Thin Ice (19 page)

“We also need to talk.”

“What's there to say? Much as I'd like to think Deke is wrong, I can't dispute his conclusion. We both noticed that Finn's been on edge. That he hasn't been communicating with either of us much in person or by email. That he lost his sense of humor. The signs were there, and we missed them.”

Lance's shoulders drooped, and he jammed his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. Me more than you.”

His comment hung in the air between them for a moment before Mac responded. “What do you mean?”

Lance forced out the admission. “You know when we stayed with you last summer, and Finn and I shared that pullout couch in the living room? I sleep like a rock, but the first night his thrashing woke me up. I had to shake him hard to get him to come around, and his T-shirt was soaked with sweat. He claimed he was getting over some kind of bug he'd picked up, and I bought it.”

“Maybe he was.”

“Except the other nights we were at your place, I went to bed first, and he was already sitting on your deck when I got up the next morning. For all I know, he slept out there to avoid a replay of the nightmare and any questions it might raise. I should have realized he had issues.” He wiped a hand down his face. “Maybe I didn't want to realize it. Maybe I wanted to believe the McGregors were invincible.”

“Hey.” Mac clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Beating ourselves up with should-haves and maybes is a waste of time. We're just going to move forward from here and get Finn the help he needs. Agreed?”

“Yeah.” What else could he say?

“Then let's plan our strategy over a real meal. We'll get through this—and so will Finn. Come on.”

Mac marched toward the cafeteria, expecting him to follow. To accept any mistakes they'd made and try to fix them instead of wallowing in regret.

As usual, his older brother was right.

The McGregor men weren't quitters. The three of them had overcome plenty of difficulties in the past. This might be the mother of all challenges, but if they stuck together, they'd make it through.

Especially if they took a page from Christy's winning playbook and put God in charge of their team.

Squaring his shoulders, Lance followed Mac, sending a silent thank-you heavenward that his first FBI case had involved a woman who'd steered him back to the Almighty.

And who he suspected was destined to play a role in his life long after the mystery of Ginny Reed's disappearance was solved.

Nathan ran his finger over the curving edge of the pewter Arch on the keychain, looked up at the autographed photo tacked to his bulletin board, and smiled.

Things were going well.

Very well.

Sitting in his cold car near Christy's condo hadn't been a great way to spend his Saturday morning, but watching her come out to retrieve her mail had made all the uncomfortable hours worthwhile. He might not have been able to identify his letter through the binoculars, but her expression had confirmed its arrival. Distress, fear, dread, surprise . . . all the emotions he'd wanted her to feel had been on display for the world to see.

He wrapped his fingers around the cool pewter ornament and squeezed it tight.

Best of all, every one of those emotions would be magnified next week, when his careful months of planning paid off and she found out what her abandonment all those years ago had wrought. That revelation would bring her to her knees.

He could almost taste the . . .

A door creaked open in the hall, and he tuned into the noise. Shuffling steps sounded on the worn carpet. Another door clicked shut.

The old woman had gone to the bathroom.

He set the keychain down and picked up a broken wire hanger, poking at the mouse in the box at his feet through the wire mesh over the top.

Mevlida had been quiet lately. Responding to his comments but never initiating conversations. Staying in her room instead of coming out to watch TV. Was she sick and keeping it to herself? Were her ribs hurt worse than she was letting on?

Possibly.

He'd been clear since she arrived that he couldn't afford a
bunch of medical bills. That if her health deteriorated, he'd throw her back on the street.

But she was getting older and more decrepit. One of these days she'd develop some condition that required attention—and he didn't want her talking to anyone who might ask nosey questions about their arrangement.

He jabbed the mouse again.

Once this was over, he'd have to decide what to do about her. The government money, plus having her under his total control, was nice—but that would be less important if he got the promotion at work. And he had a decent chance at it. He knew how to play the game, how to be Mr. Nice Guy when it suited him. His boss liked him. Everyone there did.

Yes, the old woman was a problem—but he could worry about her after he finished carrying out his plan for Christy. For now, he wasn't going to let anything hamper his enjoyment of this long-overdue payoff.

He cornered the mouse, a shiver of anticipation slithering through him as he blocked its frantic efforts to escape. Christy would try to escape too—but she wouldn't be any more successful than this rodent.

It would be just like the day soldiers had destroyed his family—only in reverse.

Because he'd learned his lesson well.

People in power decided who lived and died . . . and now it was his turn to take control.

When he and Christy Reed had their reunion, he'd be calling the shots—and this time around, she wasn't going to ruin his life.

He was going to ruin hers.

T
hat's all we know for now, Mom. Once we talk to Finn, we'll call you back. Try not to worry—and tell Dad the same.” Lance glanced down the hall as Mac rounded the corner and walked toward him.

“Worry is part of love. We've fretted over you three before, we'll fret again. That's called being a parent—and we wouldn't have it any other way.” Despite the thread of tension running through his mother's words, her voice was strong and determined.

The Rock was living up to the nickname the three of them had bestowed on her two decades ago.

“I need to run.” He pushed off from the wall outside his brother's room. “One of us will call you twice a day whether there's news or not.”

“And as soon as Finn's able to hold a conversation, you put him on the phone. Day or night. Promise.”

“I promise. In the meantime, you two take care of yourselves.” They said their good-byes, and as he slid the phone back on his belt, Mac joined him. “Did you find the doctor?”

“Yeah. We had a long talk. He didn't seem surprised there might
be a PTSD issue. Sounds like they see a lot more of that around here than I expected. They'll have Finn evaluated. It will be positioned as routine follow-up after a traumatic battlefield incident, so he'll never know Deke tipped us off. Mom and Dad okay?”

“Worried but hanging in. Also planning to come up in a week.”

Mac frowned. “I don't know if Dad should be traveling.”

“Try telling that to them. They're determined—and Mom's done her homework, as usual. According to her, it's 692 miles door-to-door. She'll do all the driving, and they'll stop overnight in North Carolina to break up the trip. She's already lined up an apartment two miles from Walter Reed, where they intend to hunker down for the duration . . . or at least until Finn is on the mend.”

“Is Dad's doctor okay with all that?”

“She plans to give him her spiel on Monday and get his blessing, then ask for a referral to a cardiologist here. They do have a lot of friends in the area from Dad's State Department stints in Washington. That's a plus. Also, as she pointed out, his second-in-command at the security firm has been handling the business for the past few weeks; no reason he can't handle it for a few more. She's chomping at the bit to get up here.”

“That sounds like Mom.”

“Hey—for a woman who nurtured a thriving internet graphic design business through years of globe-trotting and raised three hooligans like us in all the far-flung spots around the world where Dad was assigned, this challenge is small potatoes.”

Mac rubbed the back of his neck. “I know them coming up here wasn't in the playbook for Dad's recovery, but Finn's going to need some on-site cheerleaders. I can't stay for more than a week or two.”

“And I'm wheels-up at eight tomorrow night. But I intend to make a lot of weekend trips.”

“Likewise. Still, having Mom on hand takes some of the pressure off.”

At the rustle of sheets inside the room, followed by a quiet groan, Lance spun around and dived back in, Mac on his heels.

Finn's eyes were open—and lucid—as they approached.

“Welcome back, runt.” Lance tried to call up the smile Mac had requested, but all he could manage was a slight lift of one corner of his mouth.

“Where am I?” Finn encompassed them both in that question.

“Walter Reed.” Mac moved to the other side of the bed. “You took a nasty fall from a helicopter.”

A spasm of pain tightened Finn's features. “I remember.”

“How much?” Lance wrapped his fingers around the railing on the side of the bed.

Finn's expression grew bleak. “Too much. Who else . . . did anyone else make it?”

“Deke. We saw him this morning.”

A profound sadness darkened his green irises. “That's it?”

There wasn't any way to sugarcoat the truth, so Lance didn't even try. “Yes.”

“I was afraid of that. I tried to check, see if anyone else was breathing. The ones I got to were . . . they were gone.”

“You saved Deke's life. Twice. He told us about the tourniquet . . . and the insurgent. Purple Heart stuff—his words, not mine.”

Instead of lifting Finn's spirits, as Lance had hoped, the comment had the opposite effect. Moisture gathered in his brother's eyes, and when he spoke, his choked words were laced with futility—and bitterness.

“Right. The big hero, going out in a blaze of glory. Except it didn't work that way. I'm still here.”

Finn closed his eyes, and Lance locked gazes with Mac across
the bed. Based on his older brother's troubled expression, they'd picked up the same disturbing message.

Their youngest sibling wasn't all that happy he'd survived.

That, too, was consistent with PTSD.

“Hey.” Mac clasped his shoulder. “We're glad you
are
still here. Mom and Dad are too. And I expect you to make good on that game of one-on-one you promised me last summer—no excuses.”

Finn's Adam's apple convulsed, and he opened his eyes. “Does that mean I still have my leg?”

“Yeah.”

“Am I going to keep it?”

“The doctor's optimistic.”

“What else is wrong with me?”

Mac gave him a quick rundown of his injuries, leaving the multiple surgeries and rehab until last.

“Sounds like the one-on-one will have to wait a while.” Finn smoothed his unsteady fingers over a wrinkle in the sheet.

“A lot of that depends on you.” Mac folded his arms.

Lance telegraphed a silent warning to him. Getting Finn back on track—and on his feet—might require some serious prodding and tough love, but given his mental state, it was too soon to implement that tactic.

“Mac and I have your back, though.” He tried for an upbeat tone to offset his older brother's harder line. “And Mom and Dad are planning to rent an apartment near here for the duration.”

The taut skin over Finn's cheekbones became almost transparent. “So now I've made a mess of everyone else's life too. Great.”

“Hey.” Lance moved closer—so close he could feel his brother's breath on his chin. At that proximity, Finn was forced to meet his gaze. “This isn't just about you, okay? We're family.
We help each other out of messes. And you know what? That's not a burden; it's a blessing. So we'll do our part to get your game with Mac on the calendar, you do your part, and this story's gonna have a happy ending. Got it?”

A tear leaked out of the corner of Finn's eye and trailed down to the pillow.

Oh, man.

And he'd thought Mac was being too tough.

“Hey . . . I didn't mean to—”

A clatter in the hallway interrupted his apology, and Finn's body went rigid. Panic and confusion darted through his eyes as the heart monitor began to beep.

“Take it easy, Finn.” Mac gripped his shoulder, his tone gentle and soothing as he pressed the call button. “You're at Walter Reed, remember? A hospital cart ran into the wall.” He spoke slowly, enunciating each word. “That's what the noise was. You're safe. We're all safe. Take some deep breaths.”

Mac kept talking as their kid brother writhed on the bed, and once the nurse bustled in, Lance moved aside to give her access.

As he clenched his fists and restrained the urge to pound one of them against the wall in helpless frustration, his phone began to vibrate.

Since Mac and the nurse were dealing with Finn, he seized the diversion, stepping back to scan caller ID.

Mark.

His already galloping pulse picked up more speed.

Unless there'd been a development in Christy's case, his colleague wouldn't call—especially on a Saturday.

Waving his phone to attract Mac's attention, he nodded toward the hall and started toward the door, tapping the talk button as he walked. “What's up?”

“You have a minute?”

He checked on the nurse again, who seemed to have the
situation under control. “Yeah.” He left the room and trekked toward the lounge.

“How's your brother?”

“Conscious, but his leg is in bad shape and he has . . . other issues. Something happen with the kidnapper?”

Lance tucked himself into a quiet corner of the waiting room while Mark gave him a quick recap of the day's events.

“I think the guy's done playing games with letters and is getting ready to make his final move, whatever it is,” his colleague concluded. “And I doubt he'll wait long.”

“I wish the description Brenda Rose gave me had resonated with someone in Ginny Reed's circle. We still don't even have a suspect to investigate.”

“This guy's done an excellent job covering his tracks, I'll give him that. I'm going to send the latest communique to the lab, but based on past experience, I doubt they'll find anything useful. When are you coming back?”

“Late tomorrow night. In the meantime, I'll give Christy a call.”

“I told her she could contact me if necessary—but I can understand why you'd want to stay in touch personally.”

Lance ignored the emphasis on the word
personally
, as well as the touch of amusement in his colleague's inflection. “You have anything else?”

A chuckle came over the line. “No comment, huh? Telling. As far as the case goes, you're up to speed.”

“Thanks for handling this today.”

“Not a problem.” The piercing wail of a baby came over the line, and Lance winced, jerking the phone back from his ear. “As you can hear, I'm being summoned. Have a safe trip back, and see you Monday.”

For a full minute after Mark broke the connection, Lance remained where he was, analyzing the latest development—and coming to the same conclusion as his fellow agent.

Their guy was poised to make his final move.

Soon.

But despite the kidnapper's promise that a reunion was about to happen, there was a menacing undertone to his note. Every instinct Lance had honed during his tenure in The Unit was sounding a red alert.

Christy was in danger. He knew that, deep in his gut.

And worst of all, there was nothing he could do from nine hundred miles away to protect her.

Christy glided from a flawless double toe loop to a spot-on layback spin to a clean spiral—but none of the textbook-perfect moves were accompanied by the usual heady rush. Nor had the student-free skating session relaxed her.

She might as well call it a night and go home.

Huffing out a sigh, she glided over to the edge of the rink and stepped onto the rubber mat. If skating didn't calm her frayed nerves, nothing would.

Best case, a cup of hot chocolate once she got home would mellow her out enough to induce sleep.

Her cell began to chirp as she sat to unlace her skates, and she fumbled in the pocket of her hoodie. Lance?

But what were the odds he'd be calling at nine thirty—ten thirty eastern—on a Saturday night?

Apparently better than she'd expected, because his name was front and center in the digital display.

Turning away from the crowd of teenagers removing skates and making plans to go out for pizza, she greeted him.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” His rich baritone voice came over the line, followed by a clunking noise that sounded like a soft-drink vending machine dispensing a can. “I can hear a lot of activity in the background.”

“No. I'm at the rink. A bunch of teens are chattering behind me. How's your brother doing?”

“He's awake and talking. His leg's not in great shape, so that will be a long recovery, and he's got a lot of other injuries—but we're hopeful. Mark called me earlier about the latest letter. Anything else happen since you spoke with him?” His words rasped with weariness.

“No. All quiet here. But you sound tired.”

“Yeah. I'll have to make up for the sleep I lost once I get back. I plan to fly out tomorrow night and be in the office early Monday. Until then, though, Mark's on standby. You can also call my cell if anything comes up.”

“You have too much on your plate out there already without me adding more to it.”

“The case is on my mind anyway. And I concur with Mark. I think this guy's about to make his final move. You need to be extra careful and watch your back. Is there someone at the rink who can walk you to your car after you're finished?”

“Yes. There's always a security guard on duty.” She scanned the public areas. Spotted Hank. Nice man, but the retired cop had eaten a few too many doughnuts during his career on the force. Not much chance he'd be able to defend her against a guy fit and nimble enough to carry off murder, arson, and kidnapping, then disappear without a trace.

“Use him tonight.”

“I will.” She fiddled with the lace on her skate. “Now that the kidnapper appears to be winding up his plans, are there any new leads from your end, or are we in a waiting mode?”