His boots hit the snow, and he started running toward the church. The new-fallen snow slipped over the top of his boots and soaked his jeans. He ducked behind a clump of aspen and inhaled a deep, frigid breath. At this elevation, oxygen was scarce.
Between the trees where he was hiding and the front entryway to the church, there wasn’t much cover. If he stood upright and ran, he’d be an obvious target. But there wasn’t time to dash around to the road and come up from the front.
He kept his repeating rifle slung across his back, choosing instead to arm himself with a handgun for easier mobility. His new Glock 17 fit neatly into his hand. Through the specially woven, nonslip fabric of his glove, he hardly felt the cold of the Glock’s handgrip. Keeping his head down and shoulders bent, he tried to make himself small as he rushed toward the front entryway under the cross.
Light continued to shine through the window in the rear part of the building. Was the fugitive standing there, looking out and taking aim? This guy wouldn’t be caught napping; he’d managed to get out of his handcuffs and evade a team of trained officers. Ramirez had called him slick, and Spence agreed.
The preferred method for taking a suspect was a straight-on assault, using the element of surprise, yelling to disorient the suspect and being ready to shoot first. But Spence wasn’t looking for a lethal shoot-out. This fugitive was low on the totem pole. His greatest value was the information he could give. Somehow, Spence needed to sneak into the church and take the fugitive into custody.
At the entryway, he leaned against the polished oak door with a small diamond-shaped stained glass window at eye level. The church building was a rectangle, with stained glass windows on either side. Spence wasn’t sure what he’d find inside. Ruefully, he realized, it would have been useful to have the pastor with him to give him the layout.
The door on the right had a keyed knob. Spence gave it a twist and found it locked. No problem, he’d been picking locks since he was a trouble-making teenager. This was the first time he’d done it at a church.
After turning the knob, he opened the door a crack, slid inside and closed it. The entryway was in darkness. No windows here. In the nave, where the congregation sat, the stained glass windows on either side allowed moonlight to fall across several rows of wooden pews. He edged his way down the wall, expecting—at any moment—to hear the blast of a repeating rifle.
No sound came. And Spence didn’t see the fugitive. At the front of the church, there was light from a door at the far right side of the sanctuary. In the entryway, Spence found himself at the foot of a narrow, wooden staircase that hugged the wall. He climbed to a choir loft. Three rows of pews and an upright organ were faintly visible. Quiet as a cat, he crept down to the carved railing, where he squatted and waited.
It was a pretty little church, simple and clean, with a high peaked ceiling and open beams. The carpet in the sanctuary was slate blue and the altar was carved from dark wood. From outside, a fierce wind buffeted the stained glass windows, causing the old structure to creak and moan. Not a bad thing, he figured. Those noises had masked the sound of his entry, allowing him to scoot across the back and up the stairs without the fugitive noticing.
A certain amount of skill was required to move with stealth and purpose. But Spence also believed in luck. Being in a church, he wondered if he should shoot off a prayer. He wasn’t a religious man, didn’t make it to church every week, nor did he quote from the Bible or other sacred texts. But he was spiritual. He believed in a higher power. When he was growing up, two men were instrumental in helping him pull his life together. One was a pastor, the other a priest. Spence had never done a whole lot of praying, but he felt like those church people had done a lot of praying to make sure he stayed on the right path.
A telephone rang. Spence heard the mumbled reply. Was the voice coming all the way from that back room? If so, the acoustics in here were incredible.
The light from the back room went out. The phone call must have tipped off the fugitive. But how? Who made that call? Behind the shadows of the pulpit and a standing candleholder, Spence saw a man dodge across the sanctuary, slam into the side of the altar and then duck behind it.
From his superior vantage point in the choir loft, Spence peered over the banister rail. The element of surprise was gone, but he could still give this guy a chance to make it easy on himself.
“FBI,” Spence called out. “I don’t want to hurt you. Just put down your weapon and step out from behind the altar.”
“What if I don’t?”
“I need to take you into custody.”
The fugitive laughed. “That doesn’t work for me.”
Spence heard a voice from behind his back. “Sorry, Spencer. Doesn’t work for me, either.”
He looked over his shoulder and saw Pastor Clarence, aka Bad Santa, aiming his rifle at a lethal point between his shoulder blades. The old man was working with the bad guys. “This explains a lot.”
“What?” Clarence asked.
“You never called 911.”
“Nope.”
“And I’m guessing that the van hadn’t ended up in this area by coincidence. Tell me, Pastor, do you own the cabin with the green door?”
“I do, and three others in this area.” He gestured with the rifle. “I want you to stand up real slow and careful.”
Seriously? Had Bad Santa forgotten how well armed Spence was? Did this old guy think he could take down a federal agent in his prime?
“Let me remind you,” Clarence said, “I’ve got the drop on you, and it’d be easier to swab up the blood from your dead body than to sand bullet holes out of the pews.”
“Were you even a chaplain?”
“I’m retired, but I served.”
Something must have happened to turn the old man into a traitor. In other circumstances, Spence might have been willing to delve and probe and put together motivations and answers. But he wasn’t in a forgiving mood. This investigation needed to be over so he could return to Virginia with Angelica and repair her memory.
Lowering his rifle and sliding his handgun onto the pew, Spence turned sideways in the choir loft so he’d present a narrow silhouette to the man hiding behind the altar. “Tell me, Clarence, if I hadn’t come along, what would you have done to Angelica?”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s a loose end. It doesn’t seem smart to leave her running free. Would you have shot her?”
Clarence huffed as he adjusted the barrel on his rifle. “You’ve got this wrong. Just give me a minute and let me explain.”
A disembodied voice rose from the altar. “It’s not as bad as you think.”
How do you know what I think? Spence had never been known for his calm, patient attitude, and he sure as hell didn’t need advice from some dumber-than-dirt thug. It was time to take control of this situation.
Disarming Clarence would be a piece of cake; the old guy wasn’t exactly in peak condition. The tricky part would be to avoid getting shot by the armed thug. Spence coiled his long legs beneath him. With one well-placed leap, he went into the aisle between the pews. With a pivot, he launched himself off the organ and smashed into the pastor’s broad chest.
Clarence went down with a thud. Flat on his back, he didn’t bother struggling. As Spence fastened his wrists with a zip tie, Clarence said, “There should have been an easier way to do this.”
“Explain.”
“First, an introduction,” Clarence said. “The dark and scary character who escaped the SWAT team is my nephew, Trevor MacArthur. Help us out, Trev. Turn on the sanctuary lights.”
The shadowy figure that had been lurking behind the altar went to the edge of the sanctuary and flipped a couple of switches. Lights blazed in the nave.
A young man with curly brown hair and a beard strolled to the front of the sanctuary. “There’s one more thing you ought to know, Spence.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m FBI, working undercover.”
Chapter Five (#ud9902ce9-98f7-5e28-af7f-04658544f7c4)
Trust no one. Her father had always advised her to be suspicious and, as always, Dad was right. Angelica had been fool enough to accept the pastor and Trudy as the kindly, elderly couple they appeared to be. So wrong!
Frozen in place, she stood in front of the dresser in the upstairs bedroom of the cabin, where every wall was hung with photos and every flat surface held knickknacks. Her gaze stuck on a five-by-seven photograph of a young man in a football uniform. His face and his dark, floppy hair appeared in many other photos scattered around the room.
At first glance, he’d looked familiar, and she wondered if they’d gone to the same school. She’d grown up in this area, and he might be somebody she’d met before or had known. Slowly, she’d circled the room, prowling, taking time to study each photo as the man aged from a skinny kid in baggy shorts to full adulthood. His grin was mischievous, with a twist on the left side. A tiny scar bisected his left eyebrow.
Like a lightbulb snapping to life, her inability to remember vanished. The darkness cleared. She knew him.
This young man was one of the thugs in the van—a kidnapper, a traitor or something worse.
Trudy called out from downstairs. “How are you doing, Angelica? Can I help?”
She moved to the top of the staircase. Her throat was still raw and her voice hoarse. “Changing clothes. I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Would you like more lemon tea?”
“No, thank you,” she said politely.
Her thoughts were far less civil. Dear, sweet Trudy might decide to poison her with lemon-scented bleach. Though it seemed impossible that the kindly choir director was involved with thugs and traitors, the dozens of photos were proof. Trudy knew this man, knew him well.
Unfortunately, there was no chance that Angelica was mistaken in her identification. The memory was crystal clear. His face—with the lopsided grin—had peered down at her several times when she was curled up on the floor in the back of the van. He’d rubbed her upper arm as though he wanted to make her warm, but he’d been the one who insisted to the others that they leave her outside, alone in the van, to possibly freeze.
She needed to tell Spence, and he’d have to arrest these two lovely people who had saved her life. Though Angelica had been trained as an agent, she wouldn’t be cool about taking Clarence and Trudy into custody.
Fully dressed and wearing her warm boots, she descended the staircase to find Trudy nestled into a corner of the sofa. Though Angelica had said no, two mugs of tea and a small plate of fragrant banana bread rested on the coffee table.
“Where’s Spence?” Angelica asked.
“He and Clarence went running off to chase a bad guy.”
Angelica gasped. The bad guy was very likely the man pictured in Trudy’s bedroom. And Spence was probably counting on Clarence the Traitor for backup. “I need to find them, right away.”
“You shouldn’t go out,” Trudy said. “We’ve barely got you warmed up. The last thing you need is to go out in the cold again.”
The very thought of snow sent a raft of shivers down her spine, but she couldn’t abandon a man she cared about to an uncertain fate. And she’d never been a quitter. This job was important. “I need a gun.”
“The men took all of their weapons.”
Angelica stalked into the kitchen. Yanking a butcher knife from the chopping block seemed ridiculous. If she managed to get close enough for a knife attack, the bad guy would likely overpower her.
But she couldn’t just sit here. At the very least, she needed to warn Spence. Back in the front room, she zipped her Patagonia jacket that appeared lightweight but was surprisingly toasty. “I’m going.”
“I’m not strong enough to stop you.” Trudy folded her skinny arms below her breasts and sank back on the sofa. “But I wish you’d wait.”
“Until the pastor drags Spence back here by his heels like a field-dressed deer?”
“Whatever are you talking about?”
“I think you know.”
“What’s gotten into you?”
The truth. She pinched her lips together to keep from blurting out accusations. Attacking Trudy wasn’t going to do any good. She needed to help Spence.
On the front porch, the cold sliced through her like a blade, and she was tempted to dash back inside to wait. But the danger to Spence might be real. And she cared about him. More than friends, they had a relationship. If she closed her eyes, even for a few seconds, she felt the imprint of his embrace as he held her against his muscular chest. She remembered the deep rumble of his voice and the wood-and-leather scent of his favorite aftershave.
Looking down from the porch, she saw tracks leading from the front of the cabin toward the church next door, where lights blazed through the stained glass windows. Was she too late? Fearing the pastor and the thug had ganged up on Spence, she leaped from the porch. The snow was as deep as her knees, and she hated getting her jeans wet. But she had to warn Spence.
Slogging clumsily forward through the crisp, icy layers that glistened in the moonlight, she made her way across the front of the house to a clump of aspens and evergreens. The snow-covered boughs provided shelter from the brisk wind that swirled the icy flakes like a kaleidoscope. When she inhaled a deep breath, her lungs wheezed. She exhaled a gush of vapor. The pinpricks of frostbite returned to her toes and fingers.
She saw three men walking from the church. The pastor and Spence flanked a tall guy with floppy hair, the thug. Either he’d fooled Spence into thinking he wasn’t a danger or Spence was on his side. Could he be working with the bad guys? Trust no one. That mantra, that perfect bit of wisdom from her dad, might also apply to Spence.
He’d said they were partners. But did she have proof? Her sensory memories described an exquisite sexual relationship with Spence. But that didn’t make him trustworthy. If she’d been able to recall with utter precision, Angelica was certain that she’d have examples of misunderstandings and mistakes. Every woman did.
Whether Spence was a sleazebag or the straight-and-true man of her dreams, he had come for her. She owed him a rescue. But how? This would have been so much easier if she’d had a gun.
She stepped out from behind the trees and waved her arms over her head. When she called out to Spence, her voice was nothing but a feral growl. When she tried to amp up the volume, her efforts vanished on the wind.
But somehow he heard the harsh sounds she was making. And he responded. Breaking into a jog, he covered the distance between them so quickly that she had to peer around him to see what the pastor and the thug were doing. Just standing there? Neither of the men moved more than a step.
Spence caught hold of her upper arms. “What are you doing outside?”
No time for talk. “Give me your gun.”
“I don’t think so.”
“The guy you’re with.” She choked out the words. “And the pastor, too. They’re traitors. Lock them up.”
“I can explain.”
“He left me to die.” How could she make him understand? “He was one of the men in the van.”
“I’ll explain everything. For now, you’ve got to trust me.”
“No.” Her voice was firm. Her instinct was strong. She didn’t owe an automatic bond of trust to him or anyone else.
“His name is Trevor,” Spence said. “He’s FBI, working undercover. I talked to his handler in Quantico.”
“What?”
“Trevor made sure you were left alone in the van so you could escape. He didn’t know what their next orders would be, and he wanted you out of danger.”
She didn’t understand. “Is he part of Trudy’s family?”
“Her nephew.”
“Why was he with those other men?”
“Undercover,” Spence said. “He’s working undercover.”
He motioned for Clarence and the other man to join them.
Still unsure about whether she should accept this Trevor person as an undercover agent, she narrowed her gaze. It seemed awfully coincidental that Trevor and his bad guy cronies had landed near Aunt Trudy’s house.
Trevor reached toward her for a handshake. “I’m sorry, Angelica.”
She held back, not ready to be friends, not willing to let bygones be. She forced her voice to an almost-normal level. “Why did you choose the cabin with the green door?”
“You’re going to make me work for this apology.” He flashed the lopsided grin that some people might call charming. “Can we walk toward the house while I talk?”
“Not yet,” she said.
“Okay, here’s what happened. I was contacted by one of the bad guys, Lex Heller.”
“A computer programmer,” Spence said. “He’s on our short list of suspects.”
“He wanted me and the three other guys—Larry, Moe and Curly Joe—to take care of you.” He flashed another smile, clearly his best feature. “When I say ‘take care of,’ I mean exactly that. We were instructed to keep you from harm. To hold you in a safe place until he contacted us.”
So far, he was making sense. “Continue.”
“I could see you were waking up and wanted you to have a fair chance to escape. So, I suggested the cabin near Uncle Clarence’s place, and I called him to warn him.”
“Which is why I never called 911,” Clarence said. “I couldn’t very well have the sheriff show up and take Trevor into custody.”
“You lied to me,” she said.
“And I’m sorry.”
“What if I’d been more seriously injured?” she asked.
“I would have called an ambulance. I’d never put your life at risk,” Clarence said. His blue eyes were intense. His beard puckered around his mouth. “You believe me, don’t you?”
She did. “You’re not a bad person, Pastor. And I understand why you didn’t want to betray your nephew.”
“Am I forgiven?” Trevor asked.
She grabbed his glove and gave a firm shake. “For now.”
* * *
SPENCE SCOOPED ANGELICA off her feet and started to carry her toward the cabin. He liked her nearness, the intimacy and the way she felt in his arms. She was firm but not hard. No six-pack abs. No buns of steel. Her body had a feminine softness, a gift of nature that could never be achieved in a gym.
“Put me down.” She lightly punched him on the chin. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Keeping you from getting your feet wet.”
She stuck her legs straight out. “I have my good boots, thanks to you.”
“We’re almost there.” He strode forward toward the cabin. Nuzzling her earlobe, he whispered, “I’m just trying to pay you back.”
“I missed something.” Her lips were inches from his. Her poor, tired eyes were bloodshot. Her skin was reddened and chapped. But she was still beautiful. She croaked, “You owe me?”
“In spite of frostbite, you charged out into the cold to save me.”
“I should have been armed.”
“I’m glad you weren’t.”
“Why?”
“If you’d gotten your paws on a gun, Trevor would have paid the consequences.”
“Not if he followed my orders.”
She didn’t look anywhere near as dangerous as she actually was. Angelica qualified as a sharpshooter in pistol and in rifle, which meant her accuracy was over 90 percent. Her hand-to-hand combat skills weren’t as good, and Spence was grateful for that. He didn’t have to endure a Vulcan death grip every time she got riled.
As they approached the porch at the front of the cabin, she said, “It’s hard for me to be authoritative when you’re carrying me, but I have a few demands.”
He climbed onto the porch and allowed her legs to swing down. “Shoot.”
“Whenever possible, I need to be carrying a weapon.”
He agreed. “If you’d been armed last night, do you think you could have gotten away from the kidnappers?”
“Don’t know,” she muttered. “Can’t remember what happened.”
“I’m with you on this. We’ll have to figure out some way for both of us to carry firearms while we’re inside the NORAD complex. It’s a weapons-free zone.”
“You’re the superspy. You’ll come up with something.” She tapped him in the center of his chest with her forefinger. “My next demand is that you treat me like any other partner. No hugging, no carrying, no kissing...unless we’re alone...and I give consent.”
“That road goes both ways,” he said with a grin. “So don’t be rubbing up against me or making kissy faces.”
“Oh, please, I don’t do that.”
“We’ll see.”
Clarence and Trevor clomped onto the porch beside them. Trevor handed her an unexpected gift.
“Your cell phone,” he said.
“A thousand thanks. I never thought I’d see this again.”
“It was with you when we picked you up. Don’t worry, it’s untraceable. I’ve already removed the batteries, sim card and GPS.”
Spence suspected the bad guys were still tracking her, using something like his own little implanted device. Modern electronics were too tempting. Sooner or later, everyone would be wearing an array of chips for location and scanners for making payments. They’d all be blips on a giant blue screen, and there would be no need for humans at all.
Clarence opened the front door, and Trudy joyfully greeted her nephew, rushing him toward the kitchen, where she had cookies and muffins. Spence’s stomach growled. When was the last time he ate? He closed the door against the cold.
Quietly, Angelica said, “My last demand is the most important. I will go to the hospital with you for tests, but I will not stay. And you’re taking me with you when you talk to Lex Heller.”
“Why?”
“The obvious reason,” she said, “is that Lex is a computer guy. We speak the same language. Also, when he comes face-to-face with me, he’ll see that his kidnapping scheme didn’t slow me down.”
“He might have been the one to give the orders to Trevor and his mates, but I doubt Lex hatched this scheme.”
“Why not?”
As soon as he figured out that she’d been abducted, he’d been turning the event around in his head, examining the strategy. The reason for taking her was linear and simple: they wanted to find out how much she knew and to assess her level of expertise.
He wished she could remember what she’d told them or showed them. Though he wanted to believe she was clever enough to point them in a wrong direction, Angelica had been drugged and couldn’t help telling the truth.
The big questions came at the end. Why had they bothered with induced amnesia? Why take that risk?
“Spence?” She gave him an adorable scowl. “It worries me when you think so hard. What’s on your mind?”
“They erased your memory instead of using the more expedient solution to ensure your silence.”

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