Rescue from Darkness
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Bonnie Vanak
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Chapter 1
It was over, and he silently breathed a sigh of relief no one was hurt or killed in the shootout. Now he had to deal with the tough part—talking to the kid.
He’d rather interrogate the bastard who started shooting up everyone. Easier job.
Not that he didn’t want to kill the SOB. In his book, terrorizing a child deserved more than handcuffs and a prison cell. But he was a professional and, long ago, learned to control his emotions in the field.
FBI special agent Kyle Anderson holstered his SIG Sauer. Hands on hips, he surveyed the scene at Glades International Airport. What a mess. Shocked civilians peering outside the terminal windows, terrified travelers clutching their luggage as local law enforcement kept everything in control.
The smell of gunpowder, jet fuel and something slick and coppery invaded his nostrils. He strode over to the five-year-old victim. The boy had been snatched from a playground by the suspect, a known felon who suddenly decided to audition for Father of the Year. Towheaded, brown eyes wide, the child sat on the curb, guarded by two zealous police officers standing nearby.
Kyle watched his partner escort the boy’s absentee father to a waiting vehicle. As the patrol car growled away, the boy burst into sobs.
His heart twisted as he sat down next to the terrified child. He loved and hated this part of the job. Children were like glass, and glass shattered.
He preferred taking down hardened criminals. They never screwed with his emotions.
“You’re safe now, Michael,” he soothed. “No one’s going to hurt you. Your mom will be here any minute. We called her.”
Trite speech. Meaningless when it came to reassurance. The boy kept crying. Of course the kid didn’t believe him. Who would?
Kyle gave an awkward pat to the boy’s shoulder, wishing he could calm him. Hell, the child had witnessed a gun battle and the man who was supposed to be his protector, his dad, fire an AK-47. Bullet holes peppered the walls of the parking garage, and several car-door windows were shattered.
He couldn’t imagine what this kind of violence did to a small child. Michael should be playing peewee soccer or glued to a tablet video game. Not huddling in the backseat of a car, hands to his ears, terrified he’d die.
Not for the first time, another child’s face came to mind. Brutally, he thrust the memory away. Now was not the time to think of Kasey.
Both he and his partner were members of the Bureau’s Child Abduction Rapid Deployment Team, sent in to retrieve missing children. They’d gotten a break with Michael when a passenger recognized the car’s license plate from the Amber Alert flashing on the airport parking lot marquee.
“Michael, I know you’re scared, but I need you to think. Was there anyone else with your dad when he took you from the playground?”
No answer but sobs.
Okay, this was so not going well. Kyle gathered all his patience. Not that he had much, but this was a terrified little boy and he deserved more than getting grilled about his not-so-terrific father.
From his trouser pocket, he pulled out the silver dollar he always carried. Kyle held it up. “Want to see a magic trick? I can make money disappear. Without even going shopping.”
At his wink, Michael stopped crying, stared at his hand. Rolling the coin between his fingers, he moved quickly, sliding it into his other hand.
Michael watched, tears still trickling down his cheeks. But his eyes were wide with apparent fascination.
“Where did it go?” He frowned. “I know. You have it.”
“I don’t have it,” the boy told him.
Kyle reached behind Michael’s ear, pretended to pluck the coin from behind his ear. Michael started to sob and scream again.
Damn. The trick always worked to pacify frightened children in the past.
Maybe you lost your touch.
Maybe you never had it to lose.
The silver dollar clinked to the concrete as he reached out to soothe the terrified boy. “It’s okay,” he crooned. “You’re safe.”
Over his shoulder the smell of floral perfume cut through the stench of fear and gunpowder. It was such a welcome scent that he inhaled deeply, grateful for the reprieve from violence and trauma.
“Hi, Michael,” a sultry feminine voice said.
Thank the good Lord a relative finally got here.
But let’s not jump to conclusions.
“Who are you?” he demanded, craning his head. Sunlight in his eyes, he couldn’t make out the newcomer’s features.
Instead of answering, the woman thrust out a box of cherry juice. “Here, sweetie. Drink this—it will help you.”
Kyle grabbed the juice box before Michael could. “Who are you?”
“The officers asked me to look after him,” she said calmly.
“It’s okay, Agent Anderson,” one of the cops guarding Michael assured. “I can vouch for Belle. She was at the airport, so I asked her to help with the kid. She’s volunteered for us before.”
“Volunteer, huh?” he grunted, picking up his coin and pocketing it. “Doing what? Delivering drinks?”
Her expression smoothed out. “I chair the policeman’s benefit ball in Estancia Pointe every season.”
Figured. A rich woman who thought she had the right to stroll onto his crime scene just because she knew how to run some fancy gala.
Kyle unwrapped the plastic straw, thrust it into the foil opening and gave it to Michael, who sucked hard. A little color had returned to his face.
He turned, noticed the woman’s white lab coat, the blue stitching. Dr. Belle North. A doctor. Terrific. Last thing he needed right now was a rich medical doctor who thought she could save the day.
His earlier bad mood returned. “He doesn’t need a doctor. The EMTs said he’s not injured.”
Belle North didn’t even look at him but focused on Michael. “Some wounds are worse on the inside, Agent...”
“FBI special agent Kyle Anderson.”
“He’s traumatized.”
“And you think a juice box can cure that, Dr. Phil?”
Now she did look up as she straightened. Tall, willowy, she was lovely, in an upper-class, polished way.
He liked his women petite, dark-haired and ordinary. Hell, who was he fooling? He hadn’t been in a relationship in years. He was thirty-one years old and career came first.
The job came first. Always. The job never let him down or abandoned him.
“The name is Dr. North, Agent. He’s probably shocky and needs some sugar. Not to mention a quiet place away from all these guns and uniforms.”
“It’s a crime scene,” he said tersely. “He’s a witness. We need to determine if there was an accomplice working with the suspect.”
“Can’t you ask him later, when his mother gets here?” Dr. North sat next to Michael, rubbed his back. The boy rested against her, staring at Kyle’s right arm.
Ignoring her, Kyle squatted by Michael. “Michael, did you see anyone else with your dad when he told you to get into the car? Did your dad talk to anyone on the phone?”
The boy shook his head, pointed to Kyle’s sleeve. “You have a boo-boo.”
Stinging pain laced his skin as he removed his jacket, saw the bright red blood oozing on his upper right arm. Kyle examined the wound with a rueful look. “Ruined another suit,” he muttered. “Terrific.”
Guess someone did get hit after all. No wonder the poor kid had freaked out when he reached behind his ear. The coppery scent of blood swam in his nostrils. With all his concentration homed on the shooting and bringing down the suspect without harming the child, he’d never felt the bullet graze. Already he could feel the descent from the adrenaline rush. It would be a tough one this time.
“I can treat that,” Dr. North offered.
Mouth flattened, he shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
“If infection sets in, it won’t be ‘nothing.’”
“I’ll pour some whiskey on it when I get home. After I file my report.”
She rolled her eyes. “Such a cowboy. Perhaps you should stop by a craft store for a needle and thread to sew it up yourself.”
He considered. “Naw. Office supply store. Staples work better.”
Her pretty mouth quirked, as if she struggled to suppress a smile.
Bet she’d be even prettier when she did smile. Right. He wasn’t here to flirt, especially not with anyone from the medical profession. He’d take out his own appendix with a Swiss Army knife before setting foot in a hospital again.
“Michael, you’re certain your father didn’t have any friends or anyone else he talked to when you were in the car with him? Or name a place where he wanted to take you? Do you remember anything at all?”
Kyle added gently, “Take your time.”
He beckoned to Roarke, his partner. The FBI agent joined Kyle and listened attentively.
The boy’s brow wrinkled as he finished his juice. “He said something about Steve’s house. Steve has a boat and me and Steve would go fishing in the Guf of Nexico while Daddy went to Phoenix.”
Gulf of Mexico. “Check it out,” he told Roarke. “Stephen Tyles is a former cell mate of Andre’s, has a trailer in Key Largo.”
“If Irma didn’t destroy it,” his partner noted, referring to the hurricane that devastated many Keys properties.
Kyle stood, grating his teeth as pain gripped him. They had a massive crime scene to investigate, and witnesses to interview. Not to mention he itched to take down Tyles, a petty drug dealer who wouldn’t hesitate to sell his own mother, let alone someone else’s child.
He’d bet his annual salary that Andre planned to sell his son to Tyles for quick cash, and the fishing trip Michael took would be a boat ride out of the country.
A police officer brought over a distraught woman, who ran and hugged Michael. Finally, the mother.
He started to get up, approach her when Dr. North stepped in front of him. “Let them be for a few minutes. He needs his mother, not interrogation. And you need treatment. You’re bleeding.”
Scowling, he shook off her hand. “Go find someone else to practice your voodoo on.”
Soon as he muttered the words, Kyle felt a pang of regret. She was only trying to help.
Yeah, and what happened the last time a doctor tried to help? Not going there again.
“I don’t practice voodoo, but in your case, I’d make an exception.” She gave him a singularly sweet smile.
Roarke grinned. “Ignore him, Doc. He gets in a bad mood when someone shoots him. Like a cranky bear with a bad tooth.”
“I’ve found duct tape helps cure difficult patients. Applied to the mouth, it works wonders,” she said, her smile more a display of pearly white teeth.
Despite his irritation and the burning pain lancing his arm, Kyle felt a flash of pure male interest. Doctor or not, she stirred the ashes of a long-dead fire.
At least he’d thought that particular fire was dead.
“You’re pretty when you grit your teeth like that,” he told her. “Did you learn that in finishing school?”
Her smile slipped. “The only culture you have, Agent Anderson, is in a petri dish filled with bacteria.”
Touché. He grinned, wanting to laugh, but his arm was screaming by now.
“Come on, Mr. Grumpy. Let’s dress that arm before you bleed all over the front seat of my nice new SUV.” Roarke steered him toward the waiting ambulance.
He stole a peek over his shoulder at Belle North. She glanced at him, looked away.
Then glanced back at him again.
Pretty, smart and compassionate woman.
Too bad she was a doctor.
What did he care? He’d never see her again.
Not if he could help it.
