Panik: ?????? ?????? ???????

By Lara Daniels.

A teenage girl from an affluent family is abducted and brutally assaulted over a period of days before managing to escape. She remains resolutely mute about her experience and goes on to forge relationships with those involved in her rescue while alienating herself from her family and battling with severe side effects related to her ordeal. Years later, she exacts her revenge on her abductors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Oct 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781466982390

Lara Daniels.

Lara Daniels is Registered Nurse by day and an avid romance writer by nights. Born and raised in Nigeria, she created a niche for herself by authoring African based romance-suspense novels. Lara lives with her family – a husband and three precious children in Texas where she remains true to her passion of all time: Writing.

Book preview

PANIK

Лошадь

Дерево

волчица

LARA DANIELS

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© Copyright 2013, 2014 Lara Daniels.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4669-8238-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-8240-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-8239-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013905673

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Trafford rev. 01/02/2014

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

For Bianca and Hylton,

Always larger than life, and the very best of me.

My gratitude goes to Ali and Bev for daring to read the rough drafts, to Patrick and Diane for indulging me in this venture, and to Dave and Barbara for the sanctuary of McGregor.

The opposite of a fact is falsehood, but the opposite

of one profound truth may very well be another profound truth.

—Niels Bohr

Chapter 1

Alaska, June 2005

H er muzzle curled back, but her warning growl was quickly snatched up by the storm winds. Slinking into a crouch, she narrowed her pale eyes at the twisted form lying mottled beneath the scattered leaves. Her ears twitched, on high alert for other predators, until hunger and the hint of warmth rising from the body spurred her forward, overriding her instinct to flee.

The scent of blood teased her senses; tantalized, and she lifted her snout in appreciation, treading painfully across the short expanse of mud separating her from her first meal in days. Lowering her head, she brushed her brow against the bloody form almost in a caress; or a giving of thanks. Her tongue darted out to lick at the slickness, and the sensation exploded in her mouth. Finally, beyond fear, she sank her teeth deeply into the slippery flesh.

Unfocused eyes flew open, and both creatures reeled in shock and confusion. The wolf’s head whipped up, and she jerked back; barking warily.

Before she could fully grasp this new horror, a vague No… whispered from her mouth as she tried to focus on the hazy apparition. The wind lashed overhead branches, allowing weak flickers of light to penetrate, and her eyes widened.

No! she rasped louder, but the wolf whirred in agitation. And lunged. Saliva and blood spattered, and the girl screamed.

As the wind swirled, tendrils of her hair billowed around them, teasing the wolf’s snout and suddenly, she sneezed, an almost delicate sneeuww!

They both blinked, and the wolf’s grip slackened for an instant but, before the girl could react, a dozen or more teeth sliced into her again.

She shuddered as an unexpected pain pierced her flank, and spun her head around, the girl’s limb still gripped in her jaws.

The girl’s world went black.

Snarling, the she-wolf hunkered down and took in the new shadow, her stiff tail curling around a pale thigh. The wind battered its tufts, as if in welcome—in direct contrast to her low growl—a clear warning to the intruder. Fight or flight. But as the wolf rose, she stumbled; instinctively widening her stance as her body began listing to one side; uttering deep sounds of distress she tried to right her fading equilibrium.

The girl, conscious once again, mumbled incoherently as she and the wolf writhed in a listless parody of tug-of-war. She frowned in confusion as the furry shape swayed toward her, then slumped. Its arctic eyes fluttered shut.

The girl tugged again, hard, but her body jerked in a spasm of agony, and she collapsed. Both figures lay still.

The hunter lurched up to the heap of fur and misshapen limbs, his weapons falling unheeded to the ground. As he lowered his bulk down beside the girl, he took in his surroundings.

The earth was churned up, and strewn with leaves and broken branches—but not from a fight between the girl and the wolf—of that he was certain.

He tilted his head to one side at the patterns gouged into the mud and, frowning, he looked up as a reluctant picture began to form. His hand hovered, cupped, over her mouth. She’s Breathing. With surprising dexterity, he extricated her arm from the slippery jaws and taped them shut before examining first her uninjured arm, and then each leg in turn.

Her skin was hot to the touch, but her bones were intact, he decided, flicking his hands to remove the grime that clung to them.

Leaves; hair; and blood, he muttered.

Careful not to move her, he inched his hands over her ribs and around her tiny middle. Beneath a layer of caked mud she was covered in crisscrossing welts, and he paused over them for a moment before curling a hand around her mangled arm, swiping away sticky trails of blood as he kneaded the bone.

Finally, sliding his fingers into her matted hair, he cradled her head in his hands as his eyes searched for the wound. Still bleeding, he thought. Guided only by weak streaks of moonlight, he tried to gauge how deep the cut was but proper study was almost impossible, and the time it would take wouldn’t do her any favors. Oblivious to the growing storm, he stood and walked in amongst the trees, stooping to study the foliage. When he found what he wanted, he plucked some of the leafy plant and began crushing it between his fingers.

Crouched over her again, the hunter scraped the pulp off against a rock as he removed two T-shirts from his rucksack. Rummaging around further he found his faded denim cap, grimacing as the cap’s logo caught his eye. Wolf Country was embroidered into its center, the words bracketed by a set of ivory fangs.

Having torn one of the shirts into strips, he applied some mulch to her forehead and wadded a piece of the cloth up, pressing it firmly to the wound. Thick juice oozed through the material but, as he watched, no blood followed it.

Keeping an eye on his flickering surroundings, he wedged the cap onto her head and adjusted the clasp. Checking to make sure it was firmly in place, he draped a second strip of cloth over it, tying the ends beneath her chin like a bonnet. Satisfied with his rough field dressing he scraped the remainder of the pulp onto his fingers, smeared it over the jagged wounds on her arm, and bandaged it securely.

He eased the second shirt over her head and worked her limp arms through the sleeves, ignoring the tremors that shook her body.

"Sonofa—!" he suddenly cursed as unmistakable bite marks became visible in deep bruises across her chest. He quickly drew the material down her torso but, as he did so, a glint of movement caught his eye and he leaned in, squinting to allow his vision to adjust.

"What’s tha . . . ?" He reared back, swinging an arm out blindly as his balance gave. When he righted himself, barely breathing, he bent forward again. Blood was trickling down her inner thighs, and gathering to pool in the mud beneath her.

He narrowed his eyes as he processed the new information.

A woman’s blood? He frowned. Probably not—too much. How would you know? He didn’t really—it was more a faint hope—but, as he looked closer he noticed dark bruises trailing down her legs, and smaller, livid dots on her outer thighs. He’d mistaken them for dirt, but now the picture took on even more sinister implications.

The hunter lifted one of her wrists to the weak moonlight, and ran an exploratory finger along the thick, angry grooves. Sliding his gaze down to her ankles he could now make out similar ligature marks through the crusted mud. The combination of weak nocturnal light and the mangled state of her body made for poor referencing, but the nape of his neck began to tingle.

She hadn’t only been beaten. And tortured. They’d butchered her.

The hunter reached out and stroked his knuckles down her cheek, smudging a thin trail of vomit, but the girl made a garbled sound of distress.

Bowing his head, he pinched two fingers to the bridge of his nose, and uttered a prayer for her in his native Russian.

What a pity. What a waste. He heaved himself up from his crouched position, feeling around for his weapons. Finding the one he needed he curled his fingers around the stout barrel but, as he jammed it against his cheek and took aim, her eyes slowly slid open, and she blinked vacuously up at him.

Who? she breathed, and her eyes slowly grew wider.

Ssh, it’s over, he said soothingly, watching as they closed again; like someone flipping a switch.

Do it. Now! He pulled the trigger. Perfect shot.

Scooping her up, he placed her body on a stony mound beneath an old hemlock. Her head rolled to one side, exposing her throat, and the weak light couldn’t hide the rings of obsidian bruising that marred her natural color. They became more evident as he swiped away a veil of blood.

Shaking his head, the hunter straightened and unsheathed his knife; the shaft of the serrated blade glinted dully as it sliced down, again and again.

After sweeping the immediate area, he lifted the wolf and draped it across the girl’s body, taking only a moment to study his preternatural choreography. When he’d removed as much evidence of their activities as he could, he dragged the inert wolf to the ground and treated it to much the same examination he’d given the girl.

A deep gash in its side was starting to heal. A few days old—painful.

But there was no other sign of injury. Slipping his jacket off, he raised the girl’s hips and slid the leather under her. Her body felt weightless. Wrapping it around her middle, he knotted the sleeves together to secure them and, lifting her again, he hoisted her over one shoulder, slinging his bag and weapon straps over the other.

Bracing his knees, he reached down and picked the wolf up by its scruff, tossing it over the shoulder with his weapons in a practiced move. As he rose sound came to him on the wind. He twisted his torso slowly in its direction and listened to the agonizing echoes of death in progress. Time to go.

He set off at a fast pace, despite the weight of his macabre baggage and branches that took indiscriminate swipes at him as he cut a direct path through the woodlands. Having to maintain a grip on the bodies left him defenseless, and he wondered how quickly he could reach his weapons, if the need arose, and what his chances were against one or more attackers.

I could throw the wolf at them—or use it as a club, his stark humor suggested, in an attempt to keep more insidious thoughts at bay.

He only slowed down when the forest canopy and gathering clouds closed above him, to use the mossy trees as a guide, but quickly picked up his pace again, alert to the direction of the wind.

Blowing in from the northeast, it could well be carrying their scent to the bear he’d spotted earlier, and he’d have a hell of a predicament on his hands if he came across it now.

Glancing up through the thick branches, he gauged how much time he had before the storm would hit. If it did so before he reached his vehicle he’d be at an even greater disadvantage if attacked, especially if by both man and beast but, if the rain stayed away much longer, his crude attempts at disguising their presence in the forest wouldn’t pass muster with a savvy tracker. A catch-22, Drew would call it.

Not far now. He looked up at the sky again. To the heavens: Come on! As he stepped beyond a cluster of swaying trees a form began to take shape, and he exhaled in relief at the sight of his vehicle. Taking a moment to listen, he satisfied himself that the approaching storm was the only sound the wind carried.

On approach, the clouds massed and churned above him, obscuring the slim crescent moon, and he cursed himself again for having dropped his torch on a rock earlier—causing its batteries and other entrails to spring out and scatter. He’d scooped them up and tossed them into the back of the vehicle, aware that the task he’d set himself wouldn’t easily be accomplished without the aid of its light.

Cautiously he circled the area, looking for telltale signs of disturbance on the muddy ground and, as he stepped around the bumper, he spotted the prints. They were the same ones that had brought him here—to where he’d found the doomed wolf… and the broken girl. Should’ve turned back at the first omen. Hindsight was cold comfort, but at least no other tracks were evident.

He disengaged the locking system and, grasping the wolf by its scruff, lowered it tail first through the trap door of an upright cage in the bed of the vehicle.

Turning his attention to his human charge, he eased her down from over his shoulder, pulled out a heavy mohair blanket and wrapped her up like a burrito, securing her in between the cage and the other prone stiff form before climbing in. Without the aid of his headlights, he swung the vehicle around in the direction from which he’d come, applying a heavy foot to the gas.

He’d been able to smell the approaching rain since early evening, and took some satisfaction in the accuracy of his prediction as a fork of lightning lashed out, followed seconds later by the echo of thunder. The heavens opened, and the storm broke.

The hunter didn’t slow down; hunkered over the wheel, he fumbled for a button and turned on the radio. Cursing in disbelief, he reached for his phone and punched in the familiar digits.

Drew? Get dressed.

Dawn was still hours away when the Land Rover appeared over a low rise and, as he swerved onto the asphalt, he finally flicked his headlights on.

Rain pelted the vehicle and the tempest flung debris across his path, but he sped along the narrow road, for once without regard for stray wildlife. Amazingly, he saw nothing and, even more amazingly, he hit nothing. He didn’t think a caribou antler riding his bumper would improve his demeanor much.

Ignoring the signs that guided visitors to a parking area, he gunned the engine and turned toward the main building of the hospital. As he approached it, headlights flared to life and, from behind them, shadowed figures with raised rifles took aim.

Drew, brandishing both a gun and a torch, signaled for him to park, while his companions maintained their vigil, reaching out to open the rear door as the vehicle braked.

The hunter was beside him in a moment, and grabbed for his human passenger. Her head lolled sickeningly as he curled his arms around her and made for the doorway.

Drew, weapon in hand, ran up behind the hunter, taking in the smudged vomit and glistening streaks of blood on the back of his pants—his tangled hair looked as if he’d decorated it with foliage, and his face was crisscrossed with lacerations.

"Thord! What the—?"

The hunter turned to answer him but, at that moment, a pale figure appeared. Drew’s eyes met the doctor’s and they both nodded in silent recognition, but it was the hunter who spoke.

"The girl. From the radio."

The doctor had been preparing for her arrival since receiving Drew’s call, but he stared at the unlikely scene before him for a full moment before his training kicked in. As he leaned forward to peer at the blanketed face tucked into the crook of the hunter’s arm, and tipped up the faded denim cap, the sight that greeted him blanched his features even further.

Already gloved, the doctor quickly slid a hand to her throat in search of a pulse and, when he extracted it, his fingers were slick.

Without a word he swiveled around and headed down a dimly lit passage, motioning for the other men to follow him.

They passed three darkened doorways before the doctor turned into what appeared to be an examination room.

Pointing to a turned-down bed, he motioned, Down! Here! As he circled around to the other side he saw Drew enter, and listened with half an ear to the man’s conversation, aiming a suspicious look at Thord who stood with the girl still nestled in his arms. Again, he pointed to the bed.

Thord’s eyes caught the doctor’s silver tag and he absently read the words engraved on it. Doctor Leslie Garrett. A different flash ignited before his vision.

Drew, ending his call, took in the scene and said calmly, Buddy, let the doc take a look at the little lady.

Thord nodded, and lowered her to the sheet. She hasn’t broken her neck. Or her back, he volunteered stiffly but, as he slowly pulled his arms out from under her, another memory stirred.

Drew regarded him silently.

Mentally dismissing his audience the doctor reached for the woven blanket. As he cupped her neck and began to ease it from beneath her head, Thord’s voice came to him, seemingly from everywhere in the room. That wound can wait. Remove the blanket from her body.

Drew, gloved up, nodded to the reluctant doctor and, together, they began peeling it back.

Leslie grasped the neck of the oversized shirt and began cutting toward where Thord’s jacket shielded her. As he reached her navel, Drew untied the sleeves and gave the blanket a tug, exposing her battered body to the light. A long, stunned moment passed.

Bile shot up Drew’s throat and he twisted away, swallowing convulsively as he bent over, fists on his thighs. Leslie’s muted expletives rang vaguely in his ears over the roar that was building in his head, and he forced himself to turn around. The doctor’s face was stricken as he began attending to her, and Drew’s eyes reluctantly returned to the bed.

What little wasn’t streaming with blood was covered in a mass of welts and livid bruises. Short spikes of hair caked her calves, and the stench of blood wafted up to them along with a faint trace of whisky?

Without a word, Drew fumbled with the strip of cloth around her arm, and bent lower.

Wolf, Thord whispered, coming up behind him. "Those bites are human. He paused. I tranqed her." The other two men’s heads rose in unison.

Thord and Drew stood looking out over the parking area from a visitor’s room on the second floor, their weapons balanced side by side against a floral seat. Drew was sipping a cup of tepid coffee while a television droned quietly behind them, providing the room with intermittent pictures of the girl’s face, and words in a bright band of color across the bottom of the screen.

Thord got his first proper look at her through those images, and he could feel her eyes tracking his movements around the room. . . . abduction of Donna Grace Calder… a perfectly modulated voice was reporting. He’d taken the liberty of showering. Standing under a cascade of scalding water he’d scoured himself, making his lacerations sting, perversely hoping they’d cut through the vivid recollections that wouldn’t be evicted from his mind. But standing at the window, he didn’t feel clean.

Although the storm had passed while they’d been attending to the girl, the wind was still shaking the firs that stood sentry along the clinic’s perimeter.

He exhaled, squinting at them through the smoke of his cigarette, ignoring the No Smoking sign tacked to the wall as Drew took the hipflask from his hand.

Not too much, Drew cautioned himself somberly, Heaven knows, we’re going to need our wits about us. He took a deep swig nonetheless.

But where’d she come from? Drew muttered, absently walking imaginary patterns into the carpet. He was missing Tina, even more so than usual, but he swiftly blocked out those thoughts, as if not wanting to taint her with the other images he couldn’t shake. He snapped his fingers. The Hewitts!

Why? Thord turned to him slowly as the ebb of his earlier adrenaline settled into the kind of fatigue that makes bones ache. His gruff question went unanswered. There’s more than one lodge up there, he pointed out after a few moments, deliberately avoiding the flickering screen as he concentrated on Drew.

They’d haphazardly been trying to connect dots since he’d relayed the bizarre tale of his foray into the woods, but he was experiencing a strange sense of interrupted vision as flashes of torn flesh flew unbidden across his mind. Drew’s voice brought him back.

It’s on a sizeable tract of land… densely forested. The cabins out there are real isolated. His face twisted as a loophole appeared in his budding theory. But the tourists… , his mind drifted again. No training or previous experience could have prepared him for what he’d seen downstairs in that room—the sheer savagery of it—and he felt as if a deep layer of his innocence had been peeled away, leaving him raw.

There are a number of plots of land adjacent to the Hewitts’—and lots of people have horses, Thord prompted. Drew turned to him, shaking his head. Thom Bassett reminded me last week that the Hewitt’s plan on selling out. He scraped a palm over his stubble. Intend going to live near their daughter, down in Wisconsin. They were approached by a potential buyer who’s keen to turn the place into a reserve, which is why Thom mentioned it to me.

The man even agreed to pay a hefty retainer to hold other bidders at bay while he liquidates some of his assets. His breathing slowed, the thread now almost within his grasp. Without even seeing the place—just from viewing the website, and talking to Johan and Lindsay. I thought it was strange at the time, he muttered, But tourist season… place will be crawling. He tangled his fingers into his hair. What am I missing?

The air thrummed with the beat of rotors and, as the sound intensified, it was accompanied by the arrival of a convoy of Hummers.

Both men squinted against the glare of sunlight on metal and, as they swung into the parking area, two vehicles braked hard beside his and Drew’s.

The others fanned out, all disgorging their passengers and, as the doors slammed, their impact sounded like artillery blasts.

Then they saw the guns.

Armed men in combat gear crouched, zigzagging in coordinated patterns across the lawns, and the Hawks hovered above them for a few moments before veering away to scour the area.

Thord frowned at Drew as a new sound pierced their sanctuary.

Newborn. That’s why the clinic was open last night. The parents are down the hall in maternity.

Thord nodded absently, his attention drawn back to the scene playing out below them.

As soon as he emerged from his vehicle, a wall of flapping suits, buzz cuts, and highly polished shoes swarmed around a blond man.

Flicking the butt of his cigarette into a potted plant, Thord leaned forward and ground it into the soil, any fleeting thoughts of the baby forgotten. And so it begins.

Eugene exploded through the entrance to the clinic, and was immediately intercepted by a figure in a pristine coat extending a pale hand.

Leslie Garrett. I… uh… attended to your daughter, Mr. Calder.

Where is she? Is she… the man wheezed, "Alive?"

Leslie took a fortifying breath of his own. Sir, if you’d come with me, please.

"IS MY DAUGHTER ALIVE?"

The physician blinked. "Yes. Sorry. Yes, she is. She’s been… stabilized… He hesitated. Please, sir. Follow me." Swiveling, he led the way down the hall.

The slight figure in the bed was completely mummified.

Eugene stumbled forward to hover over her, ignoring the chair Leslie had considerately placed beside the narrow cot.

After a long moment he turned. Why so many bandages? His horrified gaze fixed on someone over Leslie’s shoulder.

The prone figure’s head, her face, and her arms, were covered up, and blankets swaddled her body. Pipes were secured to her lips, and a red tube snaked along her torso and disappeared into her arm.

Leslie glanced at the stunned men in the doorway and, slipping his hands into his coat pockets, he said quietly, Mr. Calder, I believe that the nature of your daughter’s injuries is not conducive to discussion with anybody outside of your immediate family. To drive his point home, he added pointedly, Preferably her moth—

These men are my personal guard, Eugene interrupted, waving a vague hand. Donna’s like a daughter… his voice trailed off, and he looked at Leslie. "Dear God, what are you saying?" he whispered, the Texan cadence of his words placing heavy emphasis on the H.

Without answering, Leslie abruptly turned. Out! Everybody. He reached for the door handle, ready to physically evict the gaping men if need be. This girl requires a medi-vac, and I must speak to her father before she’s transferred. Find out what’s keeping them.

He rounded on the nearest man, and found himself looking into a pair of vivid eyes. For a moment Leslie thought the man was going to argue, but he simply turned to address the others in a hushed tone and watched as they left to carry out his orders.

Facing Leslie again, he extended his hand. Dr. Garrett. Stan Weiz. I stay. His tone was utterly calm.

Leslie looked into the unusual eyes again, came to a decision, and took the proffered hand before turning back to study Calder’s ashen face.

Your daughter has suffered multiple injuries, he began, quickly adding, None of which are fatal.

Eugene remained silent.

She’s breathing without assistance, but I have her hooked up to a monitor nonetheless. She has a low grade fever and was unconscious when she was brought in, possibly from a fall, although… That can wait. We’ve sutured her forehead and upper left arm. Her arm will require reconstructive surgery to repair torn tissue, and there may be some nerve damage. She’s suffered a hairline fracture to her skull, but no other breaks. He pointed to his own skull to illustrate, fingers held in a salute as he slanted an imaginary line down to his brow.

She has a number of other lacerations—most of which are superficial. I’ve contacted Dr. Ella Mitchell. She’s one of the leading neurologists in Anchorage, and she’ll be on standby with her team when you arrive.

Eugene stood like a statue, the only signs of life the tears that glistened.

We’ve stabilized your daughter for transportation, Leslie continued. There’s infection, for which she’ll be prescribed antibiotic medication. He’s waiting to hear me say it. Leslie swallowed audibly. She’s lost a significant amount of blood. I’ve started a transfusion. He paused again but, finally, he forced his lips to say the words. She’s been sexually assaulted. There’s significant trauma…

Eugene moved. As if those words had been the trigger he’d been waiting for, he turned slowly back to the prone figure. Like a sleepwalker, he sat down and bent his head over her motionless body, and began to sob.

Leslie blinked back the prick of tears from his own eyes as the sounds of Eugene’s grief intensified. And the man behind him, whose presence he’d all but forgotten, quietly reached for his arm and guided him to the far end of the room.

Outside the clinic an early morning flock of geese took to the sky, startled into flight by the alarming noises erupting from inside the usually peaceful building.

Upstairs, as Thord and Drew’s eyes met, they exchanged a long look before Drew turned away and buried his face in his hands.

Donna Grace Calder . . . Thord’s coal-black stare turned toward the west.

Word flew through the ranks like a brush fire.

They’d been summoned from various bases days before, shortly after the shocking news broke that a billionaire oil baron’s daughter had gone missing during a school trip to Anchorage.

At first they were wired, but many wagered that she’d just taken off somewhere, or was with a boy. That idea was so popular that they’d started a betting pool, the stakes reaching three figures by the time the initial excitement had abated, and the very familiar hurry up and wait syndrome had set in.

Few had considered that anything would come of their sudden call to arms, but that all changed with the ransom demand.

Austin, Texas, the previous week

Eugene’s personal guard was swarming around him as he completed the call to his now hysterical wife to say that neither Donna nor Mac were answering their cell phones, and that her extended security detail couldn’t locate them. Ducking under the rotating blades of the waiting helicopter, he made a second call, this one to his brother and, within minutes, a number of key people within the US government were being notified that Donna Grace Calder was missing, presumably abducted.

Predictably, there were those slow to react. A girl with her privileges, and newly sixteen, was bound to be tempted into a little bit of don’t tell daddy, and some smirked as they considered what she might be getting up to. Others, although surprisingly few, felt smug satisfaction that a man with a silver spoon rammed so far into his mouth might be getting some richly deserved comeuppance.

But Eugene knew. Donna would never cause him concern over her safety. Not in a million years—and never, ever while traveling away from home.

And as for Mac. It was unthinkable.

Donald Geoffrey Mac MacLean had grown up fighting on the Louisiana streets, a somewhat wayward ward of the state. But it was his later exemplary military record, coupled with the fact that he had—after an injury ended his career in the armed forces—gone on to cultivate a first-rate reputation as a freelance bodyguard, that had prompted Eugene to contact him personally.

Mac had arrived at Calder’s headquarters in Austin that same day, and was a member of the Calder’s security crew by the time that meeting was concluded.

Mac, and Donna who was ten at the time, had hit it off immediately, and Eugene was often heard to boast, Bear of a man—a real fighter—but putty in that little girl’s hands.

Anybody who knew the Calders was well aware of Eugene’s paranoia over his family’s safety and, although most thought his precautions largely unnecessary, Eugene remained undeterred, ensuring that his family’s lives were conducted behind tighter security than some heads of state.

In addition to having Mac at her side, Donna had been rigorously tutored on every aspect of personal safety and security by the world’s leading authorities. The most stringent protocols had been drummed into her head—into both his children’s heads—from a young age, and they could recite their security codes by heart even before they knew the words to the anthem.

Although she’d begun to balk at the oppressive security, and even at Mac’s lurking presence, Eugene recognized her growing annoyance all too well as she began to discover the many delights of middle adolescence. He’d harbored similar frustrations at her age, and had acted out on more than one occasion, there being several well-oiled tales to bear testimony to his stint at teenage rebellion.

When she began to scowl and mutter at the hovering security, he’d heave a long-suffering sigh and pull her onto his lap and, nose nuzzled against her neck, he’d burrow in as she squirmed in protest.

Stretching his Texan vowels to their limits, he’d sigh, "It’s a mad, craa-zzy ol’ world out there. You wouldn’t have your poor Mama worrying about you now, wouldya princess?"

Sighing just as loudly, she’d pull back and take his woebegone face in her hands, shaking her head in despair. "Oh, Daddy-o, what am I going to do with you?"

Then they’d both wait for the slow grin that neither could contain.

It was just one of the pantomimes they indulged each other in on every subject from curfews to her allowance; their mutual bond totally unshakeable.

Those memories were ricocheting through Eugene’s mind as he stalked his home study so that when his private number lit up, and he was given a terse signal to react, he spoke automatically.

"He-eyy, baby girl. Where ya at, sweetheart? Mama and Daddy have been a mite concern—" but his words were cut off by a ghosting, metallic voice.

I have your daughter. In Anchorage. Have one hundred million dollars made available. You will receive the co-ordinates for a drop-off location. The connection was severed.

Alerted to the call, Carrie pushed her way into the room. The shock on Eugene’s face triggered fresh alarm bells in her head, and she reached him just as he slumped down on a divan.

Gene—!

His face was slack. "He said… his voice. Dear God—what if he really has her?"

No, Eugene! Her shrill denial brought a silent figure to their sides as pandemonium erupted around them.

Cell phones trilled with all manner of ring tones and the thrum of helicopter blades vied with the screeching arrival of cars, creating a great cacophony of noise.

Eugene’s silver-haired chief of security flicked out his earpiece and let it drop to his shoulder as he squatted down in front of the couple, laying a tan arm across their knees.

"Gene. Carrie. Look at me. At me, Gene." Only someone who knew Stan Weiz well would have been able to read his deep level of unease. Keep it together, he coached himself grimly.

His career in security spanned over forty years but, as he looked at the Calders’ frozen faces, it was all he could do to hide his growing apprehension. Little of their training would help them now, and he knew his role only too well.

Without betraying more than a flicker of movement, he reacted to a hand signal behind Eugene, and said firmly, "We all need to listen to that conversation now. Hayden has it set up. But, before we do, I want you both to listen to me. Very carefully."

Some of the noise in the room receded as he continued.

"A person called. This person said they have Donna. In Anchorage. There’s a demand for money. Pausing to gauge their reaction, Stan took a slow, deep breath. That could well be the case."

Eugene opened his mouth, but Stan cut him off.

"It could be the case, Gene. The caller knew the number for your private line. However—"

Eugene’s mouth closed, and Stan tried to ignore their mirrored flickers of hope.

However—we need to be prepared for crank calls. Reports of Donna’s disappearance were broadcast over an hour ago, and we know that some folks may react irresponsibly to that news. This time his pause was longer, as he braced himself for his next words. But we also know that Donna isn’t where she said she’d be; therefore we must consider every possibility… and every eventuality.

A low keening began in Carrie’s throat as her fleeting hope was snatched away, and Stan took her hands.

Now, Carrie, I want you to brace yourself. He nodded once and, with perfect clarity, the voice repeated itself to everyone in the room.

Analysis of the call was already underway. While hastily being evaluated by Hayden’s team, it was simultaneously traveling with extraordinary speed and being received by a variety of remote hosts. Technology on every level was being employed to virtually take it apart and reconstruct it and, by the time the recording was heard in the Calders’ home, preliminary results were already being bounced back to the many computers set up around the study. Like a hi-tech tennis match, the data was being served up and delivered.

Carrie turned to bury her face in her husband’s shoulder, and let the tears come.

Some of the techs did a double take at a disturbance in the hallway, as a burly figure headed for the study, flanked by dark-haired men in suits. As the man reached the threshold, someone pointed for him as he rushed in. Dear God! Gene! Carrie! Tommy’s voice shook and, as Stan glanced across the room, he fleetingly noticed the man’s rumpled shirt. The two men’s eyes met briefly before Eugene engulfed his brother in a stranglehold.

Thomas Frederick Calder’s election-winning smile was notably absent, replaced by a shell-shocked mask that mirrored Eugene’s, as he returned the embrace convulsively. Whatever the man may preach to sway voters, his adoration of his niece was beyond question.

Turning Carrie to face him, Tommy held her at arm’s length for a moment before drawing her to him and, as her arms came around him, he stepped back a pace.

Good man. Stan placed an arm around Eugene’s shoulders and ushered him to one side, summoning Hayden with his free hand.

Airborne and motorized searches have been launched, and roadblocks set up, Gene. Pictures of Donna are being broadcast on every major network, and her image is being projected onto electronic billboards across Anchorage.

Enough of a lifetime of training registered for Eugene to understand the inferences. Hours had elapsed without word. Donna wasn’t missing of her own accord. And that voice . . .

Reading Eugene’s growing realization easily enough, Stan continued quickly, Hayden’s team is liaising with the Anchorage authorities, dissecting every probability. He received a nod from his second in command. "The security at every contiguous airport is being… augmented and, if—if she’s not found within another two hours, we head up there."

Tommy’s voice boomed loudly from behind them. Josh, m’boy!

Eugene whipped around. Stepping forward, he reached for his son.

JD didn’t protest, he just looped his arms around his dad’s neck and clutched him, sobbing blindly into his shoulder.

Tommy was beside them in an instant, guiding Carrie before him, and joining them together as she opened her arms to receive her bewildered son.

As Madeline strode in, her coiffed head held high on her slim shoulders, a path opened before her, and Stan thought, Thank Heaven. He watched as the family embraced, before Madeline gently disengaged herself to take JD’s face in her papery hands.

Josh, my darling.

His face was streaked with tears, and he didn’t seem to realize she was there until she tipped his head down and placed a kiss on his forehead.

Grandma? He clutched at her forearms.

An economics student at UT, he’d been in his dorm settling down to some reluctant studying. Trying to push away thoughts of the previous Saturday night, he smiled in anticipation of more of the same that coming weekend when he planned to fly to Anchorage to surprise Carly, who’d accompanied his sister to her performing arts festival.

A bodyguard had burst into the room, the first indication that something was horribly wrong. They always knocked and waited for permission to enter. Always. He’d leapt up defensively, his training kicking in, but then his cell phone had begun to ring and, reading in the guard’s nod that he should take the call, looked down and saw his mother’s number flashing on the screen—then her unrecognizable voice.

As Madeline cupped his cheeks, she said quietly, Carly’s okay, she’s at the hotel with the others. Her soft tones were articulated to soothe, and she studied him closely as she continued, The police are there, and some of your daddy’s people will be arriving to be with her real soon.

He nodded vaguely, her words not news to him, a fact she was well aware of, but she kept working at maintaining eye contact.

Now, I want you to go upstairs, for just a minute. Her gaze shifted to the bulky figure of his friend Ryan standing in the doorway and who, at her look, tentatively began making his way into the room.

Before Ryan could reach them Tommy hooked him into a quick, one-armed hold.

Straightening, Tommy patted his shoulder with a beefy hand. Thank you, Ryan. And then, Good man, echoing Stan’s earlier evaluation of him.

The student blinked rapidly and mumbled, Sir. Eyes still on JD and Madeline, he continued resolutely toward them.

Hello Ryan, dear. Thank you for being here with us at this time.

Ma’am. He was so totally out of his league.

When JD and his bodyguards had come hurtling down the passage in his direction as if all the hounds of hell were chasing them, with intent, Ryan had dropkicked his duffel bag into a wall. As they’d thundered past him, he’d turned and run with them. Here’s big trouble. By the time they’d reached the outer doors and were turning to make for the helipad, JD was gasping out the gist of the situation, and Ryan’s legs were pumping to keep pace.

Now, standing in the usually opulent study of the Calders’ home, he tried to take in the surreal scene as men and women signaled; talking into phones; and operating other blinking devices he couldn’t name. The sounds of arriving and departing helicopters created a monstrous noise outside the window, to add to the chaos.

Then there was JD, the golden boy. His usual grinning face was so ravaged by confusion that Ryan hardly recognized him. This guy was wearing the same clothes as the friend he’d left campus with but, no sooner had the helicopter launched into the air, and JD had taken another phone call, than his already distraught features had simply crumbled; and he’d issued a long, agonized howl that, even now, had Ryan’s hair twitching.

Ryan, dear, would you accompany Josh to his room and give him a hand packing a bag, hmm? Just in case he needs to travel. Madeline’s smile was heartbreaking.

"No! Grandma, I want to listen. I need to hear that voice."

His parents and his uncle exchanged glances but, in a moment Stan was at his side. "Of course. Of course you do, Josh. Come with me." As he drew JD away, he gestured to a surprised Ryan to follow.

Madeline slipped her arm through Ryan’s and, squeezing gently, she murmured, Why don’t we all sit on the divan? as she guided them across the room.

Within moments they were given headphones and half a dozen hands deftly coaxed the plastic and wires into place. Then the eerie, disjointed voice sounded in their heads.

Bile rose in Ryan’s throat, and he only just managed to inhale deeply and swallow it down. This is not happening. The creepy voice had his already twitching arm hairs standing up like crazed antennae. Ashamed of his reaction, he quickly glanced around, but even Madeline seemed to have turned to stone beside him.

As he reached up to remove the headphones, his eyes caught those of a man and woman standing some feet away, watching the scene intently but, before he could process any further thoughts, JD bolted up from the couch.

"HE HAS MY SISTER!!!" he roared, streaking from the room.

Ryan jumped to his feet to follow but, catching a glimpse of Madeline’s pinched features, he saw something in her eyes that made his blood run truly cold. Inevitability. The thought sliced through him. Turning to look at Stan, then at JD’s uncle, he was equally horrified to see the same look on their faces. They think she may not be coming back!

His sheltered brain, trained by the only world it knew, had been reasoning that Donna would be found, unharmed, and would soon be returning home, and that all would be well in Calder world—that all this was just a ruse, an exaggerated pantomime playing out, borne of a lifetime of living with the perceived need for security.

No! Then more emphatically, They’re going to find her. You’ll see! This— Ryan waved his hand, encompassing the room and the field outside the far window, with all its bizarre activity, "This—they’ll find her. They have to." He glared at Stan.

Madeline stood up and touched a hand to his cheek. My dear boy, she breathed, From your mouth to God’s ears. A single tear slipped down her face and dropped to her collar, quickly absorbed by its lilac silk.

Glancing worriedly at JD’s parents, standing huddled with a handful of people he didn’t recognize, Ryan fleetingly wondered if they were harboring the same thoughts. Surely not. But he couldn’t bring himself to look too closely as he turned and followed JD’s path from the room.

Excuse me.

Ryan turned to see an attractive woman in her late twenties standing beside him. He hadn’t been aware of her approach.

My name’s Gillian Toby. Could I ask you to step outside with me for a moment?

He vaguely registered that her accent wasn’t Texan. One of the people who were staring at us from across the room. As he made to answer, she smiled briefly and took his arm, firmly ushering him toward the door and, as her partner fell into step behind them, he was neatly chaperoned along a carpeted hallway and down a short flight of gleaming mahogany stairs.

The room they entered looked like a spare bedroom, the sparse décor suggesting it was seldom used. One wall was dominated by a painting of a yellowed prairie swarming with bloodied buffalo and Indian braves, their red-tipped spears dripping with entrails.

Ryan could almost feel the heat coming off the animals’ steaming bodies, and hear the whoops of the fierce-eyed victors as they shook their fists, still gripped in the thrill of the hunt. He swallowed more bile and averted his gaze.

A bed, covered with a bright russet quilt, took up a corner of the room, in the center of which three chairs were set out around a table dominated by an array of devices that crawled with wires.

Mr. Philips, we’ve been commissioned to conduct voluntary polygraph tests on each and every person deemed to know, to have, or purported to have dealings with the Calder family.

It was the woman’s voice. His sluggish brain caught the word commissioned. That’s what stands out for you when you’re confronted with a lie detector?

Uh… he gestured to the machine—so how does this thing work?

The man, silent up to that point, smiled and took a seat, gesturing for Ryan to do likewise, but Ryan’s upbringing had him indicating with a motion of his arm that the woman should take hers first.

He’d forgotten her name, and thought he saw her blush faintly before she complied. Following suit, he eased himself into a chair as the man reached for his hand and began talking in a non-threatening monotone.

This won’t take too long and, if it hurts, you’re free to throw a punch. Given the size of you, I’ll do my level best to ensure that doesn’t happen.

The man’s avuncular manner relaxed Ryan’s tense shoulders a fraction, even as his inner voice was objecting. This is bullshit, man. They think you had something to do with it. He tried to jerk his hand away.

Look, JD and I are friends. I wouldn’t—

Whoa. The man held up his free hand, still wearing his smile. I must be losing my touch. Son—Gill and I, and every man and woman connected to this household—in fact every Calder employee—either has been, or will be tested today. He let his words sink in for a moment. And each of the Calders will be tested, too.

Ryan’s jaw slackened noticeably.

For insurance purposes, among other things.

He simply stared as the man continued.

As you no doubt know, their security is taken extremely seriously. The man grimaced, no doubt thinking of Donna, and his smile dropped away. Nobody even remotely associated with the Calder’s will go to bed tonight until they’ve submitted to this test. Unless, of course, they choose not to. He extended his hand. My name’s Peter Harper, by the way, and I apologize for going about this all backward. I should have introduced myself first. As you can appreciate, this hasn’t been easy for anyone and, for the first time in the Calders’ history, it seems this may not be just a drill.

Glancing at the woman, Ryan noticed that she’d paled, her expression mirroring her partner’s.

These are good people, she whispered. Bolting from her chair, she dashed into the en suite bathroom and slammed the door behind her.

They heard her blowing her nose vigorously, and then the flush of the toilet as water splashed into the basin. When she reappeared, eyes and nose red-rimmed, Ryan stood to hold out her chair and, as she sat, for a very brief moment she allowed herself to be charmed by his chivalrous manners.

When Ryan emerged from the room, he barely missed colliding with two technicians carrying yet another device into one of the reception rooms. Jeez! They could hear a fart from Mars . . .

From somewhere upstairs came the crash of shattering glass.

JD! As Ryan bolted along the passage and swerved, taking the stairs three at a time, he stopped to make way for suited figures coming down.

What’s happening?

Another phone call, a white-lipped guard whispered, her eyes like side plates in her face. It’s bad. It’s really bad.

All clear below JD’s window? the man beside her enquired into his mouthpiece.

Best keep it that way, one of his partners muttered ominously as they continued past him.

As he reached JD’s room, another crash sounded from behind the door, and he slowly turned the handle.

The place was being totaled. Curtains had been ripped off the walls, pelmets included. Autographed posters of Chester Bennington, Eminem, and the cast of Friends—that one had been the cause of much jibing—lay shredded on the floor. Looking across into the en suite Ryan could see that the huge bathroom mirror had been ripped off the wall, leaving chunks of plaster dangling. Judging by the jagged wedges of glass, he could only guess at its fate.

As he turned to the window he saw what had caused the noise. JD had managed to maneuver his king-sized bed through the wide bay windows, following it with his desk, and was in the process of hurling another piece of furniture out when Ryan entered.

Their eyes met briefly before JD let fly with the chair. It must’ve collided with some of the other furniture on the ground because it landed with a splintering crunch. JD, trembling violently, swiped at a cut above his eye. Lacerations bled down his arms and a deep gash oozed below one of his knees. Bloody footprints chronicled the scene.

Ryan picked his way around scattered cushions and an overturned lounge suite, choosing to perch on a small cabinet whose resident lamp lay twisted amongst the wreckage. He braced his hands on either side of his butt to retain his balance.

JD was breathing like a cornered rhinoceros, eyes darting around.

They roved briefly over Ryan before he noticed one of the fallen curtain rails. Yanking it up, he began beating it against a mahogany poster frame. A dozen thunderous blows later the rail snapped, and wood chips exploded into the air.

JD’s eyes flickered over him again.

Ryan stood. Come, he said gruffly and, adopting a boxer’s stance, curled his hands in a taunting invitation. Both of them had boxed in high school, but JD had also studied MMA, and his speed was legendary.

Ryan planted his feet wide and, to his credit, didn’t flinch.

It didn’t take more than that. JD flew at him, flinging his leg out at the last second in a lightning fast kick, and Ryan just managed to twist, deflecting a blow that would’ve have dropped him. Not only was JD a more seasoned fighter, he was also taller than Ryan. Ryan’s only advantage was his bulk but, in the face of JD’s rage, he didn’t rate his chances particularly highly. As JD launched himself again, Ryan jumped to the same side, but JD anticipated the move and landed a solid kick to his hip before he could counter. Ryan grunted, squinting through the pain and, switching his weight to his other leg, landed a surprise punch to JD’s jaw.

Bring it on, man.

JD did.

For several minutes they beat the spit out of each other. Literally. Both landed heavy punches as spittle spewed from them and, soon, red saliva speckled their shirts. Aiming devastating blows to each other’s bodies, many of which connected, they came together, attacked, and backed off, time and again.

Clinging once more, they eyed each other, each anticipating—looking for a gap. Neither spoke. Their chests were heaving, and Ryan could barely lift his arms. Something’s gotta give, he thought dimly.

JD pushed himself away and feigned a backward dip, then bore down on him again with a scream like something crazed.

Ryan went into a crouch and bumped JD’s shoulder hard. Spinning around, he opened his arms, and simply crushed him.

JD tried to fight him off but Ryan managed to get a good grip on his wrists, arms banded around JD’s biceps, and then he really began to squeeze. Intensifying his hold, Ryan prayed he’d made the right call. If JD got free at such close quarters things were going to go south fast. He squeezed even harder, grunting with the immense effort it was taking to keep JD imprisoned.

JD was roaring, his face contorted as he tried to club Ryan with his head; frantically trying to free himself. Then, suddenly, he lifted his feet off the ground.

Ryan’s mind reeled, desperately trying to find a way to parry the move, but his arms involuntarily slackened with the dead weight an instant before JD’s elbow caught him punishingly in his solar plexus. Winded, his body curled reflexively forward, and JD fell on him like a wounded bear. They crashed to the floor, sweat sluicing off them, both kicking and punching blindly.

JD slipped his leg across Ryan’s midriff; straddled him; and began pounding his fists into Ryan’s torso.

Razor-sharp shards of glass sliced into Ryan’s back as he bucked him off, and they rolled; grappling at each other with slick, bloody hands.

Suddenly, figures loomed over them.

JD cursed savagely, and lashed out at them.

Uh-uh, son, a voice called, but JD was deaf to it. As hands tried to disentangle them, someone crouched and moved a shoulder in to wedge them apart.

Ryan’s shoulders were firmly clasped. Without fighting their hold he kept a wary, swollen eye on JD, bending a knee against possible castration. More bodies poured into the room, and they swarmed over JD like an army of ants; but he fought them, his rage still off the charts.

Come now, boy, someone grunted. There were hissed expletives as JD’s kicks found their marks, and more bodies joined the fray.

Finally, Ryan was torn clear and engulfed in a human blanket of body parts, pinned to the floor, and held there. For long moments he laid still, as bright rockets of light exploded behind his closed lids. This must be how presidents feel when someone shoots at them. Feels like I’ve been shot.

You okay, buddy? someone asked right next to his ear.

He considered the question for a moment and nodded vaguely, having no clue if he actually was or not. The bodies gradually eased off him and, from somewhere nearby, he heard JD’s distinctive grunt. Turning his head, he took care not to move too fast.

The sight that greeted him through a dozen ankles was that of JD, still thrashing, with suited men riding him from chest to shin. Another two held his arms above his head—no, not so much held as tugged. Shit, his shoulders are gonna pop.

JD’s supple ligaments were a blessing to his flexibility, but a curse to joints that are prone to dislocation.

Ryan had manipulated them back into their sockets enough times to know that better than most. He grimly realized that these men knew it too. C’mon, Josh, give it up. He blinked sweat from his eyes.

Dr. Nichols stood inside the doorway, in front of Mizz Liza, whose head appeared over his shoulder. She had a fist in her mouth, and was trying to choke back tears.

What the hell had the caller said? The guard’s saucer-like eyes floated across his mind. It’s bad. His exhausted brain vaguely realized that he was deathly afraid of the answer, but he knew there was no escaping it for much longer—the room had the atmosphere of