“You said my knowing her was one of the reasons you called me. What’s the other?” he asked, impatient now to get to her. He imagined her holed up in a cabin in the mountains. She hated the mountains almost as much as she hated him. It wouldn’t stop her, though. She would wait there until she could contact Cain.
“My people found Boyd tied, hanging by his fingers to his basement rafters. From the looks of the photos, the guy was tortured then mutilated.” Roman heard the shuffling of papers. “I received a copy of the coroner’s preliminary report. Says here Boyd bled to death. Primary weapon used—surgical scalpel. The victim showed signs of acid burns, blunt trauma with multiple fractures and dislocations.”
“Hell,” Mercer said in a tone tinged with hatred. “This could be Amanda’s file, the technique is that similar.”
Images of Amanda’s broken body flashed through Roman’s mind. A cold chill gripped his insides.
“Nigel Threader,” he stated with barely restrained savagery, then pushed the images away. For now.
“That’s what we suspect. However—” he emphasized the word before Roman could interrupt “—we’re not positive. And since you know more about the bastard than his own mother does, you’re Dr. MacAlister’s best bet for staying alive.”
“He’ll go after her,” Roman said flatly, his gaze drawn to a thin pink scar on the back of his hand. He had no doubt that Threader wanted Kate. Flexing his fingers to relieve a phantom ache, he considered the arms dealer’s actions. Threader might be a sick bastard, but he was a brilliant strategist.
“If it’s him, he’s already looking for her,” Mercer agreed, then paused. “My boys got to Boyd just before he died. But he only lived long enough to warn us that Kate was in danger. We didn’t get any names.”
Mercer continued, his voice holding a note of impatience. “Another thing. Someone’s investigating the MacAlister family. We haven’t found the tie-in yet, and whoever it is hasn’t left much of a trail. Could be Threader, could be anybody.”
“It’s Threader.” A bitter certainty cemented Roman’s tone.
There was another pause, this time longer, before the director said his next words carefully. “I’m not wasting my breath with lectures about the dangers of taking missions personally. You’d tell me to go to hell, anyway. But I am going to tell you this—under no circumstance can he or anyone else get that formula, D’Amato. Is that clear? If you can’t save her—”
“I know.” Roman interrupted, not wanting Mercer to finish the order. If he couldn’t get her back safe, killing her himself would be the only alternative, more humane than what waited for her at the hands of a psychopath like Threader.
Even so, Kate’s quick death would be secondary to Roman’s true mission. If he failed to rescue her, he would have to kill her simply because she was the last known source of information on a weapon ten times more powerful than the hydrogen bomb.
It didn’t matter Kate was the only woman he’d ever loved. It didn’t matter he’d already betrayed that love once to keep her safe. What mattered was that millions of people could die at the hands of a madman.
Roman ran his hand through his hair and gave it a vicious yank. Another one of his nightmares had just become a reality.
Chapter Two
They’d found her.
Tossing off the quilt, Kate MacAlister slid from the cushions onto her hands and knees, letting the overstuffed sofa shield her from the front window.
How they’d found her so quickly, she would figure out later. If she lived.
She heard no sound, spotted no movement, but she sensed the threat nonetheless.
Her father would insist her Celt blood hummed the warning. Pure and blessed, it was. A gift passed down from their ancestors to a chosen few, he would say.
A few that included Quentin MacAlister’s offspring.
Whatever it was, remained a mystery to Kate. Yet she learned long ago to accept the warnings, to trust them—just as her brothers did.
So when the fine hair on the back of her neck started to do a tap dance down her spine, it meant only one thing.
Time to move.
Blinking hard, she forced her eyes to adjust to the darkness that enveloped the cabin, keeping her panic at bay while things shifted into decipherable patterns. A solitary light glimmered from across the room as a few embers burned in the fireplace, their dim orange glow barely distinguishable.
She concentrated on filtering out the noises of the night, straining to hear her enemies, waiting for confirmation on what her sixth sense already understood. They were close.
Staying crouched below the back of the couch, Kate pushed the sofa pillows under the covers, then crawled across the room, army-style, her body tight to the floor. Her brother’s dark jersey blended well with the night, although it did little to protect her from the icy dampness of the hard wood. Tremors rippled through her, but from cold or fear Kate wasn’t sure.
Please God, just a few more seconds.
At the wood box by the door, she paused no more than a heartbeat, grabbed a slim log and inched up the wall before shrinking into the shadows.
Blood pounded in her eardrums, its rhythm matching the fierce tempo of her heart. She wanted to claw at her ears to make it stop. Instead she made herself take a deep, calming breath. After the second breath, the hammering eased, yet the terror remained, cloaking her like a damp wool blanket.
Soundlessly the door opened and a large, dark figure slipped into the cabin. She forced back a surge of panic and gripped the makeshift club tighter, disregarding the rough bark as it dug into her palms.
What if there was more than one? How far would they go to get the formula?
Stepping deeper into the shadows, she held her breath when the man’s shape passed within a few feet of her. His movements, silent and deliberate as he maneuvered through the room, reminded Kate of a stalking panther.
Or a professional hit man.
She searched his silhouette for a weapon.
He had none. No gun, no knife, not even a rope. His hands hung indifferently at his sides, empty.
Anger exploded in her head, destroying the knot of fear in her belly.
Why did she think he would bother with a weapon? After all, he probably thought she was an easy target. Some egghead doctor he could knock off with his bare hands. Some weak-kneed nonentity who would die because she had no backbone.
She glared at the man as he circled the room, obviously searching for her computer, unaware of the wrath he left in his wake. He wouldn’t find it—ever. She’d worked too hard on her research to let it drop into undesirable hands.
Kate relaxed her muscles, then rolled her weight to the balls of her feet, offering up a brief prayer of thanks for her brother Ian’s insistence on teaching her the rudiments of self-defense. Using the shadows to cloak her movements, she slowly raised her makeshift club, then waited—and watched.
This egghead doctor is going to knock you clear into Christmas, pal. Then you can go back and tell your boss to forget about his plans for the formula.
With his back toward her, the man paused at the couch. She drew in a deep breath as he reached for the covers concealing the decoy. When he grabbed the quilt, Kate lunged. She swung the log hard, intent on striking the back of his head, only to have it disappear in an inky blur before she felt any impact.
Twisting away, he caught the wood with one hand and jerked it from her grasp. In an instant he grabbed her and sent her flying over the couch