Warrior's Second Chance
Yazar
Nancy Gideon
Okur
16,3K
BölĂŒm
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Thirty years ago, war claimed the only man Barbara Calvin ever loved. And for her family's honor, for the child Taggart McGee never knew she carried, she married his best friend and abandoned her dreams of a future with Tag. Now, as the killer knew it would, the murder of Barbara's husband brought Tag out of hiding. To bury forever a secret only Tag and he shared, the villain struck once more. With Barbara and their daughter as the lure, Tag's warrior instincts came roaring back to life. Tag was determined to keep this second chance at love from slipping through his fingers.
Chapter 1
Death hung suspended at armâs length.
She stared with hypnotic horror down the barrel of the gun, seeing no light at the end of that long black tunnel. Only darkness and death.
Hers and her daughterâs.
Lifting her gaze from the empty hole that held her demise, she looked into the eyes of her killer. What had she expected to find there? Sympathy? Regret? There was nothing, a flat void of expression as deadly and cold as the bore of the gun.
Was this what her husband had seen, this empty, soulless stare, in the last seconds of his life?
Would this be the last intimacy exchanged between man and wife, this shared precursor to their own end at the same indifferent, yet well-known, hand?
Robert DâAngelo was dead already, his life taken in this same room some months before by this same man. By this man whoâd been his friend, his betrayer.
Her heart beat fast and frantically, pounding in her chest, hammering inside her head, the sound amplifying, intensifying like a desperate, unvoiced scream.
Please! I donât want to die!
Tessa sat beside her, calm, fierce, her fatherâs daughter. Instead of begging for mercy, she argued with, even taunted, the man who held their futures in cruel hands. So brave, so confident. So precious. In the twenty-eight years theyâd shared, had she told her how precious she was?
An anguished plea burned in her throat, twisting, tearing for release.
Donât take my daughter.
If she jumped forward, if she grabbed the gun, using her body for a shield, perhaps Tessa could get away. There was a chance one of them might survive. Tessa. It should be Tessa, who had so much to live for.
Her breathing caught as an awful realization slammed through her. These could be the last moments of her life.
And then his words, with their terrible finality.
âSorry, Babs. Nothing personal.â
Something moved in his fixed stare. Something so dark and unbelievably terrifying, her plan to save her daughter by sacrificing herself froze in timeless terror.
Pleasure. He was going to enjoy killing them.
An explosion of movement coincided with a shrill of sound. Her dream shattered like that remembered glass as Barbara DâAngelo woke to the ringing of her phone.
It took her a long moment to separate nightmare from reality.
She sat up on the leather love seat, drenched in a sweat of panic. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows of the enclosed porch where, after another restless night, sheâd fallen, exhausted, to sleep. She forced a constricted breath. Then another. The threat was gone, now behind bars awaiting justice. She was here, safe in her home, not at her husbandâs office at the mercy of his killer.
The only thing that didnât change upon waking was the fact that her husband was dead.
Vestiges of fear beaded coldly upon her skin. She scrubbed her hands over her face. Only then did she reach for the insistent phone. In another few weeks it would be turned off, the number disconnected as she removed herself forever from this place, from this life. She would be moving on, leaving the past and its ugly scars behind. None too soon.
She lifted the receiver and spoke with what she hoped was coherent civility.
âDâAngelo residence.â
An amiable greeting sounded on the other end of the line. It wasnât a solicitor trying to coerce her into opening her checkbook for some worthy cause. It wasnât a friend requesting a long overdue lunch. It wasnât her realtor wondering if the house was ready for the market. It was a voice from the past. One that still echoed, horribly, impossibly, from her nightmare of moments before.
The voice of her husbandâs murderer.
âHello, Barbie. Did you think Iâd forgotten you?â
For a moment she couldnât respond. Her entire system shriveled into a tiny knot of disbelieving panic. How could it be? How could it be him?
âBabs? You still there? Cat got your tongue?â His chuckle was warm and jovial, making it all the more terrifying. âNothing to say to me after all weâve shared? Thatâs okay. You can just listen. Guess where I am?â
Finally, her shocked stupor ended upon a snap of outrage. âYou should be burning in hell, but a life behind bars will have to do.â
âIâve been to hell, Babs. It was hot and green. But no, Iâm not going back there, not for a long while. And right now, thereâs nothing between me and a fine view of Lake Michigan. Nothing but two lovely young ladies.â
He was out. That knowledge stabbed through the protective bubble of her supposed safety, leaving her exposed and alone. She gripped the receiver in sweat-slicked palms, clinging to it in desperate denial. Another more awful notion began to germinate like a toxic virus in her brain. She wanted to hang up, to sever the link, to halt the horrible truth she feared was coming. But she couldnât. She had to know.
âWhy are you calling me?â It was little more than a whisper.
âItâs a beautiful day. Itâs great to be alive. At least Iâm sure thatâs what your daughter is thinking. Iâm watching her right now.â
Barbaraâs eyes squeezed shut. Panic and helplessness tightened within her chest. TessaâŠ
âWeâve been having a wonderful time here on the Navy Pier,â Chet Allen continued cheerfully as if he were a part of the outing of school children her daughter was chaperoning in Chicago for the long weekend. âYour Tess particularly enjoyed the display of stained glass inside, but the girls are dragging her down to the Ferris wheel. Sheâs not afraid of heights, is she? I didnât think so. Your scrappy little girl isnât afraid of anything. Thatâs because she doesnât know what you and I know. She doesnât know that her life could be over before she finishes paying for those ice cream cones.â
âWhat do you want?â she all but screamed into the phone.
She could almost see him smiling on the other end of the line, a cold, smug smile of control.
âI want you to do me a favor. But first, a few ground rules just in case you get confused about whoâs in charge here.â
She could hear carnival music in the background and the innocence of happy girlish chatter. She could hardly breathe as she heard him say, âExcuse me, young lady. I think you dropped this.â
And then Barbara trembled at the sweetly familiar sound of her adopted grandchildâs voice with its delicate Spanish accent.
âThank you, señor.â
Rose. Sweet Rose.
After a brief pause, Chet Allen spoke crisply, clearly, so there would be no mistaking the danger.
âYou see how close I am? I could have just as easily given her a blade between the ribs as returned her bag of cotton candy. Do we understand each other, Barbara? Do you get the picture?â
âYes,â she whispered. She got the picture in Technicolor.
âGood.â He was all pleasant humor once again. âMake no mistake. There is nothing, no one, that can come between them and me if you donât do exactly what I tell you. Before you can call your commando son-in-law, before you can scream for help to the Windy City police, Iâll have them. Theyâll be dead. Are we clear on that?â
âYes.â Clear as her Waterford crystal.
âExcellent. Now, back to that favor. Youâre flying to D.C. this afternoon. Iâve expressed a ticket to your office. It should be there in about an hour. That doesnât give you much time to pack your party dresses. Youâve got reservations for two at the Wardman under your maiden name.â
âFor two?â
âIâve arranged for a traveling companion for you, seats 12A and B. Someone whoâs capable of handling the behind-the-scenes work that needs to be done while you dazzle and distract. The two of you will have a common goal when it comes to saving your daughterâs life. Whether you want to tell him why heâs got so much at stake is up to you. Just make sure heâs motivated to help you. And to help himself.â
Surely he couldnât meanâŠ
She couldnât even bring his name into focus for fear of remembering all. She tried to take a breath through the complex emotions wadding in her throat. The effort nearly strangled her. She forced herself to get behind the paralysis of surprise. Not now. Not yet. She could deal with that later. Right now, she had to think of Tessa. She made her mind move forward. Think. âHow did you get out?â Suddenly, that mattered, knowing who was pulling the strings. âThey said you couldnât make bail. The evidenceââ
âIs gone. No more damning paper trail. No more greedy Councilwoman Martinez.â She heard his fingers snap. âNo more solid case against me. Iâm free as a bird with clipped wings. The only ones who can try to put me back in that cage are you and your daughter. But before you get the chance to testify, one of two things will have happened, either youâll join Martinez and disappear or I will.â
It took a long moment for her to digest that. What if he was telling the truth? âMartinezâŠâ
âHad an unfortunate accident in her cell. Iâd just as soon neither of us have to keep her company. She was really quite unpleasant.â
Barbaraâs mind spun like that dizzying Ferris wheel, trying to make sense of what she was hearing. Martinez was dead. Allen was out on bail. âWho killed her? Why?â
âLetâs just say my particular talents were needed to finish up some long overdue business and certain parties were eager to have me on the streets. So I want you to play a game with me. You remember how much I like to play games. This isnât hide-and-seek or spin the bottle. Itâs a survival game.â
âWhy should I care if you survive? You killed Robert. You killed my husband.â
âThatâs what I do. And I do it better than anyone else. Donât hold that against me. It was just a job. And now I have another job to do.â
âKeeping Tessa and me from going to court,â she all but whispered.
Allen laughed off her greatest fear. âBabs, youâre not that important in the giant scheme of things. Neither am I. They wouldnât have gotten me out just to tie up my loose ends.â
âWho?â
âThem that makes the rules. Rules I have to follow. Rules theyâve always made me follow even when I didnât want to. Itâs not about what I want. I canât break those rules. But you can.â
âRules? What are you talking about, Chet?â
âAsk Mac. Those rules used to apply to him, too. He broke them and now they want me to punish him for it. Thatâs my new job, Barbie. Thatâs why I thought you might be interested in playing.â
âI donât understand.â
The voice on the phone grew harsh and cold as gun metal. âThen let me spell it out for you, Barbara. In fourteen days, I have to appear in court to stand trial for Robertâs murder. You and your daughter are the only witnesses who can testify against me. Iâm motivated to see that doesnât happen. I have a choice. Either I can silence the both of you or I can disappear. I need help to disappear. In that fourteen days, I have another job to do if I want to live long enough to make that choice, to get that help. I have to silence the only other friend Iâve ever had. Those are the rules to the game Iâm playing. But Iâm no fool, Barbie. I know once that job is done, my usefulness will have expired. They may decide not to follow their own rules. Either Iâll be buried so far undercover no one will ever know I existed or Iâll be buried next to Robby. Iâm not ready for that hot, green hell yet.â
âSo what do you expect me to do?â
âYou donât have to follow rules. You can break them for me. You and Mac. He knows how to play. You have thirteen days to break the rules so Tag doesnât have to die. Then weâll discuss that other choice. The one that involves you and your daughter. Youâre safe, sheâs safe for now, as long as you play the game.â
âWho makes the rules?â
âTicktock, Barbie. Better get packing.â
âWait! What is it you want me to do?â
âIâll call you when you get to the Wardman. And Babs, they are lovely girls. You should be proud.â
The line went dead.
She sat for long, tense minutes staring at the receiver as if it would yet speak some answer to her. Silence. The only sounds were the tortured gasps of her breathing.
Then, the mellow bongs of the grandfather clock in the living room sounded, tolling out the time and how quickly it was passing. Ticktock.
Without thinking, Barbara dialed. A moment passed. Then, at last, a connection.
âHi, Mom. You should be here to rescue me from this unruly mob of twelve-year-olds. Iâd rather be facing a box of angry jurors.â
Tessaâs voice, cheerful and alive. Barbara clutched the phone, struggling against a maternal demand that she scream an alarm across the miles that separated them. But Allen was there, watching. She inhaled and let it out in a slow controlled stream before speaking.
âThings going that well. No one said motherhood was a cakewalk.â
âItâs not for sissies. You could have warned me what I was getting myself into. The other moms have had a dozen years to get used to the idea and Iâve only had a few months. But you know what? I wouldnât have missed this for the world.â
Emotion thickened in Barbaraâs throat as she pictured her toughly independent daughter over-wrought by the pleasures of parenting. Pleasures that had slipped quietly and almost unnoticed away from the two of them during Tessaâs growing-up years. She blinked back the burn of tears as she phrased her words, knowing someone was nearby, watching Tessaâs reactions to whatever she said. âEnjoy yourself, but be careful. Chicago can be a dangerous place. You need to be ready to protect those little girls against anything. And yourself, too.â
âAre you suggesting I should have packed my piece to go on a school field trip?â She laughed. Then the ever practical side of her personality took over. âDonât worry, Mom. Jack trusted me to make sure nothing ever happens to Rose and I take that very seriously. Iâd never let him down.â
âI love you, Tessa.â
The impulsive statement was met with the silence of surprise. There was still too much healing to do between them for Barbara to have expected a reply. So instead, she filled the uncomfortable void with lighthearted small talk. It wouldnât do for Tessa to guess the truth about the danger she was in. Not when she was vulnerable, unprepared and unarmed and caring for a group of children. Because Barbara knew her daughter, knew she would rush headlong into a confrontation that could cost her her life and the life of the child she loved. Those were the risks she, herself, would take to keep them safe and unsuspecting.
âTell Rose I said hello and not to eat too much junk food.â
âHa! You tell her. Twelve-year-olds think sugar is a primary food group. How are things holding together at the office?â
âFine,â she lied. âEverythingâs under control here. You just concentrate on having a good time.â
âOn keeping my sanity, you mean. Gotta go. See ya later this week.â
Sitting there, listening to dead air as her inner spirit wept, Barbara made a promise to do anything necessary to see her daughter safely home.
Even if that meant making a deal with a devil.
Â
âAre you sure you can handle everything until Jack gets back?â
From the front-row seat of his wheelchair, Michael Chaney watched his sonâs mother-in-law pace the length of the office as if it were a fashion runway. She was the most sophisticated creature the ex-cop had ever known. All class, all the time. Not intentional, just instinctual. That classiness had been passed down to the woman his son married, along with a not-so-delicate grit. Despite the polish, despite the poise, that sandpapery grit was showing on Barbara DâAngelo like the ragged edge of a crooked slip hanging below her stylish hemline. Something was wrong. Something that had to do with the suitcase and matching overnight bag she dragged into the office behind her. Something to do with the airline ticket she held clenched in one white-knuckled hand. But because he was an ex-cop, as well as her friend, he approached the situation carefully.
Michael snorted at her question. âIâve handled worse than eight badass bodyguards-in-training. Stanâs working with them this week, probably beating them over the head with his cane to keep their attention focused on surveillance equipment instead of that hot little pilot with her long, long legs.â
That won a rueful smile. âSounds like youâve been doing some surveillance yourself.â
âIâm crippled, not dead. Iâll handle the phones and the interviews, and Stan will keep the probbies in line. Hey, no worries.â
But he could sense worries aplenty behind her artfully made-up surface. Barbara knew it. And she couldnât afford to rouse his suspicions.
Heâd know if she made one tiny slip. Family was the only thing that would wear concern into her flawless face. Nothing was wrong there that he knew of and she had to see that he continued to believe that. As far as he knew, Barbara was loving her stint behind the desk of Personal Protection Professionals. Who would have guessed? Less than a year ago, sheâd been a regular on the society page, hosting elaborate fundraisers for charities and her husbandâs political aspirations. Her biggest worries then had been whether the hired kitchen staff could keep up with the demand for shrimp puffs. Then a gunshot ended that superficial existence.
All Michael Chaney knew, from what sheâd told him, was that at fifty, she was a widow whose rĂ©sumĂ© was as trophy wife. She had no skills, no passions, no purpose. Her sons lived on different sides of the country and her daughter might as well live on another planet for the distance that separated them. She was alone for the first time in her life, though sheâd been lonely for years. Hard to believe, but sheâd made him into a believer.
And then Jack Chaney proposed marriage to her daughter and a business arrangement to her.
Sheâd been surprised, doubtful and, more than that, genuinely excited. A job opportunity. A chance to be a part of something real and important and growing, like her relationship with her daughter now that the secrets between them had been torn wide open. Office manager for Personal Protection Professionals, or Lone Wolfâs Warriors, as Tessa liked to call it after Jackâs former black ops code name. Theyâd rented space in the center of a run-down strip mall, wedged between the hot pink vertical blinds of a hair salon and the flickering neons of an income tax service. The sign was still so new the paint looked wet. Her job was to coordinate between the training compound that housed Jack and his family, and the office; paying bills and spearheading the background checks with the elder Chaney and Stan Kovacs, his partner from their days on the streets before a criminalâs bullet put Michael in a wheelchair. And though this was the first paycheck-earning job sheâd ever had, Barbara took it seriously. She wouldnât let Jackâs unsubstantiated faith in her down for anything.
And one of the things sheâs promised him was to take care of his new wife and their adopted daughter when he was away. And she wouldnât break that promise.
Barbara finally gave up her aggressive travels and collapsed gracefully into a utilitarian office chair. She looked like a Saks Fifth Avenue marionette with the strings abruptly severed; inside, her emotions were just as tangled. âWhere is Jack, anyway?â
âSomeplace in Mexico doing a favor for his buddy Russell. Heâs not very good at cards and letters when heâs in the field, but heâll check in when heâs supposed to. Anything you want me to tell him?â
There it was. The opening Barbara had waited for. The chance to unload the tension and terror continuing to build behind her composed facade. But she kept it to herself, hugged it close, as tight as she would have held to those two unsuspecting girls had they stepped into the office at this moment. Because she knew what Chet Allen was and what he was capable of doing. She forced a smile. If Jack had been here, if she was able to get hold of him, heâd know just what to do. He knew the kind of man Allen was, too, and heâd know how to handle this dangerous situation. But Jack wasnât here and she couldnât ask his advice. So sheâd have to trust her own instincts. And pray she was doing the right thing.
âTell him Tessa and Rose send their love. And that Iâm taking care of things.â
âWhat things, Barbara? What things are you taking care of?â
There was no escaping that blunt question. She stared down at the ticket crushed in her hand. A ticket leading toward troubles untold and a madman on the loose. And, apparently, a long overdue reunion. The significance was too enormous to consider on top of all else.
But one thing she did know. If Allen was following her to D.C., he wouldnât be here threatening her family. That, alone, was worth the risk she was taking.
And then there was that other matter Allen had hinted at. The matter sheâd squeezed out of her thoughts but had her heart beating a rapid tempo of anticipation.
Taggert McGee.
âThings I should have dealt with a long, long time ago,â was the answer that would have to satisfy him. The honk of her cabâs horn relieved her from further awkward evasion. She took a shaky breath and regarded Michael Chaney through misting eyes. âBehave. Iâll be backâŠin a few days.â
But would she be returning to the life she was learning to love and the new family she couldnât live without?
That, she realized as she towed her luggage out the door, was now in her hands. Hands that were damp and trembling.
Â
âExcuse me. Has the passenger in seat 12B checked in yet?â
The airline attendant whoâd just given the last call for her flight regarded Barbara with a regretful smile. âIâm sorry, maâam. Not that Iâm aware of. Youâll have to board now.â
She scanned the empty rows of form-fitted seats in the gate area as if sheâd find her traveling companion still there like an unattended bag. Panic twisted beneath her ribs. âAre you sure?â
The attendantâs smile never wavered. âYes, maâam. Youâll have to board now. Thereâs another flight if your friend arrives too late.â
Too late.
Too late for whom? For the daughter and grandchild at the mercy of a maniac? A deadly lunatic, government-trained to do only one thing and do it well. A man like that didnât value life. Not even his own. And that made him the worst kind of threat.
She was right to be afraid.
The moment she recognized his voice on her home phone, Barbara had shifted into a numb sort of overdrive. Sheâd called no one after confirming Tessaâs safety. A tenuous condition. Whether she remained in that state of grace was up to Barbara, and that burden weighed like a Mack truck parked atop her heart. What could she do but follow Allenâs dictates? Who could she call for help? The police were no match for a man like Chet. Not after Robertâs murder and not now. Even after she, Tessa and Jack had snared him and the councilwoman heâd worked for, the justice system had somehow opened their doors to put him back into a society where he didnât belong. If she reached out to the world around her for assistance, he would know. Somehow, he would know. And the consequences were too awful to consider.
So sheâd locked the doors of her palatial home and driven off in her big luxury car. She went to the office of Personal Protection Professionals, where currently she was the entire office staff. And with all that expertise, all that well-honed skill surrounding her, available upon her single word, she hadnât dared speak it.
If she did, somehow he would know. And the two she loved most in the world would die.
There were only two people whoâd ever been able to handle Chet Allen. One, her husband, was dead. The other belonged to the unclaimed seat.
âPlease, maâam.â The attendant gestured down the tunnel where the sound of her jet whined impatiently.
Lifting her carry-on, Barbara gave the terminal hall one last glance, then committed to the rush down the gangway. A relieved attendant directed her to her seat in the full main cabin. Two empty seats together. Too late now to regret her decision to comply with Chet Allenâs plan. Sheâd just have to find a way to handle things in Washington on her own. Whatever those things might be.
The overhead compartment was already full. While those seated around her glared at the delay, Barbara wrestled with her bag, trying to force it into the narrow space remaining. The Fasten Seat Belts tone sounded twice, urging her to hurry. Frustration knotted in her throat and burned behind her eyes. Just as the need to weep nearly overpowered, a man reached up to clear the necessary space into which her bag fit snugly.
âThank you.â
Taking a jerking breath, she looked over her shoulder to her rescuer, but any other words died on her lips. Her pathetically grateful smile froze there.
âHello, Barbara.â
She couldnât draw a breath. Her head grew light, her vision unreliable. But there was no confusing the man in the aisle beside her with any other.
How could one forget the man who had fathered a child and then left her and the baby for another man to raise as his own? The man she must now depend upon to save that precious childâs life.
