Deceptive Treasures: Slye Temp Book 5 (33 page)

A
Word From Dianna

Dear Reader,

This book became very personal for me, and I wanted to give you a little background. I absolutely loved giving Tanner and Jin their story, but this was also one of the toughest stories I’ve written.  There isn’t a more difficult place on Earth to research than North Korea, in my opinion.  With DECEPTIVE TREASURES, I tried to share a bit of the world I spent so much time in while writing this story so that you could see it through Jin’s and Tanner’s eyes, but first and foremost my books are to entertain, not to be a news report on international politics. If this story has piqued your interest, I encourage you to do your own research to find out more about North Korea, and please say a prayer for those who are not as fortunate as we are (I speak of the US, since that’s my home ) to live in a country where we enjoy a level of freedom that some people have no idea even exists.

Thank you for reading my books. I hope you enjoy the Slye Temp series. Visit
http://www.AuthorDiannaLove.com
to find all my books. And please visit me on Facebook at Dianna Love Fan Page and on Dianna Love Street Team where I hope you’ll join the team! To collect free “signed” cover cards, visit
www.KeeperKase.com

If you have a moment to leave a review at the online bookstore, GoodReads, BookLikes, Shelfari or anywhere else I’d really appreciate it.

Dianna

Acknowledgements

I am blessed to have a team that starts with my amazing husband, Karl
. He takes care of so much for both of us every day and throughout the year that allows me to write my stories, plus he teaches motorcycle safety. The world is a better place because of him.

Cassondra Murray is the first to read every story and she sees it more than once. In fact, she’s the last one to touch it before I make the final run through. She never fails to surprise me with her insight and how spot on she is with details from one book to the next
. I love the opportunities we have to make trips together and readers are always happy to see her with me.

This story started with a discussion I had with Steve Doyle, a former Special Forces soldier who is always willing to be my weapons and operational specialist on the Slye Temp books
. I so appreciate the initial brainstorming he and I did to choose North Korea as the opening setting and suggestions he offered for my black ops team. I am thankful every day for men and women like Steve who keep us safe and free.

Once I have the seed of an idea, my characters and a backbone for the story, USA Today bestselling author Mary Buckham (
www.MaryBuckham.com
) and I brainstorm our books together a couple times a year
. That is incredibly valuable to me. The rest of the time, Mary is working on a new
Invisible Recruit
story.

I would be nowhere without my amazing beta readers
. Joyce Ann McLaughlin is always ready to read these books during the early “not quite polished” stage and share her feedback. I love her notes and the way she’s just as quick to tell me what she loves as what needs a second look. Manuella Robinson is always willing to read anything I ask of her and she’s so fast. I appreciate her honest opinion and constant support.

Judy Carney is yet another beta reader when she performs the first copy edit read. Her enthusiasm for the project comes through in everything she notes
. It’s always a joy to work with her.

Thanks to Kim Killion who designs all the covers for my Slye Temp series, which I LOVE
! She is so talented!! Thanks also to Jennifer Jakes for running her magic formatting wand over my files every time. I’m always happy to see an email from Kim or Jenn!

Any mistakes made or adjustments for fiction are my own, because every one who helped me went above and beyond the call to give me the best information.

Thanks also to Leiha Mann, Su Walker and the RBLs for supporting all authors! Love and appreciation goes to my amazing
Dianna Love Street Team
 
who support me all through the year. If you’re interested in joining my team, just stop by my Facebook group page. If you’d like to contact me, email
cassondraATauthordiannalove.com
or snail mail to Dianna Love, 1029 N. Peachtree Pkwy, Suite 335, Peachtree City, GA 30269 ~
www.AuthorDiannaLove.com
 
  

***

Turn the page for a Sneak Peek at another Slye Temp novel…

Another Slye Temp romantic suspense

LAST CHANCE TO RUN

(Book 1)

To an undercover agent, she’s a Person of Interest
. He’s interested.

Escaping the compound of a deadly international felon –with a fortune in rare, stolen coins hidden on her body –elite athlete Angel Farentino has to make the most important run of her life. Literally. With her father in prison, where he belongs, and a prior undeserved conviction hanging over her head, she has nowhere to turn and no one to trust. Definitely not law enforcement who railroaded her through a judicial nightmare. One step ahead of lethal men and dogs on her trail, she runs into the arms of a dark stranger willing to help her if she’d let him. But that would only get the sexy pilot killed.

Between figuring out who’s sabotaging his undercover work for the DEA and trying to save his baby sister from herself, Zane Jackson has enough on his plate. The last thing he needs is to get entangled with a woman who’s treading on the wrong side of the law
. But when the long-legged distraction races into the middle of his operation and stows away on his plane, a primal need to protect forces Zane to risk everything, starting with his heart. 

***

A SNEAK PEEK AT

LAST CHANCE TO RUN

Lightning crackled nearby. Close, but not close enough.

Escape tonight or ... there was no second option.

“Come on, God,
please
.”  Angel whispered the desperate prayer for the hundredth time since midnight. But lights still burned through Mason Lorde’s opulent compound where she’d been imprisoned for the last ten days.

She had to get over this compulsion about being honest. The last time she’d done the right thing, she’d landed in a real prison with a warden and crazy female inmates threatening her life. That had been thanks to her father.

One more thing she had to get over. Trusting any man.

Wind howled across the beveled panes, rattling the French doors and sounding cold when August weather was anything but.

“I should have asked for a hurricane instead of a thunderstorm,” she muttered under her breath. But hurricanes weren’t as prevalent along the North Carolina coast as lightning storms. All she needed was a brief power outage. Not that she had any reason to believe in divine intervention at this point in her life.

A short life if she didn’t get out of this place now.

She rolled a golf-ball-shaped compass in her hand, a dangerous stress reliever. She’d stolen it from his office, and to hell with any guilt she felt.

It would get her fingers snapped like twigs if Mason caught her with his solid gold desk toy.

No chance he’d let her off easy.

She’d learned that the hard way. Just like everything else in her life.

Mason Lorde, her dream employer. The bastard had turned into her worst nightmare. But with a conviction in her past, who could blame her for jumping at a chance for a job with a highly reputed firm? Assisting the manager in one of the warehouses for Lorde’s revered import enterprise beat cleaning toilets or scavenging aluminum cans any day.

She’d thought.

Brilliant light flashed across the heavens, illuminating the edges of the brass bed at her shoulder. She glanced at the burgundy silk duvet covering the lump she’d built with pillows. Would that gain her an extra minute?

Maybe. She hated maybe. Reminded her how often her worthless court-appointed attorney had spouted that word.

Maybe you’ll receive leniency for a first offense.

Maybe you’ll get out early on good behavior.

Neither happened.

Maybe
men would stop screwing her over at some point, but she wasn’t counting on that, either.

Angel consulted her black plastic sports watch.

In sixteen minutes Kenner would begin his two a.m. round.

On the dot.

Unlike the rest of the security, the knuckle-dragging commander now in charge of Mason’s thirty-room mansion lacked any tolerance. Kenner had been brought in from another of Mason’s locations to replace Jeff, who’d overseen the property for the past ten years, according to his last screaming words.

He’d pleaded for his life.

Then Mason had ... nausea rolled through her stomach.

Another glance at her timepiece. Fifteen minutes, forty-eight seconds left.

She reached for the doorknob, desperate to flee, but paused short of touching it. She had no allies beyond patience. It wasn’t as if Kenner would repeat Jeff’s mistake. Poor Jeff, too slow on the uptake to be hanging with a bunch of killers. He’d smoked one too many cigarettes a week ago while she’d scurried down the Italian marble hallways in a fevered attempt to escape.

One of the other guards had caught her.

Mason didn’t tolerate mistakes. He’d ordered everyone to witness Jeff’s punishment. Angel, in particular. She still had bruises from where she’d been dragged outside and shoved up front for the show being performed for her benefit.

The citizens of nearby Raleigh would never believe what went on inside this private compound belonging to one of their most prominent city businessmen.

Just over six feet tall, with thick golden hair and a champion’s physique, Mason, the Nordic antichrist, had calmly raised his .357 magnum revolver to Jeff’s head and squeezed the trigger.

A deafening explosion. Then blood.
So much blood
.

She clenched her fists. The horror lived on, burned on the insides of her eyelids.

And the smell. Who could forget the god-awful coppery stench of fresh blood? Her stomach roiled again.

Hard to believe a week had passed. Seemed like just minutes ago. She squeezed her eyes shut and saw it all again. The hole in Jeff’s forehead. His eyes locked open in horror. The back of his head ... she swallowed and took a breath. She’d carry that brutal image for as long as she lived.

Along with the responsibility for his death.

And all because of a job she’d thought was a godsend. What had she done so wrong in her life to have ended up involved with a criminal
again
?

The first time, she’d been eighteen. And naïve to the point of being clueless about drugs.
That
had cost her.

She’d had no reason to think her own father would take advantage of her job as a city courier and use her to mule drugs without her knowledge.

Then throw her under the judge’s gavel to save his own hide.

This time, she was not going down without a fight.

If she got out of here tonight, she had the hammer that would bring down Mason. And prove her own innocence. She patted the heavy band wrapped around her waist like a money belt. The strip of plastic held a fortune in gold coins that would bring her salvation.

Or the end of her life.

Twelve minutes, forty-two seconds until room check.

Jagged sparks flashed across the eerie sky, nearer, but still too far away. Her heart pounded against her breastbone.

Come on, God. Don’t I deserve one break?

Thunder rumbled through the black heavens, longer than it had during the two power outages earlier in the week. They were common occurrences at the estate, cured each time temporarily by generators. She’d timed the last two blackouts. Should the Almighty-in-charge-of-weather deign to knock out the main electrical feed once more, she’d have nine minutes until three thousand volts surged through the chain link fence again.

Three thousand volts or face Mason when he returned tomorrow morning – not much of a choice.

The goal was simple. Escape or die trying.

She still nursed wounds from her penance for that first attempt. Her hand unconsciously went to her sore ribs and she licked her cut lip. The guards hadn’t harmed her beyond bruising, but Mason enjoyed doling out his personal brand of punishment.

The psycho had actually gotten aroused as he’d beaten her.

In the dignified tone of a pompous professor, Mason had explained his actions. “Consider this step one in teaching you compliance and submission, Angelina.”

He’d wasted his time.

There would be no step two.

Thunder barreled across the sky, directly overhead this time, rattling the delicate glass panels between her and the storm.

Ten minutes, eighteen seconds left.

Her restless fingers worried the cold silver band Mason had locked on her wrist. He’d smiled when he assured her the tracking device was for her own protection. That had been right before he promised to return by the time she’d healed.

Cracked bones and bruises weren’t major concerns, but living to see her twenty-sixth birthday had become questionable.

The guards had breathed a collective sigh of relief after her beating, sure that she would stay put.

Only a crazy person would try to escape again.

“We’ll see who
’s crazy,” she whispered. “You son-of-a – ”

Lightning exploded in a clap of thunder, so close her arm hairs stood on end.

The entire compound fell dark.

Angel hit the self-timer on her watch and dropped the compass down the front of her Lycra running top beneath a butter-yellow T-shirt. Mason’s choice of color. Not hers. Combined with matching shorts, she’d stand out like a beacon when the first lights popped back on.

She pushed the French doors open and rushed into a cool rain that battered the second floor private balcony. She nudged the doors shut behind her. A worn navy blue ball cap shielded her eyes from the downpour and hid shoulder-length auburn hair she’d fastened into a ponytail.

No going back now. Guards would enter the empty bedroom by the time lights flicked on.

Feeling blindly in the dark for the rail that enclosed the balcony, she gripped the ledge, climbed over then locked her legs around the ten-inch thick center column. Her arms strained to hold her body’s dead weight. Tremors shook her at the fear of falling twenty feet. Wet polished marble offered no traction to slow her descent.

She slid down the soaked surface. Friction burned both her hands and exposed legs in seconds. Tears, mixed with rain, poured down her face from the searing pain.

She lost her grip ... and clenched her muscles, waiting for the impact. She plummeted through a black vortex. Sharp points stabbed into her shoulders and hips when she landed, but no excruciating pain from a broken bone.

She’d been spared by a boxwood hedge.

Like a turtle on its back in a bed of nails, she lay still, panting hard against the pain in her ribs. The insides of her legs throbbed and wet bullets of rain pelted her face. Drawing a deep breath, she kicked both feet and rolled to her side, dropping into a crouch to listen.

No thud of heavy footsteps – yet.

Time to get moving. Through the darkness, she counted memorized steps across the lawn. Lightning crackled and fingered through the dark sky. When grass changed to concrete, she sidestepped around the Olympic-size pool. Raindrops slapped the chlorinated water.

Her feet met grass again exactly on count. She picked up the pace. Her shoulder bumped against a stone arbor strangled by jasmine vines. She tripped on a thick stem and went down hard, scraping her palms.

She gulped a deep breath. Listened for shouts, boots splashing across wet ground, any sound of being hunted.

Still clear
.

Jumping up, she lunged into the blackness, running hard, fighting the panic exploding in her chest.

Heel to toe, heel to toe. Don’t smack the ground
.

Finally, the big elm came into view during a quick flash of lightning. She stepped around the tree, sucking in short gasps of air. Running a marathon was easier than racing a hundred feet through the dark, expecting to get shot. Her heart hammered with terrified beats. She had to calm down and stick to her plan. Her hand shook violently as she made two stabs to press the button that illuminated her watch face.

Four minutes and twelve seconds.

Plenty of time if everything stayed status quo.

For the past ten days she’d pretended to be afraid of her shadow. Maybe the ruse had paid off. As long as no one rushed to be Mr. Efficient and cranked the generators ahead of schedule.

She sprinted eight big steps forward and stopped. Drenched to the bone, trembling from fear, she reached out in the darkness to grasp the ten-foot-tall security fence. Survival instincts stayed her hand at the last second, but there was only one way to know if the electricity was activated.

She stuck a finger on it.

No tingle.

She glanced up at the angry heavens.
Thank you
.

The current normally surging through the steel mesh could toss a grown man like a discarded rag doll. She grabbed a handhold on the fence.