Each Precious Hour

By Gayle Wilson

THE McCORD FAMILY COUNTDOWN
A daughter, a son, a secret With time as the enemy, only love can save them.

It had been three months, three weeks and four days since they'd made love

and made the baby that Robin McCord now carried. Back in New York, she could no longer avoid Jared Donovan not when he was the only man who could keep her baby their baby safe.

A fearless bomb squad cop, Jared had stared down death, but when it threatened the woman he loved, he turned desperate. No one would threaten his woman and his unborn child. But he had only seven days to find the crazed killer who stalked her, seven nights to New Year's Eve when she might walk out of his life for good if he kept her alive. And the clock was ticking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460858158

Gayle Wilson

Gayle Wilson is a two-time RITA Award winner and has also won both a Daphne du Maurier Award and a Dorothy Parker International Reviewer's Choice Award. Beyond those honours, her books have garnered over fifty other awards and nominations. As a former high school history and English teacher she taught everything from remedial reading to Shakespeare – and loved every minute she spent in the classroom. Gayle loves to hear from readers! Visit her website at: www.booksbygaylewilson.com

Book preview

Prologue

He had known from the prickling on the back of his neck that it was going to be bad. Just not this bad.

Son of a bitch, Officer Samuels said almost reverently.

Jared Donovan pulled his eyes away from the big block of plastic explosive, which had been hidden at the top of the elevator, to look at his companion. There were beads of sweat on the policeman’s temple, and his features were waxen. His gaze hung, unmoving, on the bomb just above their heads.

I need a hand up, Jared said.

What about the stuff? the cop asked, his eyes still directed upward. The stuff was the equipment the bomb squad had brought into the building. The robot. The disarming gun. The protective gear: All of which were downstairs.

Jared’s eyes lifted again to the hunk of plastic explosive over his head. Six ounces of Semtex had brought down Pan Am 103 over Lockerbie. This was the size of a couple of bricks. With an elevator shaft sitting on top of it. A shaft that ran through the heart of the government office building.

Even Jared wasn’t sure exactly what that would mean. And he had lots of experience with explosions. More than he wanted to remember. Like the one that had killed Jeff Matthews.

That hadn’t been nearly as big as this, but it had been booby-trapped. And when Jeff had eased open the drawer where it had been hidden, the whole thing had gone. The armor Jeff was wearing was good, the latest and best design, but it wasn’t that good. Not proof against that kind of force. Or this. When you got right down to it, nothing was.

I need to take a look at what we’ve got, Jared said.

He’d be able to tell more once he was up there. Maybe he could even tell if there was anything that didn’t belong. Anything like that hidden wire that had taken Jeff Matthews’ life. A wire designed to do just what it had done—prevent anyone from disarming the bomb.

Okay, Samuels said. His voice was almost breathless.

Not that Jared faulted him for that. Bombs demanded respect. Any bomb. And it had gotten harder for Jared himself to breathe when they told him that one of the janitors employed in the search was reporting something in the overhead panel of one of the elevators. Harder still when he had seen what the janitor had found. And this was his job. His chosen profession.

The patrolman put his hands together, making a stirrup to hoist him up so that Jared could look death eye-to-eye. This wasn’t the first time he had done that. And it wouldn’t be the last. At least, he amended, he hoped to hell it wouldn’t be. He put his hand on the cop’s shoulder for balance and fitted his foot into the joined palms.

The lift Samuels provided gave him just enough height that he was now face-to-face with the bomb. High enough to see more clearly what had been barely visible from below. Timer, battery pack and the plastic. There was no smell, which is why the dogs hadn’t found this. That and its positioning.

Jared’s eyes focused on the timer, close enough now that he could hear it ticking. And close enough to see that the alarm had been set for ten o’clock, which according to the hands was now less than thirty seconds away.

How long? the patrolman below him asked, the words little more than a hoarse whisper.

Not nearly long enough, Jared said softly, aware that the patrolman had not been asking about the clock.

Jared might have been surprised at how calm he sounded, if he had thought about it. But he was no longer thinking about anything other than dynamics of the device in front of him. Even the sound of the clock’s ticking had faded, low and muted.

This was his baby now. His problem. No time to get anyone else up here. No time to send for the equipment. This would have to be done the old-fashioned way, he thought, fishing the cutters out of his back pocket, or it wouldn’t get done at all. This one would be the way it used to be—just one man and a bomb.

A vacuum of calmness had settled over him. Jared could feel the cop’s hands beginning to tremble under his foot. Whether that was from the strain of holding Jared’s weight or from the patrolman’s belated realization of how close to dying they were, he couldn’t be sure. And it didn’t really matter.

All that mattered was not doing anything stupid. And not taking anything for granted. His eyes traced the wires leading from the battery pack. One to the explosive and one to the timer. Simple setup. Almost...too simple. His eyes examined the plastic, which showed signs of being shaped. Molded. And the cold prickle along the back of his neck increased.

All the possibilities sped through his mind, ticked off far more rapidly than the seconds on the clock. The feeling that this was a trap was so strong, it was almost physical. Mercury switch? Collapsing circuit?

Jared put his fingers on one of the wires leading from the battery, being careful not to move anything. He was surprised to find that his hand was steady. Too simple, Jared thought again, his fingers poised to make the cut. Too easy.

Even as the thought formed, he cut the wire, separating the battery from the plastic. Two long heartbeats throbbed away, matching the ticking of the clock. And nothing happened.

His fingers found the second wire, the one leading to the timer, and they were still steady as he used the cutters to slice through that one as well. When it separated, Jared listened to the flow of his own blood through his ears, his breathing suspended. He hadn’t breathed since he’d gotten a good look at the timer. And the prickling was still at the back of his neck.

Higher, he said to Samuels. I have to be higher.

He needed to see behind the explosives. The shaping of the plastic suggested there was more to this than he was seeing. He glanced at the hands again and saw that ten seconds remained before the old-fashioned ringer connected. Ten seconds.

Slowly, the strain so great that even Jared was aware of it, his body was pushed upward by the trembling muscles below him. Less than six inches, and he knew that Samuels wouldn’t be able to hold him there long. He stretched as far as he could, peering over the top of the plastic, close enough to it that he could smell the faintest odor of its chemicals. And there, behind the misshapen lump, was another wire. He could see nothing more than that, and there was not even time to glance again at the clock.

He lifted the cutters over the bomb, careful to touch nothing. Jar nothing. Avoiding the slightest tremor, he eased the lower blade of the cutters under the wire and closed them around it. He thought he should pray, but his mind was incapable of coherence, and he could still hear the faint ticking of the clock. Slow motion now. Nothing but him and the wire.

He had no idea what it was connected to, but as the ice trickled along his spine again, his fingers squeezed until he heard the small snick. Again he waited. A thick cone of silence, like air that had grown too heavy to conduct sound, settled over him. He listened to his blood, to the ticking clock, and he watched the hand sweep toward the hour.

Then the alarm went off, filling the enclosed space of the elevator with a discordant racket. He should have been prepared. He should have warned Samuels, whose hands came apart suddenly, dumping Jared unceremoniously to the marble floor. He hadn’t done either because somewhere in his gut—in the deepest, most primitive part of his body—he’d expected to be dead when the ringer hit.

It took a second or two to realize he wasn’t. Another to allow his lungs to fill with air. And another to be able to listen to the tinny ringing of the clock and to know what it was. Not an explosion. Not shock waves. Not death.

You shoulda told me it was gonna do that, Samuels said plaintively. He was on the floor beside Jared. He had fallen to his knees when the alarm sounded, his face wet and ashen. You son of a bitch, the cop accused. Why the hell didn’t you warn me? There was an edge of anger mixed into the obvious fear.

I didn’t think about it, Jared admitted.

He didn’t confess that he had thought they were dead men. That he had never expected to hear that alarm. He had expected that the shock wave from the explosion would disintegrate them both, destroying them and the building around them instantly.

Sorry, he apologized softly. And he really was. Samuels had had the guts to stay with him, to do what he had asked him to do. The least he could have done was to warn him. Jared’s eyes tracked upward to the package and the still-shrilling clock. Tell them to get the containment unit up here.

His gaze returned to the patrolman, who nodded, his eyes locked on Jared’s face, looking at him as if he were some kind of strange, alien species he had never encountered before.

And maybe, Jared admitted, maybe he was right.

Chapter One

I think the senator has answered those questions to everyone’s satisfaction, Robin McCord said confidently into the mikes that were thrust at her face. The incident in Vietnam was terrible, but James McCord did then what he has done his entire life—the right thing in an enormously difficult situation. Difficult for him. Difficult for the men whose lives he saved.

So you all think the senator can still win the nomination, Hugh Collins asked, despite his recent...confession?

Collins represented one of the larger newspapers in the Southeast, and he had written favorably about her uncle in the past. The question was a softball, giving Robin the perfect opportunity to tout the good news they’d received this afternoon.

According to the latest polls, the public has accepted Senator McCord’s explanation, she said. Not only accepted it, but embraced it. So we think it’s time to move on to other topics. To issues of greater concern to the American people.

Robin’s smile was genuinely friendly and yet polished. This was a role she was increasingly comfortable filling. She hadn’t signed on to be her uncle’s spokesperson. She had volunteered years ago, fresh out of college, to be his aide. Ten years later she had been running the Texas senator’s Washington office.

It was Whitt Emory, McCord’s campaign manager, who had decided Robin had a talent for thinking on her feet. And since she truly believed every word she was saying about James Marshall McCord, her conviction that he was the best man to be president of the United States came through loud and clear.

Whitt had also proclaimed, much to Robin’s embarrassment, that she was the most visually appealing member of the staff, at least as far as Middle America was concerned. It couldn’t hurt, he had said, to have a long-legged strawberry blonde with a very pleasant Texas accent reiterating the messages the campaign was determined to flood the airways with before the senator threw his Stetson into the presidential ring. So the cameras were increasingly focused on McCord’s niece, as they were tonight.

"Apparently not all segments of the public have accepted the senator’s story," Ted Carlton said, glancing over his shoulder.

Pickets paraded up and down the sidewalk in front of the huge Manhattan hotel, which would, in a little more than a week, be the scene for the senator’s so-called New Millennium speech. The nearer the close of the twentieth century came, the more crazies seemed to climb out of the woodwork, Robin thought.

And all those who had been haunting the senator’s appearances, some since he had first indicated he was considering a run for the presidency, were here tonight. Along with a few she hadn’t seen before. They had seemed to grow in number as McCord’s campaign momentum grew. Especially now.

Robin’s gaze came back to Carlton, who worked for one of the cable news networks. She shrugged her shoulders, covered by a navy wool coat and Black Watch plaid scarf to which a scattering of snowflakes clung. Guess we can’t please everyone, Ted.

She paused, allowing her eyes to focus briefly on the End of the World contingent, who were, as usual, decked out in biblical-era costumes, including sandals. Their bluing toes weren’t visible in the darkness, but Robin could certainly imagine them, given the icy slush that covered the streets and sidewalks and her own feet, chilled despite her lined boots.

And even if we could, she continued, her eyes coming back to the reporters, we wouldn’t want to. Considering, she added, softly enough that the word couldn’t carry to any of the throng protesting the senator’s upcoming address.

Robin smiled at them after she said it. The resulting laughter eased the tension that was always in the air whenever the recently revealed incident in Vietnam was brought up. That unease was something Robin was learning to deal with, but she, along with the rest of the political world, had been shocked when, only two days ago, McCord had finally confessed to what had taken place on that disastrous mission.

As a young first lieutenant, McCord had shot the commanding officer of his A-team because the man had gone insane. On a mission behind enemy lines, he had begun giving orders that made no sense, orders that cost the lives of his men and accomplished nothing. Just as the captain was about to kill one of his own soldiers for questioning his orders, McCord had shot him.

Robin had come to terms with what her uncle had done. In the context of what had been happening, she thought it had been the right thing to do. The honorable thing. And she had recognized it was up to her to help guide the media—and through them the voters—into the same understanding and acceptance she had found. Tonight was, of course, one more opportunity to do that. An opportunity she welcomed.

Any other questions? she asked, her eyes circling the crowd of reporters she was beginning to know almost as well as she knew the members of the senator’s as yet very small staff.

When does the man himself arrive? someone asked.

Senator McCord will be here a few days after Christmas.

Is he in Texas now?

He’s spending the holidays at the Altamira with his family, Robin confirmed, thinking, despite her intentions not to, about the familiar festivities at McCord’s huge ranch. Wish we were, she said, looking up at the increasing snowfall.

They laughed again, but realizing that it wouldn’t do to offend New Yorkers, who truly love their city, Robin said, Except then we’d miss everything that makes this city a special place to be during the holidays. I’m really very glad to be back in New York, if only for a few days.

Then it’s on to Iowa and New Hampshire? someone prompted, naming the first of the presidential primaries.

Maybe we’ll be lucky and get some sunshine, Robin said.

A rather oblique answer, she supposed. Whitt had given her permission to suggest McCord’s candidacy was going to happen, despite the hoopla that had surrounded the senator’s confession about those events in Vietnam. There wasn’t much point in trying to hype the New Year’s Eve speech, Whitt had said, without hinting to the press that despite what had just come out, it was still going to be what it had originally been slated as. The official start of James Marshall McCord’s run to the White House.

And now if you’ll excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, Robin said, I have a nice, warm room inside. At least I sure hope I do, she added ruefully.

There was another smattering of laughter from the reporters. Rooms were impossible to get now in any of the Times Square hotels. They had been booked up for more than a year, with record crowds expected at this particular New Year’s Eve celebration. There was even a new Waterford crystal ball, ready to drop at midnight before the third millennium’s dawning.

With his usual foresight, James McCord had reserved accommodations and even the ballroom at the top of this Manhattan hotel far in advance. While he had still been trying to decide whether or not to make his run. And while he had been working to get his daughter Levi’s blessing on his bid for president. If he succeeded, then all the arrangements would already be in place for the announcement he hoped to make on New Year’s Eve.

It’s great to be back, Robin added in response to their laughter. Thanks for the welcome. She waved, an expansive Texas gesture rather than the British-royals-type wrist waggle.

Turning, she headed toward the glass doors, which the doorman, who had been watching the impromptu press briefing, held open for her. The warmth and the lights of the lobby were welcome after the bitter cold, but by the time she had chatted with a couple of McCord well-wishers on her way to the registration desk, the heat was becoming a little oppressive.

Maybe because she was still wearing her coat. Or maybe because it didn’t take much these days to upset her normally anything-but-delicate constitution. Now, however, too much heat or a whiff of cigarette smoke would make her queasy.

She couldn’t legitimately call it morning sickness. Thank goodness that had passed. She wouldn’t have time to indulge in the crackers and the few extra minutes in bed that she had needed then. According to her schedule, she wouldn’t have time during the next week to think, much less to pamper herself. Of course, not having time to think was something devoutly to be wished for. Especially since she was back in New York.

Where Jared was. And, she reminded herself resolutely, that was definitely one of the things she was not going to think about. At least not until—

Are you all right?

She glanced up to find Whitt Emory beside her. His homely, acne-scarred face reflected concern, as did his dark eyes, almost hidden behind thick, horn-rimmed glasses. She realized she had been standing in front of the desk, lost in thought, her fingers resting on the invisible bulge of her pregnancy.

I’m fine, she said automatically. It’s just a little warm in here. At least it feels warm after standing out on the street answering questions in a snowstorm.

Hardly a snowstorm. Not by New York standards. Good job, by the way, Whitt said, apparently ready to buy her explanation about the heat. Or more likely ready to get back to the subject nearest and dearest to his heart—James McCord’s campaign.

And after all, Robin thought, why shouldn’t he believe her assurance that she was fine? She hadn’t told anyone about her pregnancy. She had hidden her occasional nausea as well as the fatigue that had made her days seem endless. Now, of course, they would be. Up until the election, at least.

Whether she was going to be a part of the McCord campaign was one of the things she desperately needed to think about. And another one she had decided not to think about. At least not until the senator’s New Year’s Eve speech was over.

Thanks, she said, still a little embarrassed about her more public role in McCord’s campaign.

They like you. That’s half the battle. The other half is your admiration for your uncle.

He’s been like a father to me, Robin said softly. After all these years, that should be easier to say, but somehow it always reminded her of her own father. And of his death.

Now you have an opportunity to pay him back.

Whitt’s belief in her ability to help her uncle was flattering, of course, but it also made everything that much harder. She owed Jim McCord a lot. More than she could ever repay. And no one knew that better than Robin.

The thought that if she pulled out of the campaign she would be letting her uncle down had played no small role in her angst. None of the decisions facing her were the easy kind, and the time frame in which she had to make them all was narrowing.

Instead of verbally responding to Emory’s comment, she nodded and reached for the envelope the clerk put down on the desk in front of her. Inside was the key to her room and a couple of messages. Despite the fact that she knew Whitt wasn’t through, she couldn’t stop herself from taking them out of the envelope and glancing at them. When she had, she took a deep breath and realized that her fingers were trembling.

Neither of the messages was from Jared. She shouldn’t have expected them to be. She couldn’t even be sure he knew she was in