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  She gave Dana her list. “Have you talked to Bayard since you’ve been here?”

  Dana’s jaw firmed. She didn’t like Marc Bayard or the FBI. Over the past few months Bayard had questioned her on a number of occasions about her involvement with Lopez and the fact that, years ago, she had been implicated in the theft of money from Lopez’s account. Dana hadn’t voluntarily had anything to do with either Lopez or the theft. Her association with Esther Morell had made her an unwitting pawn, but that hadn’t made the interviews any less unpleasant. “Don’t worry about Bayard, or your job. You don’t have to go back after this.”

  Taylor’s reaction was knee-jerk. Uh-uh. No way was she not going back.

  Without her job she would die.

  The next time she woke up Jack Jones was standing just inside the doorway, as large as life, a faithful rendition of the graying-at-the-temples version she’d seen at her bedside the previous day.

  Whether it was the sedative effect of the painkillers or the possibility that she was hallucinating, Taylor didn’t blink. She stared at his jaw and at eyes a lot like her own, and for a split second she was ten again and the loss was wrenching.

  As a child, she had imagined Jack Jones walking back into her life in a dozen different ways. She and Dana would be told that there had been a mistake; he hadn’t died, someone else had. Or, he had been revived in hospital—or even the morgue. Better still, his death, the funeral—the stark emptiness—had never happened. They had been part of a nightmare and one day she would wake up.

  Years had passed; she hadn’t woken up.

  She met his gaze. The pressure banding her chest buttoned off as she adjusted to the cold fact that Jack Jones was very much alive. That for over twenty years he had chosen to let her believe he was dead. “How did you get in here?”

  “Taylor, I’m sorry—”

  “How did you get in here?”

  He lifted his shoulders. “I said I was your uncle.”

  She gasped for breath. The deep, gritty pain in her chest edged through the haze of the painkiller. “Where did you go?”

  Why did you do it? Why didn’t you call? Ever?

  Jack didn’t confuse her question with the fact that she had woken up while he was in her room before. “Florida. The Keys. I’ve got a fish-and-dive charter business down there.”

  Another surge of emotion hit, this one more controllable. Years ago, after Jack had left, Dana had struggled to make ends meet. For a while they had been dirt-poor. The fact that her father had made a new life for himself in the sunny state of Florida didn’t make being abandoned any easier to take. “Dana saw your body.”

  “That wasn’t me. I was walking down the street when a guy got hit by a truck. I gave him first aid at the scene while we waited for the medics to arrive, but I couldn’t find a pulse. His head was injured, his face practically gone. He was the same height and general coloring, so I swapped my wallet with his and walked away. I figured I was only going to get an opportunity like that once.”

  She locked on to the final part of Jack’s statement, a cold, uneasy suspicion forming. “Why did you need another identity?”

  “I’ll get to that in a minute.”

  She studied his appearance. The haircut was cool and he was tanned. He was wearing expensive shoes and a quality coat. His hands were scarred and calloused, but if he worked with boats and fishing line, that was to be expected. Evidently, Jack Jones was doing all right. “How did you find out about me?”

  He stepped farther into the room. “I’ve kept tabs on you. I knew you were an agent. I saw the late news the day you got shot and caught a flight out.”

  “Why?”

  “I was worried about you. I didn’t like the way the shooting panned out, so I checked with a contact.”

  The unexpected statement and the complete lack of expression that went with it made her stomach tighten. “What do you mean, you checked with a contact?”

  His eyes were cold and very direct. “I used to be a hit man. That was the reason I left—not because I wanted to, but because I had to. I worked out of L.A., which is why I think I can help you now.”

  For a split second she didn’t register any part of his statement other than the fact that her father used to kill for a living. Suddenly it all jelled: the gun collection, his disappearances. Thinking back, she had never entirely bought into the concept that he’d had a gambling addiction. “Did Dana know?” “No.”

  She reached for breath. For the first time she had an insight into the way her mother must have felt when she’d found out the man she had married was a con artist, only he wasn’t, he was worse than that. “Is Jack Jones even your name?”

  “As a matter of fact, it is.”

  If that was the truth, he was lucky. Jones had to be as common as Smith. Together with Jack, his name was the identification equivalent of being invisible.

  He checked the door again. “I don’t have much time. The point is I think I can locate the shooter.”

  “How?”

  “Contacts. Leverage.”

  Taylor felt herself go cold inside. “You’re still in the game.”

  “No. I’m out, and it wasn’t a game. I got caught up in it when I was a kid, then I met Dana and we had you. I tried to leave but changing careers wasn’t an option.”

  He mentioned a couple of organized-crime high-flyers, one now deceased, another who had done time for what amounted to little more than a misdemeanor and was now back in business.

  Taylor stared at the lean, hard planes of his face. So, okay, her father had been a hit man, working for a crime syndicate. It was difficult to take. She was in the business of shutting down people like him. “Who’s your contact?”

  He grinned quick and hard and for a moment she almost expected him to say, That’s my girl. “Sorry.”

  “I could have you arrested and subpoenaed.”

  “And lose the only chance you’ve got at finding out who pulled the trigger? I don’t think so.”

  The ache in her chest intensified. “What can you tell me?”

  “I don’t have a name yet. I know he’s not local, and that he hasn’t been in the game for long.”

  “Who hired him? Lopez?”

  “Who else?”

  Now it was real.

  She had used Lopez’s name to shock him, but he hadn’t shown any reaction at all, which told her more than she wanted to know about her own father.

  He checked his watch. “When you’re discharged from here you need to get out of town, disappear for a while. Give me time to find him.”

  He pulled a business card from his wallet. “I know you won’t want to contact me, but I’m going to leave this with you anyway.” He crouched down by her bedside cabinet, took out her purse and slipped the card inside one of the side pockets.

  He straightened, the movement fluid for a man in his fifties, but then, not much about Jack Jones looked either old or decrepit. He had a toughness, an edge she recognized, and the reality of what her father was finally sank in. “Did you ever kill anyone?”

  The glance he gave her was sharp and utterly neutral. “Be in touch.”

  Seven

  A week later, Taylor took a seat in Bayard’s office. The fact that she had made it up the front steps of the building, albeit with Dana’s help, was a major triumph given that she still felt as weak as a newborn baby.

  Bayard shook Dana’s hand, his expression controlled. Colenso and Janet Burrows, who had been assigned her case, looked uncomfortable, and Dana was distinctly unhappy. She had tried to convince Taylor to wait until she felt better, but Taylor had insisted on the meeting. She was the victim of a professional hit. After months of having her credibility questioned it was finally clear that she wasn’t crazy and she wasn’t paranoid. She had answered Colenso’s and Burrows’s questions, provided a statement and waited as long as she could. Now she needed answers. And she wanted back into the investigation.

  Janet leaned forward and poured coffee from the
tray set on Bayard’s desk as Colenso ran through the ballistics report. Two slugs had been recovered, both from the fountain. The caliber of the bullets emphasized the fact that some kid high on meth with a Saturday-night special hadn’t just wildly discharged a gun into lunchtime shoppers and randomly hit her in the back. The larger caliber was usually associated with hunting weapons and sniper rifles, a much more exclusive club of killers.

  Janet offered Taylor coffee, but she refused. She didn’t need food or drink. The way her heart was pounding, a shot of caffeine would finish her off.

  Colenso slid a set of black-and-whites across the desk. A window in one of the photos was circled with black marker. An arrow indicated the trajectory.

  Sixth floor, which would have given the shooter plenty of angle. “Have you got details of the tenant?”

  Janet handed Bayard a cup, then set the coffeepot down. “The room was supposedly rented to an advertising firm. They never moved in. I checked the address and telephone number. The address was false, and the telephone was a cell phone that was only used for that one call.”

  Bayard opened the file in front of him. These days he spent more time working budgets and politicians than he did taking part in investigations, which in Taylor’s opinion was a criminal waste. In the intelligence world, Bayard was a shark. He also had a formidable knowledge of every agency the Bureau liaised with, and a prosecution rate second to none. When it came to cutting through red tape and getting results, Bayard reigned supreme. It had been his quick action and commitment to keeping his people safe that had gotten her out of Eureka alive. If she trusted anyone’s opinion, it was his.

  He slid a document across the desk. “We’ve gone over that room with a fine-tooth comb. So far, we have fifteen different sets of prints, but only three of them are traceable, and two of those belong to employees of the cleaning firm the building uses.”

  Taylor skimmed the top page, which was a list of National Crime Information Center fingerprint identification reports. The two cleaners were female, one with a conviction for shoplifting, the other for prostitution. The third file belonged to Pedro Alvarez, and outlined a ten-year-old conviction for car theft. According to the information, Alvarez was now twenty-seven, which would have made him seventeen at the time he was charged.

  “We’re talking to Alvarez.”

  But the chances that they were getting anything were low. Taylor didn’t need Bayard to tell her that the jump from teenage car theft to professional killing was huge. Which brought her back to the scenario that she had been shot by a professional, in which case the likelihood that he would have left any prints was close to zero.

  She set the file down. “What about Lopez?”

  The calling card had arrived the same week she had been shot. There was a direct connection. There was no way Bayard could dismiss it this time.

  “We’re doing everything we can at this point.”

  Her jaw compressed. “I can help. You need—”

  “No.” Bayard’s expression was impassive.

  She forced herself to calm down. “So where does that leave me?” He wanted her out of the office, on sick leave. It was even possible he would move her sideways in order to cut her ties to the Lopez case. Given what had happened, his logic was impeccable, but the thought of having to transfer out of D.C. made her head throb. She had been in line for a promotion. If she transferred to a field office, that opportunity would dissolve.

  Dana touched her hand. “We’re leaving. She’s not supposed to get upset.”

  Taylor stared at Bayard’s jaw. “I need to know about my job.”

  Colenso set down his coffee cup. The clink was oddly loud in the silence of the room. Janet looked embarrassed.

  Bayard slid another document across the desk. “I’m sorry. We’re running the paperwork now. The U.S. Attorney’s office and the U.S. Marshal’s office are both on my back. You’re too valuable to the prosecution for Lopez’s case to risk. They want you safe. All we need is your permission.”

  The paperwork was instantly recognizable. Witness Security.

  Dana’s hand tightened on hers. For that split second Taylor needed the anchor.

  Lopez hadn’t killed her, but he had come close. He had taken out her career.

  Out on the sidewalk a freezing wind swirled, tugging at the lapels of her coat as Dana attempted to hail a cab. With every breath icy air stabbed into Taylor’s lungs, cutting through the codeine and turning the low-key solo in her chest into a full-blown concerto.

  Dana’s expression was taut as another taxi cruised by. “Damn, why won’t one stop? I don’t want you out here.”

  Taylor’s cell phone buzzed, a welcome interruption. She needed something to do besides dwell on the fact that this was the first time since the shooting that she had been out on a city street, stationary and exposed.

  The voice was low, modulated and instantly recognizable. “Rina.”

  Mexico. Sun. Heat. Dry air that didn’t hurt to breathe.

  She hadn’t ever seen a photo of the farmhouse Rina’s partner, J. T. Wyatt, had bought. She wasn’t even supposed to know where they were, but Rina had described the sprawling hacienda, mountains in the distance, a lush green river threading the dry landscape. It was a long way from cold weather and gray streets. “What’s wrong?”

  The only reason for Rina to ring was if something had changed. Technically, she wasn’t supposed to ring at all.

  “We’re pregnant.”

  The day turned hazy. She caught snatches of Rina’s voice. “Hadn’t planned it…Had wanted to wait until Lopez was caught, but it happened, despite precautions—”

  A baby.

  Longing, unexpected and powerful, tightened the vise squeezing her chest. She blinked, cutting off the emotion. She didn’t want to need that—not yet. What she needed was to be happy for Rina.

  “Taylor, talk to me. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Under the circumstances. “I just lost my job.”

  Silence: no platitudes. Rina knew better.

  Finally, Rina spoke. “Tell me what happened. I need to know everything.”

  Taylor’s rendition was brief. If she drew it out, she’d end up crying on the sidewalk, and she was tired of losing control, of wallowing in emotion.

  A taxi swerved into the curb. Dana motioned her to get in.

  Pain seared her chest, her back and all the way down her left leg as she climbed into the rear of the cab.

  Rina’s voice was urgent. “Are you sure it was Alex?”

  Taylor rubbed at her temples. “It was a professional hit. The guy rented a room and waited.”

  “What was the payoff?”

  Black humor surfaced. “You ask me that?”

  “The calling card bothers me. Alex doesn’t use gimmicks and he doesn’t go in for revenge unless there’s a payoff. So what was the payoff?”

  She stared out the window of the cab. “Lopez wants me dead.”

  “Not enough. He doesn’t waste time and he doesn’t create unnecessary complications. Think about it, that’s what you’re good at. Maybe you’re right, and Alex does want you dead, but it won’t be personal. If you don’t have something he wants, then you must know something.”

  Taylor stared at the weaving traffic and tried to think. Alex Lopez had waited more than two decades to obtain what he wanted from Rina. It hadn’t been an act of revenge. He had been patient, methodical, efficient. He had waited behind the scenes, controlling her life, eventually marrying her. The payoff he had been after had been huge, an account number locked in Rina’s mind worth billions of dollars.

  “Maybe you’re right.” The only thing Taylor could be certain of was that she no longer saw Lopez clearly. Bayard had been right. She had lost her objectivity.

  Weariness dragged at her, a cold sense of premonition. “It’s no longer my problem. Bayard has the case.”

  “I know. He’s good. I’m just worried,” she said softly. “If it’s not Alex, that means it’s so
meone else. Watch your back.”

  Eight

  A month later, her chest still healing, Taylor, now known as Taylor Jeffries, watched as a moving firm unloaded her furniture and carried it into a condominium in one of the beachside suburbs of Wilmington, North Carolina.

  The condo had been an obvious choice. The security was good and it had a swimming pool. In order to help her damaged lung regain its normal capacity, she needed to do aerobic activity, but she wasn’t allowed to jog yet. Aside from walking and the breathing exercises the physiotherapist had given her, all she was allowed to do was swim.

  She stepped aside as two burly men maneuvered a couch through the front hallway, and watched as they unpacked furniture and possessions she hadn’t seen since the morning of the shooting.

  Aside from the loss of her job, the WITSEC placement meant separation from Dana until Lopez was caught and it was safe for Taylor to resume her normal life. Dana had also had the option of a WITSEC placement, but she had chosen to stay in San Francisco. According to the FBI report, the attack on Taylor had been viable because of Taylor’s routine. The risk that Lopez, or one of his people, would make a second attempt now that Taylor was protected by WITSEC was minimal. From Dana’s point of view, if remaining outside the Witness Security program posed a threat to Taylor’s security, she would go, gladly, but until then they could leave her life the hell alone.

  For Taylor, there had only been one option, but walking away from the commitment she’d made to the Bureau, the years of specialized training and the knowledge that her skills could make a difference, had hurt. Every day she checked the papers and the Internet for career options. Enforcement of any kind was out, and she had signed an agreement to stay away from anything that made her publicly visible or was even remotely life threatening. She was supposed to “blend,” but she couldn’t see herself fitting into retail work or an office job.

  When the movers had gone, she walked through the apartment: two bedrooms, two bathrooms—one an en suite—a large sitting room and dining area and a compact kitchen. The front of the apartment opened onto a small, sun-drenched balcony that framed a breathtaking view of the coastline.