Agent Under Siege

By Lena Diaz

Can they outsmart a killer

…who’s already escaped justice?

The Kentucky Ripper is in prison…or is he? When no one will help Teagan Ray find the man who really abducted her, former profiler Bryson Anton agrees to investigate. But soon their search takes two jolting turns—brutal attacks from a cunning suspect…and a powerful mutual attraction.

From Harlequin Intrigue: Seek thrills. Solve crimes. Justice served.

The Justice Seekers

Book 1: Cowboy Under Fire

Book 2: Agent Under Siege

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harlequin Intrigue
• Release date: Jan 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781488067112

Lena Diaz

Lena's heart belongs to the rolling hills of her homestate of Kentucky. But you're more likely to see her near the ocean these days in northeast Florida where she resides with her hubby and two children. A former Romance Writers of America's Golden Heart® finalist, she's also a four-time winner of the Daphne du Maurier award and a Publisher's Weekly Bestseller. When not writing, she can be found sprucing up her flower beds or planning her next DIY project.

Book preview

Chapter One

Long before the shadow fell across the end of the dock and hovered over Bryson Anton’s wheelchair, he knew the man was there. Motion sensors and security cameras had made Bryson’s watch buzz against his wrist when the man parked his car in the driveway. More messages warned when the man crossed the back patio. And again, when he’d descended the gently sloping lawn that ended at the creek. Bryson didn’t care who was now standing behind him, as long as he didn’t have to engage in conversation.

Nice place, the man’s voice rang out. Probably one of the highest views in the Tennessee side of the Smoky Mountains. I’ll bet at night you can see nearly every light in downtown Gatlinburg from here.

Bryson sighed but didn’t turn around. My former boss took pity on me after I got myself hurt on the job. He gave me a boatload of money, and I was selfish enough to take it and buy this property. But that doesn’t mean he can drop by any time he wants.

I’m still your boss. I haven’t accepted your resignation.

That’s not how it works, Mason. I resigned, whether you accept it or not. I’ll never be a Justice Seeker again. I’m not going back to Camelot. You and your knights of the round table are better off without a washed-up former profiler jacking up your investigations.

Is that why you’re sitting out here drinking like a fish, because you think you jacked up everything?

Something like that. Bryson grabbed a can of beer from the cooler beside his wheelchair and popped the top. He took a deep long swallow, more to irritate his unwelcome visitor than because he wanted it.

Mason retrieved a beer and eyed the label, then tossed it back unopened. Fish biting?

Do you see a fishing pole around here somewhere? Bryson emptied his can in the water and dropped it on his lap before wheeling around. Enjoy the view as long as you want. You paid for it. He rolled his chair up the flagstone walkway toward the house.

Dalton and Hayley missed you at their wedding last week. Mason fell into step beside him.

Yeah, well. I didn’t have time to learn the latest dance steps. He stopped at the sliding glass doors and tossed the empty beer can in the recycle bin. When he reached for the door handle, Mason leaned past him and held it closed.

Bryson swore. What do you want from me?

"I want you to do your job. A new client came to Camelot yesterday. She specifically wants to hire you."

He scoffed. You expect me to believe she asked for a washed-up former FBI agent to screw up her case so someone else will die? If she did, send her on over. I can accomplish that without lifting a finger.

Mason leaned back against the door. That’s a heck of a guilty conscience you’re nursing. Or are you just feeling sorry for yourself? He waved toward the wheelchair. If you’d actually go to your physical therapy appointments instead of being a no-show half the time, you’d be out of that thing by now. Don’t look so surprised. I pay your insurance premiums. I see what’s billed. And there’ve been a surprising lack of medical invoices lately. You’ve given up, Bryson. The question is why?

Why? he gritted out. "Let me remind you that when I was the FBI’s golden boy, everyone treated my profiles like biblical text. So when I presented them with a profile for the Kentucky Ripper, they focused all their efforts on Avarice Lowe, the suspect at the top of my list. Meanwhile, Leviathan Finney—the real Ripper—was no longer under surveillance. To celebrate, he kidnapped and gutted another woman. Because of me, he was able to kill again."

"Because of you, the police were able to significantly narrow their list of suspects much faster than they could have otherwise. The choices they made after that weren’t your fault. Hell, Bryson. If it wasn’t for the work you did, it would have taken far longer to catch the Ripper and put him in prison."

Tell that to the family of the last woman he killed.

Mason shook his head. I hear someone anonymously sends money to the last victim’s family every month. While I admire the generosity and kindness of the gesture, that person is making payments on a debt he doesn’t owe. The only person responsible for that woman’s death is the man who killed her—Leviathan Finney.

Bryson fisted his hands on the arms of the wheelchair. Are we about done here? It’s getting late.

Big plans tonight?

I have to wash my hair.

Mason let out a deep sigh. Just explain one thing, then I’ll go. Why now? You left the FBI over three years ago and started working for me as one of the Justice Seekers. Why is the Ripper case bothering you again after all this time?

Bryson stared at him incredulously. "Bothering me again? It never stopped bothering me. But I tried to make something good from the bad, atone for my sins by working investigations for you. And what did I do? I nearly got Hayley killed, got myself shot and here I sit with shrapnel they can’t dig out of my hip without risking the loss of my leg. Do I sit here feeling sorry for myself? No. I don’t deserve anyone’s sympathy, least of all my own. The people who deserve sympathy are the ones I’ve hurt, those who nearly died because of me, and the one who did. Accept my resignation and leave me alone. I’m not going to risk hurting anyone else. I’m done."

Mason’s jaw worked as he stared past him toward the creek. A full minute passed in silence before he finally met Bryson’s gaze again. Sounds like you’ve made up your mind.

Bryson arched a brow. Sounds like you’re finally listening.

Oh, I’ve been listening. I just don’t like what I’m hearing. He pulled a thick neon green folder covered with pink polka dots out from beneath his suit jacket and dropped it onto Bryson’s lap. Guess you won’t be needing this.

He eyed the folder like he’d eye a coiled rattlesnake. What is that hideous thing?

I was asked to give it to you. It’s from the client I told you about, the one who requested that you work on her case. She put her pursuit of a master’s degree in criminal justice on hold to perform research on an alleged serial killer. She believes that you’re the only person who can convince the police that her conclusions are reasonable and help her catch him. She provided a summary of her research in that folder.

Bryson snorted and shook his head. If she’s convinced that a failed criminal profiler is the key to her theory, then she needs to go back to school. Her deductive reasoning is skewed.

Personally, I found her work intriguing, her theories compelling. And I’ve already got my master’s in criminal justice, not to mention a decade of experience as a chief of police and another seven years after that running The Justice Seekers. Mason straightened and tugged his suit jacket into place. But I can see that I’m not going to change your mind. The funny thing is, I never took you for a quitter. Even after the FBI.

Yeah, well. I never thought I’d be responsible for another innocent person almost being killed either. Guess we were both wrong.

Mason stared at him a long moment, then looked past him again toward the dock. That really is a gorgeous view. Let me know when you decide to go fishing. I can bring a pole, throw out a line. He gave him a hard look. "All of your brothers and sisters at Camelot would love to toss you a line, including Hayley. You just have to ask." He shoved his hands in his pants pockets and strode away without waiting for a reply.

Bryson dropped his gaze to the ridiculous-looking pink-and-green folder in his lap. He stared at it long after he could no longer hear the sound of Mason’s car driving away. Long after the sun began to set and the mosquitos started buzzing around his ears. Long after the twinkling lights of Gatlinburg reflected in the sliding glass door, studding the night sky like glitter on a black velvet canvas.

Then he tossed the folder in the trash.

Chapter Two

Teagan whistled as she stepped out of her car onto the brick-paved driveway. It was as if she was standing on top of the world, with the entire Smoky Mountains range spreading out around her in 360-degree views. There wasn’t another house in sight, just the rambling one-story stone-and-brick mansion set so far back from the main road that she hadn’t seen it until she’d almost passed it.

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected of the home of a former FBI special agent, but it wasn’t this. Either the FBI was paying way better than most people realized, or Bryson Anton’s post-FBI career paid extremely well. He’d spent three years so far with The Justice Seekers, an agency of former law enforcement officers and ex-military whose professed goal was to obtain justice for people who couldn’t get it via the traditional route. Having seen their quirky, state-of-the-art headquarters that they’d dubbed Camelot, she figured it was a safe assumption that’s where Bryson had made his money.

When she reached the front porch, she was surprised that in addition to the broad front steps there was a ramp concealed behind the landscaping. No rocking chairs dotted the wide expanse. No flowers decorated the empty cedar window boxes, even though it was the middle of spring. If she had to describe the expensive, sprawling home in one word, it would be...lonely.

She was about to knock on the frosted glass double door when the left side jerked open. She blinked in slack-jawed admiration at the incredible work of art that greeted her wearing nothing but a frown and a white towel draped around his hips. His dark, shoulder-length hair was damp. Beads of water clung to the hair on his golden, sculpted chest. It almost killed her not to reach out and trace the trail of one very happy bead that ran toward his six-pack abs and disappeared below the top of his towel. On a scale of one to ten, she rated him sexy-as-hell.

Hi. Of all the compelling, intelligent, well-formulated introductions that her summa cum laude education could have provided her, she came up with that one-word bit of brilliance. She cleared her throat so she could properly introduce herself.

It’s about time you got here, he practically growled. I’ve been trying to work the cramps out of my hip all morning. If the muscles aren’t loosened up soon, I’ll end up in the wheelchair the rest of the day abusing an exquisite bottle of scotch.

Leaning heavily on the cane in his right hand that she only just noticed, he limped across the expensive-looking shiny white floor before stopping beside one of the biggest black leather couches she’d ever seen. Except for the other couch in the room, which was just as big. The two of them formed an L with their backs to the bump-out of windows near the garage.

Where do you want me? he asked.

Was that a trick question? On a bed, on the kitchen counter, anywhere. Since he appeared to be waiting for an answer to his ridiculous query, she had to rewind the brief conversation in her head and remember what he’d said when he’d opened the door. Her previously absent brain clicked into gear, and she realized he was likely expecting either a massage therapist or a personal trainer. For his left hip, the one he was favoring as he leaned toward the cane on his right side. Apparently he wanted her to tell him where he should sit, or lie down, or whatever was required so that she could work out his muscle cramps.

Her ovaries screamed at her to say yes to anything he wanted. But it wouldn’t be ethical to let this go on any longer when it was obviously a case of mistaken identity. All she had to do was tell him who she was and why she was there.

Now if she could just stop drooling long enough to remember her name.

He frowned. What’s wrong? He glanced down at his towel. I’ve got boxers on if you’re worried that I’m naked under here.

"Oh, no, trust me. That wouldn’t bother me at all." Drop the towel. And the boxers. Please. She cleared her throat. What I meant to say is that—

The doorbell rang, followed by a knock on the glass.

He swore. Ever since my old boss came by yesterday, you’d think this was a Walmart on Black Friday. This makes the third person to come by in two days.

Three visitors in two days. A veritable siege.

He gave her an odd look.

She smiled. It was either that or give in to the barbaric urge to grab his towel and toss it away. She curled her fingernails against her palms, trying her best to keep him safe.

His face was a study in pain as he limped to the door. She wondered at the source of that pain. His employer hadn’t mentioned anything about an injury. Mason had only stated that Bryson was on temporary leave, but that he’d be more than happy to return to take her case. She had a feeling that Mason might have stretched the truth. A lot.

He opened the door with a bit of wariness this time, keeping his lower half hidden behind it.

Unable to make out what was being said, Teagan imagined it was far more clever than her conversation since they spoke longer than it took to say, Hi. When he stepped back, a rather impressive woman entered. Bright, attention-getting red hair floated above baby-blue scrubs. She marched across the room with the authority of someone who had a legitimate reason to be there. Teagan was quite certain that the woman’s muscular arms would have made a linebacker blush with envy. After snapping a white linen in the air and tucking it around the couch cushions, she ordered Bryson to lose the towel and lie down.

Teagan debated what to do. Should she go or should she stay?

You. Bryson pointed at her. Sit over there until I can stand again without wanting to drown myself in a bottle of tequila. Then we’ll find out who you are and what you’re doing here.

He dropped his towel and lay down on the couch, his left leg facing out toward the room. His thighs were just as muscular and beautiful as the rest of him. Wowzah.

The woman that Teagan mentally dubbed Helga placed a pad on the floor by the couch and propped her knees on top of it. Strong, man-size hands were stuffed into latex gloves. Then she shoved the side of Bryson’s boxers up his leg and proceeded to squeeze and pummel his hip.

Personally, Teagan wouldn’t have bothered with the gloves.

She tossed her purse onto the other couch and plopped down to enjoy the show. It was over far too soon. She almost groaned in disappointment when Bryson pushed to his feet, then pronounced his cramps gone and thanked the therapist. A few minutes later, Helga had left and Bryson returned from his bedroom in a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt.

Since the jeans caressed his muscular thighs and tight rear end and the T-shirt did nothing to hide the perfection of his pecs, Teagan decided that she didn’t mind that he’d put on some clothes. It was a pleasure seeing the perfect male specimen in varying stages of undress. She just wished she could see him completely undressed for a fair comparison.

He limped to her couch, looking just as adorably grumpy as he had when he’d jerked open the front door and complained about her taking so long to get there. Well, complained that Helga had taken so long.

Spill it, he said. Mason sent you, didn’t he?

I wouldn’t put it that way.

How would you put it?

I’d say that I went to Mr. Ford and asked if I could hire you. He said he was certain that you’d be interested, but that I’d have to ask you personally. He graciously provided your address and here I am. Technically, I sent myself. She remained seated on the ultra-plush couch and offered her hand. Teagan Ray. Nice to meet you.

He didn’t bother with a handshake. Bryson Anton. I don’t work for Mason Ford anymore. Get out of my house.

Chapter Three

No.

Bryson stared at the defiant young woman sitting cross-legged on his couch. There was nothing about her sensible flat shoes, her conservative navy blue dress pants and short-sleeved white blouse that buttoned all the way to her neck to indicate that she was a radical militant bent on destroying the rest of his miserable morning. Even her black hair, which appeared to be curly based on the little wisps that framed her face, was mostly tamed in a tight braid that hung down the middle of her back. So why wasn’t she cowed by his sour disposition and gruff commands? And why was she still sitting on his couch?

Perhaps you didn’t hear me correctly, Ms. Ray.

Call me Teagan. I’ll call you Bryson. She flashed a bright white smile that probably cost her parents a second mortgage.

Ms. Ray, you may call me Mr. Anton, or the jerk who’s throwing you out of his house. Because that’s exactly what I’m doing. Tossing you out. I didn’t invite you here so—

Actually, you did.

Excuse me?

She tapped her temple as if that would explain everything. I have a photographic memory. I basically see words—

I know what a photographic memory is, he bit out.

Excellent. It’s good to use terminology we’re both familiar with for the absolute best understanding, with no confusion. A common frame of reference will help us communicate better. Don’t you think?

"You lost me at no confusion."

She grinned. She seemed to do that a lot. Let’s go back to the part where you invited me here.

I didn’t invite you.

When Mr. Ford told you about me, you told him, ‘You expect me to believe she asked for a washed-up former FBI agent to screw up her case so someone else will die? If she did, send her on over.’ She spread her hands out beside her. Here I am. Plus you invited me in at the front door. It’s kind of like with vampires, once you let them in, that’s it. You can’t just throw them out.

Watch me. He tossed his cane on the other couch, then scooped her up in his arms.

Her dark brown eyes got so wide he could see the beautiful little golden flecks around the irises.

He whirled around, then stumbled and had to steady his shin against the coffee table to keep from tipping over.

She boldly looped her tawny-brown arms around his neck and stared up at him with a look of concern. "I’m not sure you should be holding me like this without your cane. I don’t want you to hurt yourself. Plus, even as gorgeous—with a capital G—as you are, I still think we should