Dead By Nightfall

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Authors: Beverly Barton

BOOK: Dead By Nightfall
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Outstanding praise for
New York Times
bestseller Beverly Barton!
DON’T CRY
 
“Barton delivers a solid mix of romance and terror ... readers will enjoy the action sequences and the leads’ antagonistic attraction, as well as the assorted twists in the murder case.”
Publishers Weekly
 
“Barton is an established queen of romantic suspense and this one is one more jewel in her crown. Will keep you guessing until the end.”
Romantic Times
“A complex plot and creepy crime scenes make Beverly Barton’s
Don’t Cry
a shivery read ... tight twists and hairpin turns will keep readers racing through the pages.”
BookPage
 
SILENT KILLER
 
“A fast-paced, intriguing plot ... will keep readers satisfied and looking forward to sequels.”
Publishers Weekly
“Disturbing ...”
Romantic Times
 
COLD HEARTED
 
“Refreshing twists that leave readers guessing to the end and making the latest from suspense artist Barton a satisfying read.”
Publishers Weekly
“Masterful!”
Linda Howard,
New York Times
bestselling author
 
AS GOOD AS DEAD
 
“In
As Good As Dead,
Beverly Barton has written a powerful story that kept me up very late—with all the lights on. With a villain you won’t soon forget and nail-biting suspense,
As Good As Dead
is about as good as it gets.”
Kay Hooper,
New York Times
bestselling author
Books by Beverly Barton
AFTER DARK
EVERY MOVE SHE MAKES
WHAT SHE DOESN’T KNOW
THE FIFTH VICTIM
THE LAST TO DIE
AS GOOD AS DEAD
KILLING HER SOFTLY
CLOSE ENOUGH TO KILL
MOST LIKELY TO DIE
THE DYING GAME
THE MURDER GAME
COLD HEARTED
SILENT KILLER
DEAD BY MIDNIGHT
DON’T CRY
DEAD BY MORNING
DEAD BY NIGHTFALL
 
 
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
B
EVERLY
B
ARTON
D
EAD
By N
IGHTFALL
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
In memory of Walter Zacharius, with great respect,
admiration, and affection.
Thank you, Mr. Walter, for always making me feel special
whenever I visited Kensington Publishing
.
In Memoriam
For sixty-four years she blessed the world with her vibrant personality, passion for life, and a love for her family that was unsurpassed. Her great beauty both inside and out was unquestionable. Her heart was always open and full of love. She had a witty sense of humor and mind that thirsted for knowledge. She loved old movies, poetry, good food, great books, and an eclectic array of music. Her career as a
New York Times
bestselling author gave her many adoring fans the world over who supported and helped make her dream career possible. She was the epitome of a true Southern lady who was loved and admired by all who knew her.
Beverly, Mom, Grammy ... memories of you and your love will fill our hearts with each passing day until our souls are reunited.
 
“I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life!—and if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.”
—ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
 
Our beloved wife, mother, and grandmother
Beverly Marie Inman Beaver
“The hero path ... where we had thought to find an abomination, we shall find a god; where we had thought to slay another, we shall slay ourselves; where we had thought to travel outward, we shall come to the center of our own existence; where we had thoughts to be alone, we shall be with all the world.”
—J
OSEPH
C
AMPBELL
(Mythologist)
Prologue
Ciro Mayorga deserved to die. In truth, the sadistic bastard deserved far worse. If there was any justice in this unjust world, he would have suffered untold misery for years on end. He would have been beaten and starved, hunted like a wild animal, and then forcefully sodomized before being utterly humiliated and tortured until he begged for mercy.
Rafe Byrne believed in the old biblical eye-for-an-eye type of justice and had made it his life’s mission to dole out payment in kind for the unforgivable sins that men such as Mayorga had committed. It had taken him sixteen years to hunt down and eliminate four of Malcolm York’s closest friends and associates, the men York had so often entertained on Amara. Tanaka, Di Santis, Klausner, and Sternberg.
And now Rafe had captured Mayorga.
The fifty-year-old Spaniard sweated profusely. Rivulets of perspiration ran down his throat and across his flabby bare chest. The distinctive brand between his nipples, a bright pink against his olive skin, no doubt still burned like hell, as did an identical brand in the center of his back and on each butt cheek. The smell of charred flesh temporarily overpowered the scent of fresh hay and manure. Blood dripped from the numerous deep whelps crisscrossing his body, back and front, from neck to ankles. The still-hot branding iron and bloody whip lay at Rafe’s feet, both objects used in exacting some small measure of revenge.
Suffering the torment of the damned, Mayorga whimpered continuously between agonized cries and pathetic pleas.
His pleas fell on deaf ears.
The naked man hung by his bound wrists from the rafters in the horse barn, his carcass dangling like a side of butchered beef. As Rafe approached him, Mayorga’s bleary gaze struggled to focus on the weapon in his tormentor’s hand. In a useless attempt to escape the inevitable, he struggled to free his raw, rope-burned wrists. Knowing the fate that awaited him, he screamed in terror. No one else, save God and the Devil, could hear the man. And only God, the Devil, and Rafe were present when Rafe used the sharp, serrated knife to castrate the demon whose soul was destined for eternal damnation.
Chapter 1
Maleah Perdue pulled her Chevy Equinox in behind Nic Powell’s black Cadillac Escalade, parked, and hurriedly jumped out of her SUV. She and Nic had spent some wonderful girlfriend weekends here at Nic’s sprawling mountainside cabin in the Smoky Mountains. Happy times. Not like today when she had come here to lend support and comfort to her dearest friend. It had taken Maleah longer to say good-bye to her fiancé than she had planned. But knowing she might not see Derek again for days, perhaps weeks, she had taken time for a long, romantic good-bye before leaving Griffin’s Rest to follow Nic into her self-imposed exile. She understood Nic’s reasons for putting some distance between her and her husband, for wanting to be alone to sort through her feelings and decide what she was going to do about her shattered marriage. However, leaving the safety of Griffin’s Rest put Nic in danger, a risk she had been willing to take to get away from Griff. Maleah would have gone with her earlier today, but Nic had insisted on her staying with Derek since the two of them had only recently fallen in love and were newly engaged.
Maleah was grateful that Derek had understood and supported her completely when she had told him that Nic shouldn’t be alone with no one nearby except a bodyguard keeping watch outside her cabin.
“Right now, Nic needs you,” Derek had told her. “We’ll have plenty of time to plan our future together once the Powell Agency is no longer under attack from some crazy madman.”
Maleah rushed up the steps and across the cabin’s wide porch. She knocked on the front door. No response. She knocked harder and repeatedly. Nothing.
“Nic? It’s me, Maleah. Please, let me in.”
Silence.
Maleah turned and surveyed the area around the cabin. A warm summery breeze flitted through the treetops, swaying the tall, skinny pines. Somewhere in the distance, bushes rustled and wild creatures stirred. Several birds soared overhead and a dog’s howl echoed through the hollows below the mountainside house.
And then it hit her.
Spinning around, she stared at the two SUVs parked in the driveway. Two vehicles. There should be three. Where was Cully Redmond’s Hummer? For that matter, where was Cully Redmond, the Powell agent sent to follow Nic and protect her?
“Nic!” Maleah screamed as she pounded on the door. Frantic with concern, she grabbed the door handle and much to her surprise, it gave way and the door opened.
Not locked!
Without a moment’s hesitation, she reached inside her holster and removed her pistol. Gun in hand, Maleah entered the cabin and hurried cautiously from room to room searching for Nic.
The house was empty. She located Nic’s unopened suitcase inside the master bedroom closet. The door leading from the living room out onto the back deck stood ajar. She eased outside, keeping her back to the rough-hewn log walls, and made her way carefully from one end to the other. No sign of a single soul.
Where was Nic? Where was Cully?
Something was wrong. Badly wrong.
Damn it ... damn it!
Why hadn’t she tried to talk Nic out of leaving the safety of Griffin’s Rest? Why had she let her best friend leave without her?
Maleah pulled her phone from her jacket pocket, hit the programmed number, and tried to control her frazzled nerves as she waited.
Deep breaths. Don’t panic. Think positive thoughts.
“Hey, Blondie,” Derek said. “Are you there all safe and sound?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I got here about five minutes ago. Derek ...”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nic’s not here. And neither is Cully. Nic’s Escalade is parked in the drive, but there’s no sign of Cully’s Hummer. I’ve checked the house and there’s no one here. And Nic’s suitcase is in the closet.”
“Get out of there now,” Derek told her. “Put your butt back in your car and—”
“We have to do something. We have to find Nic.”
“We will, but it may not be safe for you to stay there. Come back to Griffin’s Rest. I’ll handle things from this end.”
“Griff will go ballistic when he finds out,” Maleah said. “Oh, God, Derek, what if—?”
“I’ll talk to Sanders first. We’ll get some operatives out there to do a complete search for Nic and Cully. But I want you back here ASAP. Understand?”
“Yes, I understand. I’m leaving now.” She choked down her tears as she walked back inside the cabin. “She’s not dead. Please tell me she’s not dead.”
“She’s not dead,” Derek assured Maleah. “Nicole is far more valuable alive than she is dead.”
Damar Sanders clutched the house phone with his meaty fist. “Yes, I will inform Mr. Powell. Thank you for acquiring the information so quickly, Mr. Mitchum.”
“Dreadfully sorry the results were not what you wanted,” Thorndike Mitchum, the head of the Powell Agency’s London office, said. “But at least we now know the man’s true identity.”
“Yes, of course. Mr. Powell will be in touch with further instructions very soon.”
Within minutes of ending the conversation and settling the receiver onto the phone base in his office, Sanders heard the doorbell ring. As he walked swiftly toward the foyer, he encountered Barbara Jean guiding her wheelchair down the hallway.
“I will see to our visitors,” he told her.
He could tell by the way she looked at him that she knew something was wrong, but she simply nodded, turned around, and wheeled back down the hall.
Barbara Jean Hughes was his assistant, his dear friend, and his lover. During the past few years she had become an essential part of his life. He admired her and respected her and counted on her understanding and support.
When he reached the foyer, Sanders paused for a moment, squared his shoulders, and mentally prepared himself for what he suspected was more bad news. Since Griffin’s Rest was on red alert, the security at the entry gates and throughout the compound had been reinforced. No unauthorized personnel entered or exited. Whoever their visitors were, they had passed inspection and had been allowed entrance.
Sanders opened the door and found two uniformed officers standing there, somber expressions on their young faces. The taller of the two, a freckle-faced guy who could not be a day over twenty-five, introduced himself and his fellow officer. “I’m Deputy Josh Taylor and this is Deputy Chris Meyer. We would like to speak to Griffin Powell.”
“Mr. Powell is not available. May I help you? I am Sanders.”
“We need to speak to whoever is in charge of the Powell Agency,” Deputy Meyer said.
“I am second-in-command at the agency.” Sanders took several backward steps and said, “Would you gentlemen please come in.”
The officers entered the foyer. Sanders closed the door behind them.
“The Sevier County sheriff ’s department notified us of an accident—a single-vehicle wreck—that occurred in their county today. The driver of the vehicle found in a ravine was Cullen J. Redmond. His ID showed that he was an agent for the Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency.”
Sanders’s stomach knotted painfully. “Is Cully—?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Redmond is dead,” Deputy Taylor said.
Sanders tensed. If Cully was dead that meant Nicole was without protection. Griffin had assigned Cully as Nicole’s bodyguard and sent him after her when she’d left Griffin’s Rest this morning. His instructions had been to follow her from Douglas Lake to her cabin retreat in Gatlinburg and guard her with his life. Nicole had known Cully was right behind her, so why, when he had not arrived at her cabin, had she not called Griffin’s Rest to find out what had happened to him?
“You said Cully was killed in an accident?”
“No, sir. I said he had been involved in a single-vehicle accident.” Deputy Taylor shifted his feet nervously and cleared his throat. “Mr. Redmond died of a gunshot wound. A direct hit to his head is what we were told.”
Sanders took a couple of seconds to absorb and correlate the information. Cully had been shot in the head. Murdered. Assassinated. He had been sent to protect Nicole and now he was dead.
Managing to put aside his fears for Nicole and his personal grief over the loss of a valuable agent and a fine man, Sanders faced the young officers. “The Powell Agency will cooperate with the Sevier County sheriff ’s department in every way possible. And we will contact Cully’s nearest relative, a sister in Louisville.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sanders. You and Mr. Powell have our deepest sympathy,” Deputy Meyer said.
Sanders escorted the two young men outside, shook hands with both, and watched until they got in their car before he returned to the house. After closing and locking the door, he stood in the foyer for several minutes, deciding how to handle this situation. And then he went to find Derek Lawrence.
 
Derek and Sanders met on the stairs as Derek headed down, intending to find Sanders and tell him about Maleah’s frantic phone call. The moment Sanders saw Derek, he stopped and the two men stared at each other. Derek instantly sensed Sanders had bad news for him. But what could possibly be worse than the news that Nicole Powell was missing, as was her bodyguard?
“Were you looking for me?” Derek asked.
Sanders nodded. “And you were coming downstairs to speak to me?”
“Sure was.” Derek glanced past where Sanders stood four steps up from the foyer and in the direction of Griff ’s study. “Is he still in there?”
“Yes. He has not come out since Nicole left this morning.”
“I have some information that he needs to know.”
“As do I,” Sanders said.
“But you and I need to talk first.”
“Agreed.”
By unspoken mutual agreement, they met in the foyer and went straight into the living room where they would not be disturbed.
“You first,” Derek said.
“Two deputies left here a few minutes ago. They came to tell Griffin that Cully Redmond was involved in a single-vehicle accident.” Sanders paused, allowing Derek time to assess the info and respond.
“Is he dead?” If Cully had been hurt in an accident, perhaps Nicole was with him at the hospital.
Please, God, let that be what happened,
Derek prayed.
“Yes, he is dead, but he did not die from injuries in the accident. He was shot in the head.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“You need to contact Maleah immediately and warn her that—”
“Maleah is on her way back here,” Derek said.
“But Nicole—?”
“Nicole is not at the cabin. Her Escalade is parked in the driveway and her suitcase is in the closet, but she’s nowhere to be seen.”
Sanders remained silent for a full minute, his dark eyes unfocused and his sturdy, compact frame totally rigid. Then he took a deep breath and said, “We must work under the assumption that whoever killed Cully has taken Nicole. Do we agree?” He looked Derek right in the eye.
“We agree.”
“And Griffin must be told as soon as possible.”
“Absolutely.”
“I believe I know who murdered Cully and kidnapped Nicole.”
“How could you possibly know?” Derek asked. “And please don’t tell me that it was Malcolm York.”
“The real Malcolm York is dead.”
“Then who?”
“Anthony Linden.”
“But Linden is dead. Luke Sentell took care of that unpleasant chore.”
“I received a call from Thorndike Mitchum shortly before the deputies arrived. The expedited autopsy and DNA testing on the body we assumed was Linden’s showed that the man Luke killed was not Anthony Linden. He was a man named Neal Hinesley, who, like Linden, is on Scotland Yard’s Most Wanted list.”
“We should have known Linden was too smart to get caught. He brought in Hinesley, switched places with him, and set him up to kill or be killed when Luke found him,” Derek said. “He’s a clever bastard. And if he has Nic ...”
God help Nic.
Nic had discovered only yesterday that she was pregnant. A fact that her husband didn’t know. She had shared the news with Maleah, as women often do, because they were best friends, and Maleah had told him.

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