* * *
The baby was giggling, but the woman looked scared out of her mind. Not that it was any of Daniel Boone Anderson’s business. He should have gone back to hunting for the ingredients for pumpkin bread instead of leaving the store and waiting by the employee entrance. The problem was, he hadn’t been too into the holidays during the past few years, and the entire store was decked out with tinsel and Christmas trees and wrapping paper. Every aisle had some reminder of the holiday he least liked to celebrate. The best Christmas had been the one right after Kendal’s birth. Two months before Lana had walked out and taken their daughter with her.
Not Lana. He could almost hear his deceased wife’s voice. The Prophetess Sari. It has been ordained and it will be so.
That had been her mantra when she’d finally contacted him. Six months after he’d returned from Iraq and found their empty apartment—and the note.
But he tried really hard not to think about that.
Four years was a long time to be missing a piece of your heart.
Which was probably why he spent so much time sticking his nose into other people’s business and dealing with other people’s problems.
He followed the woman around the side of the building, hanging back as she walked to an old station wagon. Nothing fancy, but she didn’t seem like the fancy kind. Her jeans were a little too long, their scuffed cuffs dragging along the pavement as she buckled her daughter into a car seat. A long braid hung to the middle of her back. That had been what he’d noticed first—that long fall of golden-blond hair. Then he’d noticed the dark-haired little girl with her dimples and curls. Probably a couple of years younger than Kendal.
She’d turned five a couple of weeks ago.
He imagined her hair had grown long. It was probably straight as a stick, too.
But that was another direction he couldn’t let himself go.
All the begging, all the searching, all the resources that were available, and he still hadn’t been able to find Kendal. She’d been lost to someone in the cult. Probably someone who’d left it. Knowing Lana, she’d handed their daughter off without a second thought as to the child’s welfare.
Boone never stopped thinking about it.
Even in his sleep, he dreamed about his daughter.
He clenched his fist, leaned his shoulder against a brick pillar that supported a narrow portico. Christmas shoppers moved past, hurrying into the store for whatever deal they thought Friday shopping would bring.
He noticed them, tracking their movements in the part of his brain that had been honed by years working long hours deep in enemy territory, but his focus was on the woman and her child. She opened the driver’s door, tossed her purse into the vehicle, glanced around as if she was looking for someone.
Maybe whoever she was running from.
He was sure she was running. He’d seen it in her eyes when she’d lifted her daughter from the grocery cart and run toward the restroom—fear, desperation, all the things he saw in the gazes of the people he was hired to rescue.
The station wagon’s headlights went on, and the woman backed out of the space. He’d have been wise to let her go and let the whole matter drop, but he’d never been all that wise when it came to things like this.
As a matter of fact, he often got himself in way deeper than he should be. Mostly because the one thing he wanted to accomplish, he hadn’t been able to. He couldn’t help himself, but he could help others.
Maybe he really did have an overinflated hero syndrome. That was what his coworker Stella said. She also said it was going to get him killed one day. She might be right about that, too, but he’d rather die trying to help someone than live knowing he hadn’t.
He waited, watching as the woman drove to the edge of the parking lot. That should have been it—her driving out, Boone walking back into the store and retrieving the cart full of stuff that he’d left in aisle one.
Lights flashed near the edge of the parking lot. A hundred yards away, another set of headlights went on. A third followed, this one even closer to the exit the woman had used.
His heart jumped, adrenaline pumping through him, thoughts flooding in so quickly, he barely had time to process them before he was sprinting across the parking lot. Jumping into his SUV. All three cars were already exiting, and he had to wait for an elderly woman to make her way across the parking lot in front of him.
He made it to the exit as the last car turned east, its taillights disappearing from view. He followed, turning onto a narrow two-lane road that meandered through hilly farmland. A quiet road, nearly empty. Which wasn’t good. His car would be easy enough to spot. Whether or not the guy in front of him realized he was being tailed depended on who was in the car.
They were making quite a line. His car, the one in front and two more just ahead of it. Taillights about a quarter mile ahead that he was sure belonged to the woman’s station wagon. He wasn’t sure where they were heading, but he pulled out his cell phone. One thing he’d learned a long time ago—only a fool headed into trouble without backup.
He never had a chance to call for it. One minute, he was keeping his distance, watching the procession of cars. The next, the car in front of him braked hard. He had a split second to realize what was happening before his windshield exploded, bits of glass flying into his face and dropping onto the dashboard.
He accelerated, adrenaline surging, every cell, every nerve alert.
The next shot took out a front tire. The SUV swerved, sideswiping a tree and nearly taking out a stop sign. He fought for control, yanking the vehicle back onto the road, the ruined tired thumping, the procession of cars pulling farther ahead.
“Not good!” he muttered, the SUV protesting as he tried to pick up speed again.
Not going to happen. The bumpy road and the flat tire weren’t a good combination. He jumped out of the SUV, glad he was carrying. He’d been known to leave his Glock at home. Carrying it around made him feel safe, but it also reminded him of loss and heartache. Of a hundred things that he was better off forgetting.
He snagged his cell phone, dialing Jackson’s number, hoping that his friend would pick up. In all the years he’d known the guy, there’d been only a handful of times when he hadn’t been available.
But then, that was the way the entire team was. There wasn’t a member of HEART who wouldn’t be willing to drop anything, travel any distance, risk whatever was necessary to help a comrade.
Jackson answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
“It’s Boone.”
“Yeah. I saw the number,” Jackson said drily. “What’s up?”
“I need your help.”
“With?”
“I’ve got a situation.”
“What kind of situation?” Jackson’s tone changed, his words hard-edged and sharp.
“The kind that involves guns and bullets. A woman. A kid. Three cars that are following her,” he responded.
“You call the police yet?”
“Probably would have been a good idea, but I’m not used to having police to rely on.” He was used to being deep in a foreign country, working in places where the only people he could count on were his team members.
“Where are you?”
“I didn’t see the name of the road. It’s the first right north of the Walmart you brought me to a few days ago.”
“I’ll