When Lightning Strikes

By Aimée Thurlo

He was a force of nature, with piercing dark eyes and muscled flesh honed to strike fast. Daniel Eagle, code name Lightning, was an agent with the Gray Wolf Pack, an elite investigation agency that specialised in difficult cases in the Four Corners area. His assignment: to find Hannah Jones, possible amnesia victim, as well as a large sum of money reported to be stolen. Despite the warnings Daniel was given about her, his gut told him there was more to this case than met the eye. And when Hannah was almost kidnapped, he was sure of it. Hannah might be a living, breathing temptation, but she was no thief. The only thing she could be guilty of would be stealing Daniel’s heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Aug 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781488785207

Aimée Thurlo

David and Aimee Thurlo are award-winning authors who, together, wrote romantic suspense for Harlequin Intrigue until Aimee’s passing in 2014. David continues to write and maintain their web site at http://www.aimeeanddavidthurlo.com. The Thurlo novels have been translated into a dozen languages and are available worldwide.

Book preview

Prologue

Hannah Jones opened her eyes and looked around in confusion, fear squeezing her heart. She was alone in the passenger seat of a car, but it was one that was totally unfamiliar to her and, worst of all, she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten there.

A faint ray of sunlight stabbed at her eyes and she shut them, trying to will away the merciless pounding in her head. Gathering her courage, she drew in a deep breath, but regretted it instantly. The smell of cheap cigars that permeated the worn upholstery made her gag and start coughing.

She tried to sit up, but something yanked her arm back hard, pinning her down on the right side. Pain swept across her skull in waves that left her feeling weak and shaky.

Moving more carefully this time, she leaned forward slightly and looked down. Her right wrist was handcuffed to the seat belt bracket that was bolted to the floor of the car beside the door.

Her heart began drumming frantically, one thought paramount in her mind. She had to find a way to get out of the car and escape. Every instinct she possessed screamed that she was in mortal danger.

As she tugged at the handcuff, Hannah became aware of a man’s voice nearby. She raised up slightly in her seat and looked out the driver’s side window. A tall, disheveled man was standing a dozen or so feet away beside a juniper tree, speaking into a cell phone. Shadows crossed his face, distorting his features, but even without that she knew he was bad news. His beefy hand was wrapped around a can of the area’s most popular beer, and he was pacing as he spoke, his steps slightly unsteady.

Isn’t there some other way? You never said I had to kill her.

Terror seized her like a cold, clammy hand squeezing her throat. Desperate to escape, she tugged and twisted the handcuff looking for a weak spot. The bracket was rusted and worn, and the more she tugged, the looser it became.

Putting everything she had into it, Hannah yanked once more and the bracket broke loose, freeing her hand. Though she still had the handcuff on her right wrist, she was now able to move.

Hannah looked over at the driver’s side and saw that the key was in the ignition. She had her chance now. She started to slide over when the man turned and looked right at her.

No you don’t! he growled, lunging toward her through the open window.

Ducking back, she grasped the dangling metal cuff in her right hand, and using it as makeshift brass knuckles, turned and punched him. Hannah heard the sickening crunch that signaled she’d broken his nose.

Her attacker groaned and stumbled back, blood flowing down his face.

In a heartbeat, Hannah slipped behind the wheel, switched on the ignition, then pressed down hard on the accelerator. The tires spewed gravel and the rear end fishtailed on the loose road surface as she raced away. One quick look in the rearview mirror revealed her injured attacker running after the car, but losing ground rapidly.

Hannah spotted the highway ahead of her in a gap between the trees and aimed for daylight. Too afraid to slow down, she swung out onto the pavement, tires squealing, leaving the scent of burning rubber in the air. She knew she was in an old car, and it was dangerous to proceed at this speed for long, but the alternative, falling into the hands of a killer, was not an option.

From the road sign, Hannah realized she was south of Shiprock, heading west up the road that led to Narbona Pass. A cop car suddenly raced past her in the other lane, sirens wailing. She hit the horn, but he kept on going. He probably hadn’t heard her over the siren and that meant she was out of luck.

She needed a new plan, and she needed it fast. Remembering that her assailant had been speaking to someone else, and afraid that the other person would show up to help him, she turned off the highway and drove down the first dirt road where she could see a roof among the trees. She needed to get to a phone and call for help, and the roof she’d seen was bound to be attached to a house back here somewhere.

Hannah had only gone about a quarter of a mile when she suddenly heard a dull pop and the steering wheel jerked out of her hands, pulling the car toward the piñon and juniper trees that lined her route. As she wrestled with the wheel, she took her foot off the gas pedal and slowly braked to a stop.

Still fearful of pursuit, Hannah looked up and down the road but, for the moment at least, it appeared deserted. She climbed out, guessing she’d blown a tire, and a quick look proved her right. There was no spare in the trunk. From now on she’d have to travel on foot but first she had to hide the car, in case the man came after her.

Hannah climbed back into the sedan, started the engine, and managed to coax the vehicle down to a low spot among the trees before it got stuck. Here, below the road level, it would be hidden somewhat from her attacker if he came down the road.

Hannah climbed back up to the road and, using the soles of her shoes, smoothed out the tire tracks as best she could that showed where she’d left the road. Then she looked around again carefully, trying to spot the roof she’d seen from the highway. Up ahead was a well-constructed fence, a graded road, and a metal gate with a sign that read Private Property. With luck, she’d find a cabin or someone’s house up that road.

The fence was strong and tightly constructed, and it was easy to climb over, but the hike became difficult after that since it was mostly uphill. As she pressed on, she searched her mind for answers. She still didn’t know how she’d ended up in that man’s car. The last thing she remembered was going to the church where she worked as an accountant part-time to search for her uncle, who was a deacon there.

As Hannah concentrated, willing herself to remember, vague images of out-of-focus faces and the sound of angry voices echoed in her mind, filling her with cold terror. She held on to that fragmented vision, trying to make sense of it all, but answers eluded her.

Focusing on the present again, she looked around, unable to suppress the feeling that danger was still close by. There would be time to remember later, after she’d reached safety. Right now she had to concentrate on finding help.

The road was not graded here, and the going was rough. Hannah jumped as a squirrel darted out in her path. The small, frightened animal froze, stared at her, then raced off into the bushes.

Sympathy filled her heart. Fear was the common denominator that bound all of nature in its daily fight for survival. But, in order to stay alive, she’d have to push back her fears and allow instinct and intelligence to guide her. It would be dark soon and she didn’t want to be wandering about then. She was alone and no one, except the wolves, ever spared a thought for those lost and seeking shelter in the night.

Chapter One

It was such a great morning to be outside that Daniel Eagle was reluctant to step into the warehouse that housed Gray Wolf Investigations. The sky was a clear blue, and the weather cool though it was late September. It was his kind of day. Even having a flat tire to change on the way here couldn’t spoil his mood. He felt energized, and the last place he wanted to be was inside the stark warehouse on the eastern outskirts of Farmington, New Mexico, sitting through a briefing. Unfortunately, it was his job. Using his key, Daniel let himself in through the windowless metal door, then walked over to one of the four overstuffed leather chairs that occupied the small office area.

Lightning, an electronically altered voice coming over a microphone said in greeting. You’re late.

Couldn’t be helped, he answered curtly, facing the video camera attached on the wall opposite the chairs. If Handler wanted a long explanation, he’d ask for it.

You’re part of the Gray Wolf Pack. We have an impeccable reputation, and that’s partly because I won’t tolerate unprofessional behavior like tardiness.

Daniel said nothing. A warning had been given, and excuses about car trouble wouldn’t help. At Gray Wolf Investigations the only thing that mattered was results. The agency specialized in catching thieves, finding missing people, and retrieving lost or stolen property around the Four Corners area, or beyond if required. They were the best. Gray Wolf usually took on cases the police wouldn’t or couldn’t accept, and their reputation had been built on the nearly one hundred percent success rate they maintained.

The agency also assured secrecy and privacy for both clients and personnel. Cases were kept strictly confidential, and known only to Handler, who was the owner of the agency, Mr. Silentman, his assistant, the operative assigned to the case, and the client. Names were kept to a minimum, once the case was accepted. Each operative had a code name assigned to them by Handler. Daniel’s was Lightning, and his cases usually involved a high level of action and/or quick extractions that suited his nature and training perfectly.

The fact that none of them, except possibly Mr. Silentman, ever saw Handler had certainly piqued Daniel’s curiosity, especially at first. To make sure everything was legit, he’d done an exhaustive background check on the agency before applying for a job with them, but everything had checked out.

He’d speculated that Handler had chosen to keep his identity a secret because he was a public figure, or maybe Handler and Mr. Silentman were one and the same. Mr. Silentman looked like a man who wanted to be thought of as polished, but knew he didn’t quite make the grade. Perhaps inventing Handler had been his way of adding a touch of mystique to the agency so that clients were bound to remember. But no matter what the explanation, the bottom line was that Handler continued to be a mystery.

Yet, despite all the open questions, being associated with the best private investigation agency in the southwest had certainly appealed to Daniel. He’d worked hard to get the job though it hadn’t been easy. At first Handler had been skeptical about hiring him. Daniel was told that all the operatives were required to carry a firearm, something Daniel refused to do. He’d obeyed that policy during his eight years as a cop, but he’d sworn the day he left that he would never pack a gun again.

Yet, after seeing the full extent of Daniel’s skills as a master of several martial arts disciplines, Handler had changed his mind and offered the tough Navajo loner the job. As Lightning had proven, even something as innocent as a straw, in the right hands, could become a deadly weapon.

Now, even after three years with the agency, Daniel only knew two other members of the Gray Wolf Pack—as Handler called them—his cousin, Ben Wanderer, who had recruited him, and Riley Stewart, a former Denver cop they’d both known for many years.

Lightning, I’m going to turn you over to Mr. Silentman now. As always, he’ll be your contact, Handler said.

A tall Navajo man with black hair and brown eyes strode into the room. He was a big, self-confident man who could appear threatening simply by changing his posture and standing ramrod straight. Daniel always got a feeling that Silentman was a street kid who’d spent most of his life trying to forget his roots, and the taint that had left on his soul. Although Daniel knew his first name was Burke, Silentman had made it clear that he preferred to be addressed by his last name.

Daniel wondered if Silentman was a code name or his real name. He’d probably never know. The name wasn’t unusual for a Navajo, but he’d never met a family by that name. Then again, the Rez was a very big place.

At the moment, in his Western-cut suit, he looked like a cross between a cowboy and an oilman. Yet something about his eyes and the tension in his rigid shoulders told Daniel that he was a man who’d seen violence up close and personal and was capable of dishing out as good as he got.

Silentman handed Daniel a large, brown envelope. Examine the contents, please, he said, then sat on the leather chair across from Daniel.

Daniel opened the envelope, and a photo of an attractive dark-haired Anglo woman fell into his lap.

Meet Miss Hannah Jones. She’s the twenty-eight-year-old niece of Robert Jones, a real estate broker and deacon at the Riverside Mission Church in Farmington.

Daniel studied the portrait. Hannah Jones was beautiful in a girl-next-door kind of way. A man would remember Hannah for life once he’d gazed into those hazel eyes. Her black hair fell over her shoulders in soft waves like a dark veil against her alabaster skin. She didn’t use much makeup, and that fact only served to heighten the natural innocence mirrored on her face. She was the type of woman who would make a man willingly give up a playoff game to take her grocery shopping.

Hearing a knock, Silentman stood up and opened the door leading to the waiting room reserved for clients.

A tall, balding man wearing a herringbone jacket, conservative brown tie and coordinating slacks came in and greeted Silentman.

He walked stiffly to one of the leather chairs, and as he passed by, Daniel noticed the large bandage that covered an apparent injury on the back of his skull.

This is Robert Jones. He represents our Riverside Mission clients, Silentman explained, taking the paper sack Jones handed him. He’ll brief you on the rest.

The man never offered to shake hands with Daniel, making him wonder if it was out of respect for the investigator’s Navajo ways, or for another reason entirely. Prejudice reared its ugly head everywhere, even here, a stone’s throw from the Navajo Nation. Or maybe Deacon Jones just didn’t mingle with the hired help.

I’m very worried about my niece, Mr.…Lightning, is it?

Daniel nodded once.

She’s been…fragile most of her life.

You’ll have to be more specific, Daniel said.

Robert Jones pressed his lips together and stared at the floor for a long time before answering. My niece has had severe psychological problems in the past. She’s not usually violent….

You don’t have to mince words with me, Daniel said, addressing the man’s obvious reluctance to speak freely. I’m on your side. But I need to know exactly what I’m up against, and what’s expected of me.

Fair enough. Deacon Jones leaned forward to speak, grimacing from the effort. Hannah spent time in a psychiatric institution many years ago, and perhaps should be there now. Truthfully, my niece hasn’t been right since she came to live with me after her father committed suicide fifteen years ago. But this time, I think she’s really gone over the edge.

Daniel thought about the bandage on Jones’s head, wondering if someone had coldcocked him. It was clear Jones was in pain.

There’s a bandage at the base of your skull. Did she do that?

I was clobbered from behind, so I can’t honestly tell you if she’s responsible, he said in a heavy voice. All I can say for sure is that I saw Hannah’s purse on a desk when I came into the church office. I heard movement behind the door, then suddenly felt this incredible pain. I went numb and passed out. When I came to, I had the biggest headache in the world, and my hair was wet with blood. Hannah’s purse was gone, along with the church’s operating funds—about two thousand dollars, give or take. That was yesterday after lunch. Now, nobody can find Hannah. Her car is gone as well.

What about your niece’s mother? Have you spoken to her, and has she heard from Hannah? Daniel asked.

Hannah’s mother died of cancer sixteen years ago. My niece has had a hard life and, in the past, she’s suffered from depression and fugue states. She could turn up just about anywhere without the slightest idea of how she got there, or how to get back. The one thing that surprises me is that she’s never been violent before.

So why is she going sour now? Any ideas?

I think it’s pressure. She’s been trying to run her own business from her home, a small bookkeeping firm, though I advised her against it. In my opinion, she simply took on more than she could handle. A month ago, I learned that she’d been having problems meeting deadlines and that she was losing clients left and right. My guess is that things got too tough for her to handle, just like I feared they might.

What you’ve presented to us sounds like a police matter. Why not just go to them and save yourself a private investigator’s fee?

I don’t want to have my niece thrown in jail, or leave her at the mercy of the police, who might end up shooting her if she resists arrest or becomes violent. When I spoke to Mr. Silentman, he assured me you don’t carry a weapon. That was one of the reasons I asked the board at the church to let me hire you.

What about the money she stole. Is that low priority? Daniel asked.

It’s secondary to getting her back safely, and avoiding unnecessary publicity.

You didn’t mention a husband, so I assume there isn’t one. But what about a boyfriend or fiancé? Have you talked to him? Daniel asked.

There is no boyfriend at the moment. We haven’t asked her clients or anyone else if they know her whereabouts because we’re trying not to reveal the fact that she’s disappeared. We don’t want the police involved and discretion seems the best way to insure that. We’re trusting you to be equally discreet, Jones answered.

I’ll respect your wishes. Now tell me, do you have any idea where she might have gone? Daniel asked.

No, I really don’t. Hannah’s probably confused and desperate, and that makes her unpredictable, even more so than normal. I know she hasn’t gone home, and hasn’t reported in with her clients. I got that much from checking her answering machine. She had several urgent calls waiting there.

What are her favorite hangouts?

Hannah wasn’t raised to be frivolous. She works hard, and when she’s not working, she does volunteer work at the church.

Daniel said nothing. From the look on Deacon Jones’s face, it was clear that he didn’t approve of leisure time. Daniel had met people like that on occasion, but it wasn’t a mind-set he understood. The extreme form of the Anglo work ethic was quite a bit different from that of the Navajos, who believed that work held no virtue in and of itself. It was only a way to live one’s life comfortably.

Daniel watched Jones squirm for a few more moments. The man was clearly nervous as well as being physically uncomfortable. Daniel had a gut feeling that there was more to Hannah Jones’s story than her uncle was saying.

Who are her close friends? I need to talk to them and see if they can give me any leads.

Hannah has many friends. I’ve made a list. But most of these people are ones I also know well. I haven’t asked them directly, but I know from conversations I’ve had with them that they don’t even know she’s missing. Robert Jones reached into his pocket, brought out a list, and handed it to Daniel. I wish I had more information, but that’s all the help I can give you.

Mr. Silentman, who’d been silent until now, suddenly spoke. "In that case, we’ll take care of things from here, Mr. Jones. Lightning is your operative and will handle your case exclusively. You can expect results, and soon. One more thing. May I assume that this paper sack contains what I asked for—an item of her clothing with her scent on it?"

Jones nodded. It’s a blouse from her laundry hamper.

Thank you for coming to meet with us, Mr. Jones. Lightning will be in touch just as soon as we have something.

After the client left, Daniel waited for Silentman’s final instructions.

Your usual backup is ready, Lightning. He’ll meet you in the garage by the agency’s SUV. Your cousin will deliver him to you.

I really prefer to handle this on my own.

It’s not your choice to make, Silentman said handing him the paper sack. Here. Should the right opportunity arise, your partner will put this to good use.

Daniel didn’t argue further, knowing it would be futile. After parking his pickup in the warehouse’s garage, he went to retrieve the SUV. The agency’s sport utility vehicle was equipped with a lot of extras. It came with camping gear, a cell phone and pager, flashlights, shovels, special run flat tires that would allow them