Special Agent's Perfect Cover
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Marie Ferrarella
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HarlequinPrologue
Micah Grayson wasn’t sure what had possessed him to turn on the TV in the pristine, upscale hotel room that he was occupying for the day. He wasn’t exactly the kind of man who craved company or needed to fill the silence.
Hell, in his particular chosen “line of work,” silence and stealth were two of his best tools. He had no desire to listen to music or watch anything that might be on the big screen TV that came with the price of the first-class room. For that matter, he only kept up on world affairs insofar as to learn about what region of the world he’d most likely be going to next.
But after methodically going through his own mental checklist and making sure that the room was clear of bugs—not the kind with legs but the kind that could get a man killed—he’d absently switched on the set and sank down on the bed, thinking about his next move.
The grim voice of the newscaster didn’t even penetrate his consciousness.
Not until her picture was flashed on the screen.
Very little caught Micah off guard these days. His life was literally riding on this fact, that he was always prepared for any and all contingencies and could act accordingly.
But seeing her face knocked the wind out of him. More than that, it was as if he’d just been on the receiving end of an iron fist aimed straight for his gut.
Because according to the newscaster, the woman in the photograph was dead. And when he had last seen her, a million years ago, before life had gotten so immensely complicated and they had gone their separate ways, Johanna had been very much alive.
Alive, but no longer his.
“In keeping with what seems to have become a bizarre ritual, the body of Johanna Tate was found yesterday outside of Eden, Wyoming. The victim suffered a single gunshot wound. The coroner has concluded that that was the cause of death. This is the fifth such female body found in as many years. Police are asking anyone with any information about this latest murder victim to please step forward. Any informant’s identity will be kept strictly confidential. Rumor has it that this young woman was a resident of Cold Plains, a town located some eighty miles away, but this has not been confirmed yet.”
A resident of Cold Plains.
Yes, she was from there, Micah thought, bitterness filling his mouth like bile.
As had he once been.
Johanna had been the reason he’d remained in that godforsaken blot on the map for as long as he had. And ultimately, she’d been the reason why he had abruptly left without so much as a backward glance. Because after being his, after planning to share all her tomorrows with him, she’d allowed herself to be charmed away from his side by the very devil himself.
Charmed away by Samuel Grayson.
Never mind that Samuel was his twin brother. He and that underhanded, despicable excuse for a human being were as different as night and day. He had never pretended to be anything but what he was, never made any excuses for himself. While Samuel wove elaborate tapestries made of intricate lies to ensnare those he wanted to own, to control for his own unstated purposes.
Crossing to the TV monitor, Micah Grayson turned up the volume.
But the story was over. The dark-haired newscaster had gone on to talk about the unseasonably warm April weather, exchanging inane banter with an overly ripe, barely legal-looking weather girl sporting a torrent of blond hair that appeared to be almost longer than her dress.
Johanna had been allocated less than a sound bite.
Micah hit the off button. The screen on the wall went instantly dark as it fell into silence.
“Damn it, Johanna, I told you he was trouble. I told you you’d regret picking him over me,” Micah said in frustrated anger.
That had been the extent of his fight to keep her. Telling her that she’d regret her choice. He’d felt that if he had to convince Johanna to stay with him, then he’d already lost her, and it hadn’t been worth his breath to argue with her.
Taking out his worn, creased wallet, the one that carried his current ID stamped with his current name—one of many he’d assumed since he’d left Johanna and Cold Plains behind—he opened it. Beneath the handful of bills he always kept in it and the false ID was a tiny close-up of a sweet-faced girl with pale brown eyes and long, straight black hair.
Johanna’s high school picture.
The same picture that was embossed in his brain. He couldn’t say that it was embossed on his heart because he no longer had one. One of the hazards of his job. A heart only got in the way, slowed a man down, kept him from a laser-like focus on his assignment.
A wave of fury flared through his veins, and Micah crumpled the faded photo in his hand. He drew back his arm, about to pitch the tiny paper ball across the room, then changed his mind.
Exhaling a long, slow breath, he opened his hand, letting the small wad fall onto the bed. He carefully flattened it out again, then slipped the now-creased photograph back into his wallet.
Samuel couldn’t be allowed to get away with this, Micah swore vehemently. He didn’t know any of the particulars, but Samuel had to be behind Johanna’s death. His twin brother’s prints were all over this. He’d bet his soul on it.
The corners of Micah’s mouth curved in a humorless smile.
If he had a soul, he corrected silently.
Micah knew someone who could look into things. Someone who could take Samuel’s so-called paradise, strip it of all its gingerbread facade and expose it for what it was: hell on earth. Someone who he’d known all those years ago and had himself left for greener pastures, so to speak.
Someone, Micah thought as he tapped the numbers lodged in his memory out onto the cell phone’s key pad, who still had a soul. And who knew, maybe even a heart, too.
The cell phone on the other end rang a total of six times. Micah decided to give it to the count of ten and then try again later.
A man in his profession didn’t leave messages.
But then he heard someone picking up on the other end and a deep voice say, “Special Agent Bledsoe.”
A glimmer of a smile passed over Micah’s lips.
His brother was going down. It might take a while, but he was going down. And he would pay for what had happened to Johanna.
“Hawk, this is Micah. Grayson,” he added in case the agent was having trouble remembering him. It had been a while. “I need to see you.” He paused and then said cryptically, “I’ve got a not-so-anonymous tip for you about those murdered women on the news.”
