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A Soldier's Oath
Debra Webb
Experience the thrill of life on the edge and set your adrenalin pumping! These gripping stories see heroic characters fight for survival and find love in the face of danger.Willow Harris needed someone who was willing to go beyond the law…Someone who would take a dangerous mission in a foreign land to rescue her kidnapped baby. Hope was all Willow had…until she found The Equalizers. Spencer Anders needed a second chance… He may have been new to the Equalizers, but Spencer had earned his stripes specialising in hostage retrieval.But with Willow at his side, anything could happen. The only thing Spencer knew for sure: surrender was not an option.


“Can you guarantee the safereturn of my son?”
Yes, Spencer had spent a decade in covert operations and a good deal of that time in the Middle East. Not a problem. But this wasn’t as cut-and-dried as a military operation. This was a small boy, whose life and future hung in the balance.
Willow Harris stared at him expectantly. He understood what she was looking for.
“I can tell you that I have a perfect record, no failures whatsoever.”
Willow’s expression brightened as she let out an audible sigh. “Good. When do we leave?”
“We?”
Her gaze locked with his. He didn’t miss the determination there or the underlying fear.
“If I have to make a choice between saving you or saving the child, I will save the child.” He allowed the ramifications of those words to sink in a second or two before he continued. “Are you prepared for that?”
Three, four, then five beats passed.
“Yes.”
So much for the scare tactics. “In that case,” he relented, “we’ll begin preparations tomorrow.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Debra Webb was born in Scotsboro, Alabama, to parents who taught her that anything is possible if you want it badly enough. She began writing at the age of nine. Eventually she met and married the man of her dreams, and then tried various occupations, including selling vacuum cleaners, working in a factory, a daycare centre, a hospital and a department store. When her husband joined the military, they moved to Berlin, Germany, and Debra became a secretary in the commanding general’s office. By 1985 they were back in the States, and finally moved to Tennessee, to a small town where everyone knows everyone else. With the support of her husband and two beautiful daughters, Debra took up writing again, looking to mystery and movies for inspiration. In 1998, her dream of writing for Mills & Boon came true. You can write to Debra at PO Box 64, Huntland, Tennessee 37345, USA or visit her website at www.debrawebb.com to find out exciting news about her next book.

A Soldier’s Oath
DEBRA WEBB

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to all the fans of the Colby Agency. Thank you for your faithfulness to this series. Please enjoy the first in this new trilogy revolving around Jim Colby, Victoria’s son.
Chapter One
Friday, February 18St. Louis, Missouri
Willow Harris shifted the car into Park and turned off the engine. She drew in a slow, deep breath and ordered herself to remain calm.
This particular part of the east side of St. Louis wasn’t exactly the kind of place a woman wanted to find herself in at dusk, but she had no choice.
He’d called.
She’d had to come, no matter the time of day or night. The man she’d driven here to see didn’t keep the usual business hours.
Before getting out of the car she said one last prayer. Please, God, let the news be good. She wasn’t sure she could take any more bad news.
Eight months.
She’d been fighting to get her son back for eight long months. An eternity. Hurt welled up inside her at the idea that she’d missed his second birthday. Just last week. She’d missed so much already. All those evolving toddler moments. Precious changes that no mother should miss.
Nothing would bring those moments back.
Closing her eyes, she forced the painful thoughts away. She had to be strong. She would never be able to bring her baby home again if she couldn’t hold herself together better than this.
“Whatever it takes,” she murmured as she opened her eyes and firmed her resolve. No weakness, no fear. “I will do whatever it takes.”
Willow emerged from her car and headed for the office of Davenport Investigations. She’d been here several times before. But this time was different. This time she would be given an update on the man who’d actually managed to get close enough to send back pictures of her son.
No one had gotten that close before.
Anticipation fluttered in her chest.
She couldn’t wait to see the pictures of her baby.
Eight endless months had passed since she’d last seen him.
She hadn’t been able to hold him…to kiss his sweet little head. Maybe if she were really lucky, this man would be able to reunite her with her precious child.
After numerous failures he could be the one.
The bell over the door jingled as she entered the suite of offices that sat tucked between a dry cleaning service and a small chain drug store, both of which had long ago gone out of business. The small waiting room was empty and absolutely silent as usual. Not once during her four previous visits had she encountered another client. Mr. Davenport explained that he carefully arranged appointments to ensure complete privacy. As much as she understood that need, walking into his office alone this close to dark made her a little uneasy.
Whatever it takes, she reminded herself.
She passed two upholstered chairs flanking an end table, the magazine-cluttered top highlighted by the dim glow showering down from a ceramic lamp. No desk, no chair, no telephone and, evidently, no receptionist. Just a space-challenged room designed for waiting.
Since she’d timed her arrival to the minute—experience had taught her not to bother coming early—she strode up to the door that led into Davenport’s private office and knocked. He should be waiting for her to show up about now.
“Come in, Ms. Harris,” he called through the closed door.
Willow moistened her lips, took another deep breath and entered his office.
He sat behind his massive wooden desk, didn’t bother standing as he gestured for her to have a seat. She’d wondered at his lack of social etiquette at first, but the hope that he could help her had overridden any second thoughts. Desperation had a way of doing that.
His desk, credenza and file cabinets were clear of clutter as if he’d taken care to lock away every single scrap of paper that might reveal information regarding one of his clients. However lacking in decorum he might be, he was definitely discreet.
“You have good news?” she asked as she settled into the lone chair on her side of his desk. “And the pictures?” Hope bloomed in her chest at the mere idea of seeing her baby, even if only in covertly snapped photos.
He tossed an envelope in her direction. “I received these day before yesterday.”
Willow didn’t ask why he hadn’t let her know about the pictures before today. Nor did she inquire as to why he avoided giving her an answer as to whether or not he had good news. He most likely had his reasons for doling out information in the way he did, reasons she probably wouldn’t want to know. That was something else she’d learned about this man, he didn’t like prying questions unless he was the one doing the asking. Her fingers trembled as she opened the envelope and took out the digital prints. Her heart thumped hard and tears burned in her eyes.
Ata.
Her baby.
He looked so big…so different. Two years old. And she’d missed that special day. The need to hold him was suddenly so intense that she could scarcely breathe.
How could the man she’d thought she loved, the man she’d trusted and married, have done this to her? Somewhere in the back of her mind a voice taunted her, reminding her that she should have listened to her parents. They would tell her that this was the price she paid for getting in bed with the devil. Her stomach knotted violently and she pushed the painful thoughts away.
Yes, she’d made a mistake. But surely God would not consider taking her child from her reasonable punishment for an innocent error in judgment. She refused to believe as her parents did. If that made her evil, then so be it.
Clearing her mind of the ugly past that represented her dysfunctional childhood, she shuffled through picture after picture, her heart bursting with equal measures of joy and sadness. Ata playing on the balcony outside her former husband’s home. Her baby’s face pressed against the glass of a car window. Him toddling around her ex-husband’s mother in the market.
Davenport’s man had gotten very close.
Close enough to reach out and touch her baby.
She held the pictures against her chest and lifted her gaze to the waiting investigator. “How soon does he think he can make a move?”
This was the moment she had waited for—prayed for—night after night for so very long.
“We have a problem, Ms. Harris.”
Her heart dropped, landing somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach.
Raymond Davenport was not a man she could even hope to read or assess in any way. His expression remained as impassive, as utterly devoid of emotion as a lamp post. But something in his tone, the subtlest note of defeat or disappointment had dread crushing against her vital organs and seeping deep into her bones.
“I don’t understand.” There couldn’t be a problem. Not now. They were so close. “You said your man had gotten close to my son.” She held out the pictures. “The proof is right here. What could go wrong?”
“We’ve had no further contact since I received the photos.”
Fear, stark and brutal, roared through her, ruptured the thin membrane of hope. She instinctively knew that this was very bad news.
“On an extremely sensitive job like this one,” Davenport went on, “when you lose contact for more than twenty-four hours that usually means only one thing…trouble.”
She didn’t want to hear this. Dear God, she did not want to hear this. It couldn’t be true…please don’t let it be true.
Davenport leaned forward, propped his hands on his desk. The hard-earned experience and cool distance usually in his eyes were overshadowed by something softer, something very much like sympathy. “Ms. Harris, I understand how badly you want to get your boy back. Believe me. I have two sons of my own and grandkids. Every day you have to wait is pure hell, but…”
She wanted to speak up…to tell him not to say more. She didn’t want to hear what she knew was coming. But she couldn’t force the words from her lips.
“…yours is not the first case like this I’ve worked. The culture we’re dealing with in this situation is completely different. Winning by legal means is impossible, you’ve learned that the hard way. Stealing the child back is usually the only option for a parent faced with these circumstances.”
He paused, and in that moment Willow recognized with slowly building horror that, in this man’s opinion, all hope was lost…again.
Before she could protest his unspoken assessment, he continued, “That said, your position is different in yet another way. Your ex-husband and his family are…unique.”
In this instance unique was just another word for untouchable. The al-Shimmari family was connected, socially and politically. Immense wealth added to their power. The Kuwaiti authorities wouldn’t dare cross the family.
“Are you saying I should give up hope?” She wouldn’t. Never. Never. She would keep looking until she found someone who could help her. If not this man, then someone else. Nothing he could say would change her mind.
“I’m saying, Ms. Harris,” he offered quietly, far too quietly for such a brusque man, “that you’re looking for a miracle and you’re not going to find it. Your ex-husband will order the execution of anyone who gets close to the child. If my man is dead—and I suspect he is—then no one is going to be able to get close enough to get your son back.”
With a strength she couldn’t fathom the source of, Willow restrained the tears that threatened. “Thank you, Mr. Davenport.” She stood. “I assume the pictures are mine to keep.” How she said this without her voice wobbling she couldn’t imagine.
He nodded. “Of course.”
She squared her shoulders in an effort to hold onto her disintegrating composure a moment longer. “You’ll send me a final bill?”
“Let’s call it even, Ms. Harris.” He pushed out of his chair and stood, another first in her presence. “You take care of yourself now.”
Somehow she pivoted on her heel and walked out of his office. She didn’t recall crossing the sidewalk or even getting into her car. Awareness of time and place didn’t connect again until she was driving away, the pictures of her son spread across the passenger seat.
Choosing Davenport had obviously been a mistake. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. Of course it had been. If he’d lived up to his renowned reputation, she would not be leaving empty-handed. This was nothing more than a minor setback. She would find a new private investigator. A better one. Someone who could get the job done without any excuses. She would start her search for someone more qualified right now. This minute.
…you’re looking for a miracle and you’re not going to find it.
She blinked back the emotion brimming on her lashes. No. Dammit. He was wrong. She was not looking for a miracle. She didn’t need a miracle. All she needed was a man cunning enough and fearless enough to get the job done.
Chicago, IllinoisSame Day
JAMES COLBY, Jr., Jim to the handful of people close to him, waited several minutes before he entered the bar.
It had been a long time since he’d gone into an establishment like this. Maybe not long enough, he mused as he took a long look around. Places like this represented his old life…a life that, thankfully, no longer existed.
The room was dimly lit, the cigarette smoke thick in the air despite the current regulations on smoking in public places. A scattering of tables stood between him and the bar that snaked its way around the length and width of two walls. Few of the stools were occupied and even fewer of the tables. Then again, at 6:15 p.m. it was still fairly early. The crowd, if there was to be one, likely crawled out of the woodwork later in the night.
But Jim wasn’t looking for a crowd. Actually, the fewer patrons the better for his purposes. He seriously doubted that the man he’d come to see would hang around once the place got busy. All the more reason to stop wasting time and to get this done.
Spencer Anders sat on the stool farthest from the entrance, his back to the wall. He’d watched Jim enter the bar. He watched now as he approached.
Some three yards from his position was an emergency exit. Jim supposed Anders could use that egress for a hasty retreat if he wasn’t in the mood for company. But he didn’t. He sat there and continued to observe the man closing in on his position.
Jim strode across the room and took a seat a couple of stools this side of the other man. No need to crowd him.
“Spencer Anders?”
Anders downed the last swallow of his bourbon. “That’s right.”
“My name is Jim Colby. I have a proposition for you.”
“Well, Jim Colby—” Anders placed his empty glass on the bar “—you’ve been misinformed as to my status.” He stood and tossed a couple of bills on the bar to cover his tab. “I’m not looking for any propositions.”
Jim kept his smile to himself. He didn’t want to tick the guy off, but neither did he want to let him get away. “I heard you were looking for steady employment.”
“Really? Who’re you?” Anders challenged, “an employment service representative?”
Chicago’s population amounted to about four million people. Finding one former army major who didn’t want to be found would have taken some time and initiative under normal circumstances. Since tracking Anders to this place, his regular hangout since arriving in Chicago three months prior, hadn’t been that difficult, Jim had to assume he wanted to be found despite his get-lost attitude. Anders had taken a room in a nearby motel that served more as a halfway house than anything one might find in a travel guide. He accepted temporary jobs that required only hard labor and no real sense of purpose. He never stayed on long enough to make friends. So far as Jim could see, he spent most of his time making enemies.
“A mutual friend mentioned you were in town seeking a new career direction.”
This got ex-Major Anders’s attention. For the past two years his MO appeared to include moving on once he’d worn out his welcome. Whether he actually tried to pull his life together after settling in each new location was unknown, but the end result was always the same.
“You must have me confused with someone else, Mr. Colby.” He allowed his gaze to zero in fully on Jim’s so that there was no misunderstanding as to the finality of his words. “I don’t have any friends.”
Spencer Anders would have walked away then and there with no further discussion, Jim decided, if he hadn’t played the ace up his sleeve.
“Lucas Camp tells me you’re the best in covert and low-visibility operations.”
Anders hesitated. For three beats Jim wasn’t sure if he would turn around or if he would just walk on out. But then he executed an about-face and moved back to the stool he’d vacated.
When Anders’s gaze rested on Jim’s once more, he said, “I’ve never worked directly for or with Mr. Camp. I’m surprised he even knows my name. The way I heard it he’s retired now.”
That was true.
“What’s your connection to him?” Anders wanted to know.
Jim had expected that one.
“He married Victoria Colby, my mother.”
Anders’s eyes narrowed, but not with suspicion. “You’re from the Colby Agency?” The name appeared to connect fully for him then.
Jim wasn’t surprised that the man recognized his mother’s name or that of her agency. The Colby Agency was one of the top private investigations agencies in the country. A man with a background like Anders would consider P.I. firms when searching for employment. In his case, however, that same background prevented him from applying to most.
“I’m not here representing the Colby Agency.”
The anticipation that had tapered Anders’s focus vanished. “I’m certain you’re a busy man, Mr. Colby. Why don’t we cut through all the crap and get straight to the point?”
Jim liked this guy already. “I’ve recently opened my own firm, Mr. Anders. You have the training I’m looking for as well as extensive experience in the Middle East. Considering current events and the Middle East’s ongoing status as a hot spot politically as well as economically, I need that kind of experience on my team. I have a vacancy and I’d like you to fill it.”
Anders motioned for the bartender to refill his empty tumbler. “You drinking anything?” he said to Jim.
Jim shook his head. That he wasn’t even momentarily tempted gave him great satisfaction. That Anders would offer suggested interest in his proposition.
The bartender sidled over and splashed a couple of fingers of bourbon into the other man’s empty glass. When he’d moved out of earshot to take care of the next customer, Anders said, “Why open another P.I. firm? You have a problem working for your mother?”
Jim got those questions often, especially from the investigators at the Colby Agency. He would have been welcome there by all on staff. Victoria Colby-Camp had expected Jim to take over one day. But he had other plans. No…not plans…needs. He needed to do this. And that need had nothing to do with any inability to work with or for his mother.
“What I have in mind doesn’t fit the mold, Mr. Anders. I’m afraid my mother would be startled at some of the methods I might choose to utilize.”
Still visibly skeptical, Anders sipped his drink before suggesting, “Perhaps Mr. Camp didn’t completely fill you in on my less-than-desirable work history.”
Jim resisted the impulse to argue that if he wanted to compare histories he would gladly give him a run for his money on who had the ugliest past. But he would save that for another time.
“I’m aware of the circumstances surrounding the way you separated from military service if that’s what you mean.” And it was, of course. Spencer Anders had a stellar record other than that final nasty smudge. Discounting, of course, a number of misdemeanor disorderly conducts in public establishments very much like this one since leaving the military.
The suspicion Jim had expected to see earlier made its appearance at that point. He understood. Most prospective employers would be put off by the idea of a general military discharge. It wasn’t quite a dishonorable discharge, but it carried an equally unattractive stigma. But Jim knew something most didn’t, Spencer Anders had been railroaded by a superior officer.
The fact that his betrayal couldn’t be proven beyond a shadow of a doubt was the reason he’d been charged with the lesser offences of insubordination and conduct unbecoming of an officer rather than being shipped off to spend a life sentence in a military prison. Those seemingly lesser charges had carried a stiff, humiliating penance of their own. Anders had been stripped of rank, all the way down to a first lieutenant, and then generally discharged when he opted to resign rather than accept the charges and grovel as expected.
Then again, to a man like Anders, being labeled a traitor to his country was pretty much a life sentence in itself.
“Then I have to question just what sort of firm you plan to operate, Mr. Colby.”
Jim appreciated his frankness.
“Did your source also tell you,” Anders went on before Jim could respond to his last statement, “about my difficulties since leaving military service?”
Spencer Anders had separated from the U.S. Army two years ago. Since then he’d spent most of his time in dives not unlike this one, attempting to obliterate the past; only the towns changed. His blood alcohol level lingered above the legal limit more often than not, Jim would wager. He also recognized the strategy. Been there, done that. But booze wasn’t the answer to Anders’s problems. Telling him so wouldn’t help. This was something he had to come to terms with on his own.
“As long as you stay sober on the job, I don’t care what you do in your free time.” Jim, of all people, understood what made a man like Anders turn to the bottle for a solace found no other place. The bad habit was taken up for a single, unhealthy reason and would be dumped for the same. He wouldn’t need any twelve-step program, all he needed was his self-worth back.
That would come in time given the right circumstances.
Anders finished off the bourbon. “Just because I was forced out of the army doesn’t mean I’m interested in a life of anything beyond the occasional barroom brawl. Believe it or not, high crimes aren’t my style.”
Jim almost laughed at that. “There are times,” he admitted, “when working within the law won’t get the job done. But I’m not talking about breaking the law for the sake of breaking it, Mr. Anders. I’m only talking about going slightly beyond it and perhaps ignoring some aspects of it when the need arises.”
“Well, good luck to you, Mr. Colby. As much as I appreciate the offer, I’m not sure I’m the man you’re looking for.”
Jim took a business card from his coat pocket and laid it on the bar. “Call me if you change your mind. The doors open Monday morning, and I’d like you there when that happens.”
He didn’t wait for a response.
As he drove away, Jim wondered how long it would take the man to decide he needed a second chance badly enough to risk failure and betrayal.
Jim knew firsthand how hard it was to meet that particular challenge and the expectations that went along with treading out onto that shaky limb. Sometimes the fear of failure was the scariest part of all.
He thought about his wife and baby girl. There wasn’t a day that passed that Jim didn’t consider whether or not he could be the man, the husband and father, those two needed him to be.
Was starting his own venture part of that whole I-don’t-want-to-fail scenario? With his own business he would set the rules, answering only to himself. No one else would be holding a preconceived measurement or standard of success against his every endeavor.
The thought had crossed his mind, more than once if he admitted the truth.
Just a little baggage of his own he had to carry around until he got past it.
Jim drove to the South Loop and took the exit that led to his new suite of offices. The old brownstone needed some renovation but nothing he couldn’t handle in time.
After parking in the back alley, he unlocked the rear entrance and flipped on the lights. He should have gone home. Tasha would be wondering if he planned to make every night a late night. But he’d wanted to check the answering machine before going home. He’d made a few calls this afternoon, and he hoped to get some timely responses.
He made his way to the front room that was now a lobby, turning on lights as he went. When he was halfway up the stairs to the second floor the doorbell buzzed; someone was at the door.
His first thought was that Tasha had come to drag him home, but bringing Jamie out in the blustery February weather wasn’t his wife’s technique. She’d call and order him to get home.
Could be his first customer. He had hung up a shingle of sorts today.
Or, if he was lucky, it would be Anders to come to say he’d thought about Jim’s offer and wanted the job.
A grin slid across Jim’s face as he opened the door and identified his visitor. None of the above.
“Mom.” He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms over his chest. “Come to see what I’ve done with the place?”
Victoria Colby-Camp returned his smile. “I’m sure you haven’t had time to do that much. But you’ll get it done.”
That she believed in him so completely no matter how many times he missed the mark or fell down as he tried to turn his life around still surprised him. She was a hell of a mom for a guy who’d gone as low as it was humanly possible to go.
He glanced past her. “Where’s your other half?” Victoria rarely went anywhere without Lucas unless he was out of town and she had no other choice. The two were inseparable.
“He’s keeping your lovely wife and our granddaughter company while dinner gets cold.”
Dinner. Oh, man. He’d forgotten. Dammit.
“Just let me check my voice mail and lock up and I’m on my way.”
“I’ll ride along with you,” she offered. “Lucas can bring me by to pick up my car later.”
Jim let the smile nudging at his lips do what it would. He’d never been big on smiles, but these days the women in his life knew how to draw them out of him. His mother knew him all too well. If she didn’t ensure he got going he would get distracted and end up hanging around another hour.
“Sure. Gimme a sec.”
He bounded up the stairs and into his office. The second floor would serve as his private office and a conference room. The lobby, other offices, and a small kitchen-turned-employee-lounge would take up the downstairs space. Assuming he ever had any employees. Monday morning he would interview receptionist candidates. He had three applicants so far.
The blinking red light on his answering machine signaled that he had at least one message.
Anticipation roiled through him as he pressed the button. He waited through the announcement that he had two new messages. The first was from Renee Vaughn, a former assistant district attorney from Atlanta. They had spoken by phone yesterday. She was interested in a position at his firm. He was definitely interested in her.
“Mr. Colby,” her voice rang out with the strength only a real fighter possessed, “this is Renee Vaughn. I’ve decided to fly in for a face-to-face before I make a final decision. I’m hoping two-thirty on Monday will work for you. Call my cell if anything comes up.” She rattled off the number and the call ended.
“One down and two to go,” Jim murmured. His goal was to start out with three associates. He hesitated to call them investigators. The work they would do here wouldn’t always involve investigating, at least not in the usual sense.
“Mr. Colby, this is Spencer Anders,” floated from the answering machine next. The noise in the background told him Spencer had still been at the bar when he called. At least he’d called.
Jim resisted the urge to shout “yes!”
“I’ve been thinking about your offer and I’d like to talk to you again. I’ll come by your office Monday morning about nine…if you’re still interested…. We’ll go from there and see what happens.”
His trepidation was crystal-clear, but Jim had no doubts. Anders was exactly the kind of associate he wanted on his team. He’d have to thank Lucas for tipping him off to the guy’s availability. That Anders had reacted so quickly, if not decisively, indicated an underlying desire to get his life back on track.
A big load off his shoulders, Jim headed down to rendezvous with Victoria. This news gave him something to celebrate at the family dinner tonight.
“Ready?” Victoria asked as he joined her in the soon-to-be lobby.
“I am now.” He followed his mother out the front door and locked up.
“I see you’ve officially hung your shingle.”
This was a kind of running joke between them now that he’d actually started classes at the University of Chicago last semester. Taking only one or two classes at a time, completion of the program would require years and years. He was prepared to accept the wait. No matter how long it took he wanted to obtain his law degree. The goal meant a lot to him and even though his mother would never say so, he knew that accomplishment would mean a lot to her as well. She insisted that he was perfect just as he was, but then, she was his mother. His wife was extremely pleased as well.
Jim glanced up at the brand-new sign he’d hung next to the front entrance. Pride welled in his chest. He had made this happen, with a lot of support from the people he loved. “Yep, it’s official now.”
The Equalizers were about to open for business.
Chapter Two
Monday, February 21
Spencer Anders remained in his car for an additional twenty minutes. He’d made up his mind. The hesitation was unnecessary, but here he sat. Nine-fifteen. He’d told Colby he’d be in around nine.
Why the hell had he done that? The impulse had hit him less than half an hour after Colby had walked out of the joint that had been Spencer’s second home since he’d arrived in the Windy City. He used the pay phone at the end of the bar and made the call.
What the hell had he been thinking?
That he had to get his life back? That somehow, things had to start making sense again before he lost himself completely?
Yes to both of the above.
Spencer moistened his lips and fought back the craving for a drink. One didn’t go with the other. If he was going to make this work he had to keep his head together.
He could do it.
He banished the nagging voice that tried to tell him otherwise.
“No going backward,” he muttered. This was his chance to go forward again. He couldn’t screw it up.
Spencer climbed out of the car. He glanced first left then right before crossing the street. He didn’t know that much about Jim Colby, but he did know the Colby Agency’s esteemed reputation.
He didn’t fully understand Jim’s decision to start his own firm rather than working at his mother’s prestigious agency, but he did trust Lucas Camp.
The name reverberated through him. He’d never actually met the man, but he knew the name, and that was more than sufficient. Five years was a long time. The mission was one of those unwinnable situations where no one was going to walk away satisfied. Still, the mission was crucial. There had been only two members of Spencer’s team left by the time a special unit was brought in to attempt a rescue.
Mission Recovery.
Spencer had never heard of the unit. Some black-ops organization loosely attached to the CIA, he’d learned later. Lucas Camp had been the deputy director.
Lucas Camp’s unit had saved Spencer’s life and the lives of his two remaining team members. If this gig panned out, Spencer would owe Lucas Camp for saving his hide yet a second time.
Maybe he would get the opportunity to thank him in person. Spencer had no idea how the hell Lucas Camp knew he was in Chicago. No, wait. That wasn’t true. Camp had been, probably still was, even if only in an advisory capacity, attached to the CIA. Getting intimate information about the Pope himself wouldn’t be a problem for a man like him.
Spencer had to admit, having anyone vouch for him these days was a plus. Maybe the whole world didn’t see him as a traitor.
That same old fury started to burn deep in his gut. He suppressed the triggered feelings. Thinking about the past would be detrimental to the present, not to mention the future. He had to make a clean break.
That time was now.
He paused at the door to consider the sign. The Equalizers. Interesting moniker. He considered what Colby had told him in their brief meeting. His target client base was those whose troubles couldn’t be resolved so easily within the boundaries of the law. He wondered what would make a man like Jim Colby veer that close to criminal activity. From what Spencer knew, the Colby Agency had an impeccable reputation, one respected by clients and law enforcement alike. What made the one and only son of the owner of that esteemed agency different?
Secrets of his own, Spencer surmised. Maybe he and Colby had something in common—a history best left in the past.
Spencer braced himself and reached for the door. Now or never. This was his chance to start over. He couldn’t let it get away. He owed it to himself.
Taking into account the fact that he would otherwise have died five years ago, he owed it to Lucas Camp. He just hoped like hell that he had still had it in him to live up to the man’s recommendation.
A new kind of enthusiasm kindled inside him. Jim Colby had told him that his mother was now married to Lucas Camp. If Lucas had recommended him, that meant he wanted Spencer working with Jim. So, he could look at this from the standpoint that not only would he be doing himself a favor by getting his life back together, he’d also be doing Camp a favor. A bit of a stretch, but, hey, it wasn’t completely implausible.
Not only was it plausible, the concept served as plenty of motivation for doing this right.
Inside the brownstone, the lobby area was deserted. A desk and a couple of chairs. No receptionist or waiting clients. The decorating reminded him of most military offices, unremarkable and rather drab. Not a problem. After graduating college he’d spent ten years in the army he’d loved. Drab was a preferred color.
Tension rippled through him and Spencer drew in a deep breath before ordering himself to stay calm. He already knew Colby wanted him on his team. The rest would be nothing more than technicalities. This wasn’t an interview, it was a negotiation.
The smell of fresh-brewed coffee wafted from somewhere down the hall. Spencer had about decided to head that way when Jim Colby appeared.
“Right on time.” He raised his steaming cup. “Coffee?”
“Coffee would be good.” Spencer had already downed three cups but he could definitely use another. The caffeine helped him battle the need for additional fortification. What he now had to consider forbidden fortification.
“Follow me.”
Colby led the way to a small kitchen that Spencer presumed would serve as an employee lounge. Refrigerator, microwave, sink and a couple of cabinets. His would-be employer passed him a brimming mug.
“Thanks.” The coffee tasted as good as it smelled.
“My office is upstairs.”
Spencer nodded and followed Colby to the second floor. Though the brownstone’s decor hadn’t been updated in a couple of decades, the architecture made it comfortable and interesting in a classic sort of way. The location wasn’t one of the most desired in the city, but the neighborhood appeared in the early stages of revitalization. A year or two from now and the streets would be teeming with thriving businesses and highly sought-after lofts. Colby’s selection of the location was probably a strategic one.
A sleek wooden desk and leather chair, along with a couple of upholstered chairs for clients, were already stationed in Colby’s office. Unpacked boxes of office equipment as well as supplies were scattered about, along with the necessary filing cabinets. Looked as if the boss was well on his way to settling in.
“I’m still getting organized,” Colby said as he took the chair behind his desk. “I’ll be interviewing receptionists this morning. I hope we’ll have someone to answer the phone by lunchtime.”
We. Anticipation spiked before Spencer could stop the possibly premature reaction. “What’s your current body count?” Might as well get a handle on the personnel arrangement and chain of command before he made any kind of commitment beyond this impulsive appearance.
“So far, two. Me,” Colby said with a pointed look at him, “and you.”
His answer surprised Spencer. So he really was getting in on the ground floor of a new venture. “What’s your operational plan?” Learning the exact nature of what he was getting into here was the first order of business. He wasn’t about to be caught off guard again in this lifetime.
“I hope to hire at least three associates.”
Associates. Not investigators. This nudged Spencer’s curiosity.
“What types of cases do you plan to take on?” The answer to this question was key in many ways. The clientele at any firm was the primary factor in how the firm was judged by others. Though he seriously doubted that Lucas Camp would recommend him for a position within a firm that wasn’t on the up and up, Spencer hadn’t missed the look in Jim Colby’s eyes when he’d talked about helping those whose troubles went beyond the law’s boundaries.
“Pretty much whatever walks through the door.” Colby set his coffee aside. “In the beginning it may be necessary to take cases we’ll choose not to take later on. Right now our primary objective is to get our name out there. To let people know we’ve set up shop. This business thrives on word of mouth more so than any other means.”
Made sense. “What’s the plan on case authority? Will you expect to be kept in the loop on all decisions relative to a case once it’s assigned?”
“When we take on a client, I’ll make a decision as to who is the best man for the job. If it’s your case, I’ll expect you to lay out a plan of action and then keep me up to speed on how it’s coming along. Otherwise, the ultimate moment-to-moment decisions are yours to make.”
Spencer nodded. Sounded fair to him. “What about salary?” Since Colby’s business was just getting off the ground he wondered how lucrative a proposition this could possibly be.
“We’ll all be working for the same base salary, including me,” Jim explained. “Whatever profits we net, we’ll split evenly among the associates.”
Now there was an answer he hadn’t expected. “Like a partnership?” Surely that wasn’t what he meant. No firm allowed the new hires to start out as equal partners.
“Exactly. We’ll all share the burden of cost and we’ll all share the bounty.”
Once he’d absorbed that surprising response, Spencer moved on to his next question. “Do you have other associates in mind already?”
“I’ll be interviewing a candidate this afternoon. If I’m lucky, she’ll be coming on board also.”
A woman. Spencer had wondered about that as well.
“Renee Vaughn,” Jim went on. “She’s a former assistant district attorney from Atlanta.”
At one time Spencer had considered a law degree. He’d gotten his bachelor’s degree in political science, but he’d opted for the military instead of law school. Maybe that had been his first mistake.
“I have an office set up for you,” Jim said, dragging Spencer from his unproductive thoughts. “If you’re prepared to get started this morning, I’d like you to work up a history for me. Cover your basic skills, any specialized training and the locations where you’ve worked or been assigned. I’ll keep a file like this on all associates for use in determining what cases each is best suited for.”
Made sense.
Spencer stood. “Show me the way and I’ll get right on it.”
Accepting his statement as a yes, Jim nodded. “All right then.”
The associates’ offices were located on the first floor along the corridor just past the lounge. There were four small offices and a room Jim indicated would be a supply room. At the end of the corridor was the building’s rear exit that led into an alley that would serve as a personnel parking area.
As the first associate hired, Spencer got his pick of the offices. He opted for the one on the left side of the hall next to the lounge since it had a window with a view of the neighborhood park across the street.
When the first receptionist candidate arrived for her interview Jim left him to get started on a detailed work history. Typically, that came first, in the form of a résumé, but this situation appeared to be hardly typical.
Maybe that was the reason Spencer felt at home for the first time in more than two years. He’d learned that he couldn’t count on anything typical or run-of-the-mill. The everyday was no longer reliable.
Do not go down that road.
All he had to do was keep his eyes forward. No looking back. There was no undoing the past, no matter how wrong. His military career was over. Period. He had an opportunity for something new here. He had to keep that goal in mind if he was to have a future. At the rate he’d been going that prospect had grown pretty dim of late. But that was behind him now.
No looking back.
1:00 p.m.
WILLOW HARRIS sat in her rental car for over half an hour. Most of that time was spent attempting to work up the nerve to make the first move. It wasn’t that she was afraid for her safety. The neighborhood wasn’t that great, but it wasn’t any worse than the one in East St. Louis where her former P.I.’s office was located.
Waiting…working up her courage, she did a lot of that lately. In the beginning sheer adrenaline had driven her, overriding any second thoughts or hesitancy. She’d pushed and pushed and searched and searched without the first consideration for her safety or anything else.
But it was different now.
Another anxiety stalked her like a ruthless killer in the dark.
Fear.
The fear of dashed hope. Each time she moved on to a new investigator her anticipation of finally getting her son back renewed…only to be sucked completely out of her when failure crashed down upon her shoulders all over again.
She’d spent all weekend attempting to locate someone who might be able to help her. Her gaze focused on the street in front of her car. The story had been basically the same with each agency she’d called.
I’m very sorry, Ms. Harris, but that’s a case we don’t feel comfortable taking on.
Just when she’d been ready to give up, the last guy she’d called—a low-rent one-man operation she’d almost skipped over in her online Yellow Pages search—had told her about a rumor he’d heard. A new shop was opening up in Chicago. There was a buzz going around that this one would be different from all the others.
So here she was, in Chicago sitting outside a place that might very well be her last hope.
The Equalizers.
Her low-rent P.I. had waxed on about how this place planned to take covert investigations to the next level. The Equalizers would accept the less desirable or riskier jobs that no one else wanted to touch.
Since the firm had only just opened, Willow couldn’t be sure if the plan to take on any and all cases was out of necessity or not, but she was here.
She was desperate.
Her savings and investments were dwindling fast. This place might very well prove her final hope in more ways than one. There wouldn’t be enough money to hire anyone new if this one failed.
An ache twisted through her, making her want to curl up into a ball of defeat. No. She had to be strong. The only way she would ever get her son back was if she didn’t give up, if she tried harder.
Determination rushed through her on the tail of a burst of adrenaline when Davenport’s words echoed in her brain. Maybe she was looking for a miracle. Who said there was anything wrong with that? Miracles manifested themselves in many ways. She’d been taught that concept her whole life. That was one part of her upbringing she needed to hang onto.
Willow got out of the car and strode across the street to the entrance of the brownstone designated as number 129. The painted wooden sign hanging next to the door announced the name of the business in bold strokes.
The Equalizers.
Well, she would just see if the firm could live up to its fledgling reputation.
Acting before she could think of another reason to waver, she opened the door and went inside. The sudden warmth reminded her that she’d gotten cold sitting in her car with the engine turned off for all that time. A winter chill had blasted the midwest last night, causing major delays in several airports. Thank goodness Midland hadn’t been one of them. Once she’d made up her mind to come, she would have done so even if she’d had to walk.
A receptionist sat behind an L-shaped desk. Her back was turned to the door while she typed away at her computer. Several chairs and accompanying tables bordered the room. Magazines were fanned across the top of one of the tables. No plants or goldfish tanks. No heavy stench of cigarette smoke as she’d encountered in many of the agencies she’d visited. Just empty and quiet, like Davenport’s office had been, except for the receptionist’s busy fingers on the keyboard.
The decorating scheme left something to be desired, but the place was neat and clean. She could appreciate that after the last couple of places she’d visited in the past forty-eight hours.
Since the receptionist didn’t make the usual overture though she’d surely heard the door close, Willow stepped closer to her desk and spoke up. “My name is Willow Harris. I’m here to see the man in charge.” She purposely left off the phrase if he’s available. She’d come too far to accept any kind of excuse. The idea that he could be out of town banded around her chest and squeezed. Booking the first available flight and rushing here might have been a mistake, but she’d had no choice.
Her situation wouldn’t wait. She’d waited too long already.
Please let him be here.
Rather than offer a customary greeting, the receptionist frowned as she gave Willow a thorough once-over with assessing brown eyes. She appeared less than pleased at being interrupted from whatever she’d been doing on the computer. Maybe she wasn’t the receptionist at all. She could be one of the investigators who had decided to use this computer for one reason or the other.
“Is he in?” Willow prompted after another awkward moment elapsed. And here she had thought she’d already seen the most bizarre and unprofessional this business had to offer.
“How do you know the person in charge isn’t a woman?” The woman tucked a handful of sandy-brown hair behind one ear and gave Willow a pointed look.
Too taken aback to be embarrassed, Willow struggled a moment to come up with an appropriate response. “Well…who is in charge?” Maybe this woman didn’t work here at all.
“Mr. Jim Colby,” the woman behind the desk said with a smile that wasn’t really a smile, more a fleeting tick. “Do you have an appointment?”
Willow looked around the small reception area. There was no one else there. Unless Mr. Colby already had a client in his office or was expecting one momentarily, she didn’t see the point in the question. But then she remembered the discreet way Davenport had operated.
“No,” she admitted. “I don’t have an appointment. I flew in from St. Louis this morning in hopes that Mr. Colby could make some time for me.”
“Calling first would have been smarter.”
Willow reminded herself that she needed to get past this woman and to the man in charge. Giving her any advice on how a proper receptionist conducted herself might not be conducive to making that happen.
The truth was the woman was right. But Willow managed to keep her voice calm. “I know. I apologize for just showing up like this, but the matter is urgent.”
The receptionist, who didn’t wear a name badge or have a name plate on her desk and who looked utterly unimpressed, smiled another of those unsmiles. “I’m new here. I’ll have to check his calendar first.” She flipped through the calendar taking up space on the oak desktop next to the telephone. Not a single page she previewed had anything at all written on it.
“He appears to be free,” the receptionist announced. “Just have a seat, Ms. Harris, and I’ll find out if he can see you today.” She gestured to a chair.
Willow settled into a chair and tried to slow her mind’s frantic churning. Exhaustion simply wasn’t an adequate description of just how tired she felt. It was, however, the only word she could think of at the moment. This man—Jim Colby—had to help her.
The receptionist buzzed her boss on the intercom, using the handset to keep his end of the conversation private. A couple of pauses and yes sirs, and then she placed the handset back in its cradle.
“Up the stairs and the first door on the left.”
Evidently that was a yes to the question of whether or not he was available. Willow offered a polite smile, deserved or not. “Thank you.”
The woman didn’t say anything, not even a “You’re welcome.” She swiveled in her chair and resumed her work at the computer. Mr. Colby needed to seriously consider public relations classes for his receptionist.
The desperation clawing at Willow’s heart was the only thing that kept her from walking out, considering the vibes she’d gotten so far. If she’d wasted the money coming here…if she’d made a mistake…
She blocked the thoughts. Stay focused. There hadn’t been any other choice. This was her last hope.
A man she presumed to be Jim Colby waited in the doorway of an office in the upstairs corridor.
“Ms. Harris.” He thrust out his hand. “I’m Jim Colby.”
She placed her hand in his and he gave it a firm shake. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Colby.”
“Can I get you some coffee or water?” He directed her into his office as he made the offer.
Expansive oak desk, a credenza and lots of file cabinets along with numerous unpacked boxes took up most of the floor space in the office. Mr. Colby had, literally, just set up shop. “Ah…no, thank you,” she abruptly remembered to say in answer to his question. Though she appreciated that he appeared determined to be polite, getting right down to business was her priority at the moment. She sat down in one of the upholstered chairs and waited for him to do the same on the other side of his desk.
He studied her a moment, intense blue eyes looking right through her as if she were an open book published in easy-to-read large print. His assessment, however, appeared far less suspicious than that of his receptionist.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Harris?”
This was the hard part. How did she adequately relay the volatility and urgency of her situation as concisely as possible?
“It all started four years ago,” she began, without allowing the gut-wrenching memories that attempted to bob to the surface to do so. She’d learned long ago not to revisit that past. It was too hard to maintain her sanity otherwise. “I was traveling on business in Kuwait. I met a man and we had a…sort of whirlwind romance. We married only a few days later.”
She didn’t see any reason to give him the trivial details of her lapse into stupidity. She’d relived those days over and over again already in an attempt to pinpoint something—anything—that should have served as a warning to her. So far she’d found nothing.
“Two years ago we had a child, a boy.”
Something in his expression changed when she said boy. She already knew what he was thinking. A boy was a far more prized asset than a girl, even in a country as liberal and progressive as the State of Kuwait, making her quest a far more difficult one.
“Eight months ago I realized I couldn’t live the way my husband wanted me to for a moment longer.” It was not nearly as simple as that, but she knew from experience that he would ask questions until he had all the information he needed. No need to go into the gory details until she knew whether he intended to take her case or not. “I decided that a divorce was the only option. I could return to my home in the States and put those years in the Middle East behind me.”
“But your ex didn’t want you to take his son out of the country.”
Before she could stop the onslaught, memories from that day swarmed inside her head, making her want to cry. She blinked back the emotions. This might be her last chance. She couldn’t screw it up.
“Not only did he not want me to take him out of Kuwait, he wanted me to go and he never wanted me to see my child again.” How could she have lived with him for nearly three years and not noticed how little he actually cared for her? She’d gotten a crash course those last few months.
Focus, Willow. No drifting.
Jim Colby waited for her to continue. She licked her lips, swallowed at the emotion pressing at the back of her throat and said the rest. “He had me exported out of the country like black-market cargo. He left me at an airport in California with no ID at all. He took everything to ensure I couldn’t immediately return. Then he filed for divorce and claimed I had deserted him as well as our son.”
“The Kuwaiti legal system ruled in his favor, of course.”
She nodded, unsure of her voice now. Images of her little boy kept swimming in front of her eyes.
“When was the last time you saw your son, Ms. Harris?”
“Eight months, one week and two days ago.” She could give him the actual hour, but she’d given enough.
“Why seek professional help now? After so many months? Did your attorney give you reason to believe your situation could be worked out some other way?”
He cut right to the chase. She liked that. Hope glimmered inside her.
“I started with the legal system. But I soon figured out that I wasn’t going to make this happen through legal channels. My lawyer was pretty up-front about that. Then I started hiring private investigators in an attempt to find someone who could help me.”
“How many P.I.s have you hired during the past few months?”
She wanted to tell him that information was irrelevant. But he was right to ask. He couldn’t operate unless he had all the pertinent facts. Going through half a dozen P.I.s had taught her that.
“Six.”
He was number seven if she didn’t count the low-rent guy who had given her the free advice about coming here.
If the number surprised him he didn’t let on. But she wasn’t so sure she would be able to read anything in those blue eyes anyway. If she’d thought Davenport was unreadable, this guy had it down to a science.
“What is it you want me to do for you, Ms. Harris?”
Not only could she not read his eyes, his voice gave away absolutely nothing.
She clutched the arms of her chair, braced herself for an uphill battle. “I just want my son back, Mr. Colby. I don’t care how you have to do it. I want him back.”
“You’re certain he’s still alive and living in Kuwait?”
The question, uttered with such frankness, tore at her heart. But at least it wasn’t a no. That meant he was considering her request.
“Yes, I’m positive.”
Now would come the part that would change his mind.
“Tell me about your ex-husband. Is he the kind of man who would go to extreme measures to keep what he believed belonged to him? What kind of personal security, if any, does he maintain?”
Ice slid through her veins. This was where he would insert the “no.”
“My ex-husband will do anything to keep his son.” She thought of Davenport’s man and a new wave of terror washed over her. She had to tell that part to Colby. “Including possibly hurting anyone who gets in his way. He has a heavy security detail.” Davenport had used those terms when describing her husband’s personal security.
Please, God, she prayed, don’t let this man be afraid to take her case.
The strangest thing happened then. Mr. Colby smiled. Not the wide, ear-to-ear kind of charming smile to set her at ease. Not at all. This quirk of his lips was one-sided, almost daring. She hadn’t noticed the scar on his cheek until then. The scar had her looking closer…noting the harsh planes and angles of his face. He looked hard…brutal maybe. Fear trickled through her. Whatever it takes, she reminded herself.
“Sounds like your ex-husband needs a lesson in proper parenting. Not to worry, Ms. Harris, I know how to handle men like him.”
She blinked, took a breath to banish the trepidation that had started to build. Had she misunderstood?
“Does this mean you’re taking my case?”
“I’m not only taking your case, Ms. Harris, I’m going to get your son back for you.”
Chapter Three
6:20 p.m.
Over three hours.
Willow had left Jim Colby’s office at three o’clock. He’d promised to call as soon as he was prepared to brief her on his strategy for recovering her son.
She’d checked into a motel close by. She’d been waiting ever since.
Her cell phone lay on the bedside table, the charging icon blinking. She’d almost forgotten to plug it in. That would have been bad. That portable device had become her lifeline in the past few months. She never knew when the P.I. currently working her case would need to reach her, so she’d kept the thing turned on 24/7.
She thought about Jim Colby and his insistence that he would ensure she got her son back. That was definitely a first. She’d had several ambitious P.I.s claim they could handle her case upon initial acceptance, but not one had looked her dead in the eye and stated unequivocally that he would get the job done.
A blend of hope and uncertainty twisted in her chest. Could Jim Colby really do this?
Who was this man who would dare to make such a promise?
Before coming to Chicago she had looked up what she could about him on the Internet, but most of the stuff that had popped up on her search was actually about his mother and her private investigations agency. His past appeared to have fallen beneath the radar somehow. Whether that was good or bad she hadn’t decided just yet.
But if he could get her son back she didn’t care what lay behind that slightly marred, flinty face. Who he was didn’t really matter. All that mattered was whether or not he could do what he said he could do.
She wanted desperately to cling to that hope, but she needed to know more before she let herself believe fully in this man. However prestigious his mother’s reputation, he was an unknown and unproven entity.
God, she was so tired. She’d barely slept last night. As much as she wanted to crash and sleep for hours, she couldn’t do that until she had some indication of what would happen next.
…you’re looking for a miracle…
Maybe Davenport had been right. Maybe she was looking for a miracle. She’d certainly had the kind recounted in the Bible told to her over and over again as a child, but did real miracles actually happen anymore? And the next question was, had she found that miracle, if it really did exist, in the Equalizers?
A knock on the door of her motel room had her practically jumping out of her skin.
Housekeeping? Surely not at this hour. No one knew she was in Chicago. Not that she had anyone. Even her folks had disowned her when she married someone they considered a terrorist. That had been the kinder of the names they had given him.
Evidently they had been right after all. Certainly devil came to her mind whenever she thought of her ex these days.
A second knock jerked her back from the preoccupation that total exhaustion allowed to creep up on her so easily and at the least likely moments.
She stood. Smoothed a hand over her skirt and walked as quietly as she could to the door. Pressing her eye to the peephole she resisted the urge to draw away in surprise or fear or possibly both as her brain registered the stranger standing on the other side of the door.
Male. Thirty or thirty-two maybe.
Tall, strong-looking.
Uneasiness coursed through her veins.
This had to be a mistake. He had to have stopped at the wrong room.
Should she say something? But then he’d know she was in here…alone. Why hadn’t she bought pepper spray months ago? Coming here like this—doing all she’d done over the past eight months—was more than enough reason to be concerned with protecting herself.
The trouble was she hadn’t been thinking about anyone except her son. Dumb, Willow. What good would she be to her son if she got herself killed?
“Ms. Harris?”
Willow took a big step back from the door.
How could this stranger know her name?
“Ms. Harris, my name is Spencer Anders. Jim Colby sent me to discuss your case.”
She allowed herself to breathe. Jim Colby. Okay. But why would he send someone to her motel? Had she even told Mr. Colby where she’d be staying?
For a moment she couldn’t think, then she remembered. Yes, she’d left word. She’d called the receptionist and provided the name and address of the motel where she could be reached. After her experience with the receptionist, Willow hadn’t been sure whether Mr. Colby would get the message or not. Evidently he had.
She stepped to the door once more. “Do you have identification?” She cleared her throat, annoyed at the tremble in her voice. New concerns immediately started to surface. Why wasn’t Mr. Colby handling her case himself? He was the one to insist he could get her son back. Was this his way of copping out? If his man failed would Colby be off the hook for making such a claim so hastily?
Willow closed her eyes and fought the vertigo of fear and confusion. She had to stop this. She had to focus.
She opened her eyes and watched through the tiny hole as the man who had identified himself as Spencer Anders reached into his hip pocket and withdrew a wallet. When he held a Louisiana driver’s license up for her to see she confirmed that his name was indeed Spencer Anders.
“Why do you have a Louisiana driver’s license?” Relevant or not she wanted to know. Louisiana was an awfully long way from Illinois. If he was a licensed P.I. in Illinois, wouldn’t he need to be a resident of this state? Too many questions that just didn’t matter. She was borrowing trouble and putting off the inevitable.
“I’m new to Chicago.” He slid the license back into his wallet, then tucked the wallet into his pocket once more. “Look, Ms. Harris, if you’re uncomfortable speaking to me in your room, I’ll wait for you in the coffee shop down the block.”
Maybe she should call Jim Colby and confirm that he’d sent this man.
“We’ve worked out the strategy for recovering your son,” Anders said, drawing her attention back to him. “If you’re still interested in hearing the details, I’ll be waiting in the coffee shop. Take a left at the motel entrance and you can’t miss it.”
…recovering your son…
Willow wrenched the door open when he started to walk away. “Wait.”
He hesitated a moment before turning to face her. A new trickle of trepidation slithered down her spine. Stop it, she ordered. This man was here to help her. Getting off on the wrong foot wouldn’t be productive.
He faced her and only then did she actually look at him closely enough to absorb the details. Dark hair, really dark. Gray eyes. Tired eyes. His expression wasn’t precisely grim, but the lines and angles of his face spoke of having seen more unpleasantness than any one human was built to take. Just like his employer.
His height, six-one at least, put her off just a little. At five-two, she found that almost everyone was taller than her. Perhaps it was the broad shoulders that went along with the towering height, coupled with the grim face that unsettled her just a little. No, she decided, it was the eyes. Somber. Weary. The eyes looked way older than the thirty-one or -two he appeared to be. And yet there was a keen alertness staring out at her from those solemn depths.
What she saw or didn’t see was of no consequence. He was here. He had a plan. That was the whole point…the only point.
“Come in.” She squared her shoulders and told herself to get past the hesitation. All this attempting to read between the lines was making her paranoid. She’d never met Davenport’s man, the one who’d probably lost his life while getting close to her son. For all she knew he might have been far more intimidating than this man.
Willow moved away from the door to allow Anders entrance. After coming inside he closed the door, but remained standing directly in front of it.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, she opened the conversation. The next move was clearly hers. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Anders.” That was a mega understatement, but it would suffice. She could thank him properly when he’d gotten her son back.
“I have a few questions for you, Ms. Harris.” He reached into an interior pocket of his leather jacket. “The information you provided was helpful, but I need more details to round out our strategy.”
Jim Colby had asked her to make a list of the events that had led up to her decision to ask for a divorce from her husband, as well as anything she could think of related to him or his family that might be useful in the coming task. She’d spent an hour coming up with as many details as she could call to mind. Mr. Colby had obviously passed her list along to Mr. Anders.
Might as well get comfortable. If this went anything like her interviews with previous investigators, it would take some time.
“Please.” She indicated the chair next to the small table positioned in front of the window. “Sit.” She perched on the edge of the bed and tugged at the hem of her skirt to ensure it stayed close to her knees where it belonged. She cleared her mind of any static prompted by worry or anxiety as she clasped her hands in her lap and waited for him to begin. Listening carefully was essential in understanding the details.
As he took the seat she’d offered, she focused on the man in an effort to get a fix on him. First, she considered the way he dressed. The leather bomber jacket was brown and had the worn appearance of being a favorite. The blue jeans were equally faded and obviously a favored wardrobe selection as well. The black V-neck sweater he wore beneath the jacket was layered on top of a white T-shirt, both of which looked new. If she had to assess him solely on his overall appearance she would conclude that he was a nice man with a lot of painful history.
Willow abruptly wondered if he came to the same conclusion about her. Nice, with a heavy load of hurt slung around her neck like a millstone.
“Did you sign any kind of legal documents when you married Mr. al-Shimmari? A prenuptial agreement or other binding arrangement? Anything at all besides a marriage license?”
Willow regarded his question carefully before shaking her head. There had been essentially no paperwork involved. “Nothing. I know it sounds strange now, but we really were in love. Or, at least, I was. I had no money, other than my salary and a few small investments, and he didn’t appear worried that I would attempt to steal any of his.” She’d already been down this road with her attorney during the divorce proceedings. There was nothing to be gained by rehashing it, but she kept that to herself. She needed to give this man a chance.
“Did he or his family pressure you to convert to the ways of Islam?”
A frown tugged at her forehead, the tension somehow reaching all the way to the base of her skull. This was one she hadn’t been asked before. “No. Not really. It was suggested a couple of times, but he knew I wasn’t going to convert when we married. We talked about that. He didn’t have a problem with my decision.”
Spencer Anders leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “Ms. Harris, do you know if your ex-husband was Sunni or Shia?”
She wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “Sunni.” His hands kept distracting her. They hung between his spread thighs, relaxed but infinitely dangerous-looking. A person’s hands said a lot about them. She’d always been fascinated by hands. She blinked, forced her eyes to meet his and her brain to get back on track. “Why?”
Those gray eyes searched hers as if he needed to be sure she didn’t already know the answer he was about to give her. What was it he thought he knew that she didn’t? Apprehension started its dreaded rise once more.
“According to the laws of his country and his religion, he could marry you without consequence. He could have children with you and retain full custody in the event you divorced—under one condition.”
She’d learned about that law the hard way. Her attorney hadn’t been able to find any exceptions or conditions. “What condition?” If what he was about to tell her impacted his ability to help her get her son back…maybe she didn’t want to know.
“That you didn’t convert. A non-Muslim woman cannot be granted custody of any child, girl or boy, when divorcing a Muslim man. You didn’t need a pre-nup because as a non-Muslim you weren’t entitled to any property or money. That’s the law, Ms. Harris. You never had a leg to stand on.”
He was right. This part was definitely no surprise to her. “I found that out too late.” She should have been smarter. But she’d been in love. The idea that Khaled had urged her to retain her own beliefs for underhanded purposes sent fury roaring through her even now. He’d insisted that he was perfectly happy without her bothering with conversion. She’d considered his understanding an act of love and trust. Lies. All of it. His assurances had all been for one thing alone—to guarantee he couldn’t lose any children they might have.
There was just one thing about the way the marriage ended that didn’t sit right with that scenario. Her attorney hadn’t been able to give her an answer to that question. “Since the law protected his right to custody, why ship me out of the country so secretively?” He’d kidnapped her off the street and sent her to L.A. with two of his goons. They’d left her there, with no money and no ID. It had been a nightmare. Why had he bothered? Was the act meant to humiliate her? To frighten her? That he’d later denied it only added insult to injury.
“To justify his claims of desertion,” Anders offered as if that answer should be crystal-clear. “Though you had no right to custody, you could have challenged the divorce as long as he had no legal grounds against you. Dumping you back on American soil made you look like the bad guy and gave him exactly what he needed—legal grounds to support his accusations and sympathy.”

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