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Thin Ice

A Novel

Revell

Two Months Later

"You settling in okay?"

At the question, Lance McGregor swiveled in his desk chair.

Mark Sanders stood on the threshold of the cubicle, holding two disposable cups of coffee. His new FBI colleague held one out.

"Thanks." Lance leaned forward and took it. "Still adjusting to St. Louis in the winter. When does the January thaw hit?"

"Don't hold your breath. I was referring to the job."

Lance took a sip of his brew and gestured to the warren of cubicles in the center of the St. Louis FBI office. "This bullpen arrangement will take some getting used to. Ditto for the suit and tie."

"You'll get there."

"I appreciate the encouragement — especially in light of the source." When Mark responded only with a raised eyebrow, Lance tipped his chair back and grinned. "Since you're a former member of the Bureau's Hostage Rescue Team and the current leader of this office's SWAT team, I suspect you'd prefer to be in field dress chasing bad guys too."

"You've done some homework."

"I like to know the players."

"A skill that would have served you well as a Delta Force operator."

Touché.

"I see you've been checking me out too."

"SOP for new agents — especially ones fresh out of the academy. For the record, you came out rosy instead of green."

"Nice to know."

Mark took a sip of his own java. "If you're interested in the SWAT team, let me know. It's an ancillary duty, so don't expect any perks for volunteering, but we can always use members with your background. The Delta Force operators I've met were the kind of guys I'd want watching backs when lives are on the line."

Despite Lance's valiant attempt to hold on to his grin, it slipped a hair. "Thanks. But my first priority is to get the lay of the land."

"Makes sense." Though Mark's words were agreeable, the slight thinning of his eyes told Lance the man had picked up on his sudden discomfort. "If you want to consider it down the road, the door's open." Raising his cup in salute, he strolled off.

Lance waited until he disappeared, then pivoted back to his desk, mouth flattening. His new colleague's oKer was flattering, but the SWAT team wasn't in his future. Sure, he'd handle trouble if any came his way as a special agent. But he was done seeking it out. Done having to watch people's backs 24/7. Done trying to be Superman.

Because even Superman had his Achilles heel — and if you played the odds long enough, you were bound to lose. Mistakes happened.

And sometimes they were deadly.

A bead of sweat popped out on his forehead, and he scrubbed it away. Enough. He was past this. History couldn't be rewritten.

It was over. Finished. He'd made his peace with that and moved on.

But if that was true, why had a simple invitation to join the SWAT team twisted his gut and short-circuited his lungs?

Blowing out a breath, he raked his fingers through his hair. This was not a complication he needed three days into his new career as a special agent.

The phone on his desk rang, and he grabbed for it, checking the digital display. A call from the receptionist might not provide much of a distraction, but it would do a better job redirecting his thoughts than reviewing eye-glazing case files — his lot since reporting for duty.

"Hi, Sharon. What's up?"

"Do you have anything urgent on your desk?"

"Not unless sifting through old 302s qualifies."

A chuckle came over the line. "I figured Steve would give you a pile of evidentiary interviews to read. I think it's his version of hazing for the new agents in the reactive squad. Kind of an endurance contest."

"If it is, I'm failing."

"Maybe I can rescue you. You ready for a real case?"

"More than."

"Don't be too anxious. I might be handing you a fruitcake."

"Better a fruitcake than files. What have you got?"

"I have no idea. She won't tell me. Won't give me her name, either. Just said she needs to talk to an agent."

"Okay. Go ahead and transfer her."

"I jotted down her number from caller ID in case you need it. The fourth digit is a nine."

Meaning there was a strong chance she was calling from a pay phone.

"Thanks."

"Good luck." The line clicked. "Ma'am, I'm putting you through to Agent McGregor." Another click as Sharon exited the call.

Lance leaned back in his chair. "This is Agent McGregor.

Who am I speaking with?"

Silence.

"Ma'am?"

A beat of silence passed. Two. Three. He heard an indrawn breath. "A situation has come up that merits FBI involvement — but I can't discuss it by phone."

Still no name.

"Would you like to come to our office?"

"No! That would be too dangerous." She sounded agitated. Scared, even. But she was lucid. That was a plus. "I'd like to set up a meeting on neutral territory. I want it to look like friends getting together, in case anyone's watching."

He tapped the tip of his pen against the tablet in front of him. Paranoia — or valid caution? Too soon to tell. "Can you give me a clue what this is about?"

More silence.

He waited her out.

"I think it ... it could be kidnapping."

He sat up straighter. "Have you called the police?"

"I can't do that. Please ... I'll explain when I see you. Besides, this would fall under FBI jurisdiction."

"Is a child involved?"

"No."

He doodled a series of concentric circles on the blank sheet of paper in front of him. The woman was articulate, and she sounded intelligent. Yes, she could be a nut — but the mere mention of kidnapping warranted further investigation.

"All right. Where would you like us to meet you?"

"Us?" He could hear the frown in her voice.

"I'd like to bring another agent along." That was the usual protocol in a situation this filled with unknowns.

"No. Just you."

The tension in her words told him she was getting ready to hang up. Better to agree to her terms than lose her. He could always call for support if he needed it.

"Okay. Where?"

"I was thinking a Panera. They're busy, and the noise level should give us some privacy. But please wear casual clothes. A suit would draw too much attention."

The lady had thought this through.

He put a dot in the middle of his circles to complete the bull's-eye. "Which one?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Brentwood." The central corridor was a reasonable choice. Besides, it was the only Panera he'd visited to date. Why not make this easy on himself?

"Fine. I get oK work at five. I'm available after that."

He'd have to bail on dinner with Mac, but his older sibling would understand. Police detectives didn't keep regular hours, either.

"Let's make it seven. I need to go home and change first.

How will I recognize you?"

"I'll be wearing jeans and a dark green sweater. I have longish auburn hair."

"Got it."

"I'll see you at seven."

The instant the line went dead, he punched in Sharon's extension and got the source number. A quick check of the crisscross directory confirmed what he'd suspected — the call had come from a pay phone.

The woman wasn't taking any chances.

A ping of adrenaline prickled his nerve endings. At least his first case was intriguing.

And even if the meeting led nowhere, a clandestine rendezvous was a whole lot more exciting than reading old case files.

* * *

Pummeled by a gust of icy wind, Christy whooshed into the crowded Panera, muttering an apology as she jostled the elderly gent who'd stopped to remove his gloves.

He steadied himself on a trash bin topped with a stack of empty trays. "No problem, young lady. Mother Nature is pitching a fit tonight, isn't she?"

"Yes." His amiable comment deserved a reply, but she wasn't in the mood for smiles — or chitchat. Not when she was getting ready to meet an FBI agent ... and tell him a story he would undoubtedly find farfetched.

But the letter in her pocket was very real.

And very, very scary.

The door opened again, giving her an excuse to move away. She took it.

From the edge of the dining area, she surveyed the room. There were only a few empty tables, and she claimed one in the center, beside the fireplace. An older couple, two teens doing homework, and a woman engrossed in a bestselling thriller occupied the adjacent tables. None of them seemed suspicious. Besides, no one other than the FBI agent knew about this meeting. And as far as she could tell, no one had followed her here.

She shrugged out of her jacket, draped it over the back of her chair, and perched on the edge of the seat. Wrapping her fingers around the computer case in her lap, she held on tight.

What if she'd made a mistake by going to the authorities?

The knot that had been lodged in the pit of her stomach since she'd made the call tightened. If this decision turned out to be wrong, the consequences would be dire. That much had been clear.

Yet she wasn't equipped to deal with a kidnapper. She needed the kind of resources law enforcement could provide.

Talk about being caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place.

She pried one hand off the case and tucked her hair behind her ear. She could have hung up while the operator transferred her to McGregor. In fact, she almost had. She could also have severed the connection at any point during her conversation with the agent. He didn't know her name, and using a pay phone had allowed her to keep her options open.

But the man had sounded confident and professional, with a subtle take-charge, I'm-in-control manner that reeked of competence.

All of which had convinced her to take the leap.

Now it was too late for second thoughts. He'd be here any minute. All she could do was hope she hadn't misjudged him.

And pray she wasn't making a fatal mistake.

* * *

So that was his auburn-haired mystery caller.

From his seat at a corner table that offered a panoramic view of the eatery, Lance did a quick assessment as the woman claimed a table. Early thirties. Slender. Five-five, five-six. Model-like cheekbones. Flawless complexion. Full lips. Classic profile.

In other words, the lady was gorgeous.

And very nervous.

It didn't take an FBI agent — or former Delta Force operator — to recognize that the taut line of her shoulders, the clenched fingers, and the lower lip caught between her teeth spelled tension in capital letters.

He took another sip of his coffee and scanned the crowded restaurant. Thanks to that striking hair, he'd spotted her the minute she stepped inside the door — and no one had followed her in. Nor was anyone watching her ... except him. Whatever worries she'd had about someone seeing them meet appeared to be groundless.

But he'd give it ten or fifteen minutes to be on the safe side.

By 7:05, the woman was jiggling her foot and checking her watch every thirty seconds. She had to be wondering if she'd been stood up ... and he was tempted to put her mind at ease. But he'd learned long ago not to let pretty women influence his judgment on the job.

Off the job ...

His lips twitched. As his older and younger brothers would be the first to remind him, he wasn't immune to the charms of an attractive female in his personal life.

Then again, neither were Mac and Finn.

Must be in the McGregor genes — though Mac's newly engaged status meant the St. Louis dating field was his until Finn showed up on his next leave.

At 7:12, the woman rose and reached for her coat.

His cue.

After one more sweep of the café, he slid from behind the table, left his jacket draped over the chair, and wove among the seated diners.

"Don't leave yet."

She gasped and spun toward him, her face a shade paler than when she'd entered.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." He leaned closer and dropped his voice. "I'd show you my creds, but I know you want to keep this discreet. I'll do that once we're seated."

She gave a stiff nod and rested one hand on the table she'd been in the process of vacating. "Is this all right?"

"I claimed a more out-of-the-way spot." He indicated the corner table he'd just left.

She frowned at it. "How long have you been here?"

"Long enough to scope out the place."

After a moment, she pasted on a smile, slipped her arm through his, and raised her volume. "It's good to see you again."

He could tell her she didn't need to follow through with the friends-getting-together act for the benefit of anyone who might be watching, since no one was. And he'd get around to that in a minute.

But why not enjoy the sweet scent tickling his nose and the pressure of her graceful fingers on his arm until they got back to his table?

Too bad the trip was so short.

Once they arrived, he indicated a chair at a right angle to his and held it as she sat. After retaking his seat against the wall, he again scanned the interior.

Still clear.

No one appeared to be the least interested in their meeting.

Redirecting his attention to her, he pulled out his creds and laid them on the table. "You weren't followed here. Or if you were, no one followed you in."

Her artificial smile faded as she cast a nervous glance around the room, then skimmed his ID. "Are you certain?"

"Yes."

She exhaled, and some of the stiKening in her shoulders dissolved. "I didn't think so, but I'm glad to have that confirmed by an expert."

"Did you want to get anything to eat or drink while we talk?"

"As long as we don't need to keep up a social pretense, I'll just grab a cup of water."

Before he could oKer to get it for her, she slipped out of her seat and headed toward the drink dispenser.

He watched as she wove through the crowd with a lithe, natural grace. Like that ballet dancer he'd dated in Washington, DC. The one with the legs that went on forever.

His gaze dipped. Hard to tell for sure, with those jeans — but he had a feeling this woman might give the ballet dancer some serious competition in the legs department.

Which was not the most professional train of thought under the circumstances.

Get your act together, McGregor. You're here to talk about a possible kidnapping, not troll for a date.

Check.

By the time she retook her seat, he'd reined in his wayward musings and was ready to concentrate on business.

"Now that you know my name, would you like to share yours?"

Instead of responding, she lifted the cup to take a sip. When the water sloshed dangerously close to the rim, she flicked him a glance, wrapped both hands around the clear plastic, and tried again.

The woman was seriously spooked.

She leaned close enough for him to catch another whiff of that pleasing, fresh fragrance. "My name is Christy Reed. I'm the director of youth programs for a municipal recreation center in St. Louis County." She named the city.

Based on what he could remember from his review of local maps, that was one of the closer-in suburbs. Not far from the location of the public phone she'd used to call him earlier.

"You mentioned kidnapping during our phone conversation."

"Yes." She swallowed. Crumpled a paper napkin. "Look, I'm taking a huge risk by trusting you. But I need experts on this. I can't lose my sister twice." Her voice rasped on the last word and she averted her head, bending to pull her laptop out of the carrying case.

Lose her sister twice?

What was that supposed to mean?

She angled the laptop his direction, a shimmer of tears in her eyes. "This is just a cover while we talk." She lifted the lid.

"That's why I called you."

He glanced down. An envelope was lying on the keyboard, addressed by hand to the woman beside him. Next to it was a blank sheet of paper. Both had been placed in plastic bags.

Like she was preserving evidence.

He sent her a quizzical look.

She scooted her chair closer and locked gazes with him. "Two months ago, my sister, Ginny, was killed in a house fire. She was my only sibling, and we were very close. More than ever after we lost our parents eight months ago in a car accident."

Whoa.

Christy Reed had lost her whole family in the space of six months?

That was serious trauma. Enough to account for the smoky whisper of shadows under her eyes. Enough to etch those faint lines of strain at the corners of her mouth.

Enough to push some people over the edge.

Was she one of them?

He studied her. "That's a lot to deal with in a very short time."

"Tell me about it." She rested her left hand on the table beside the computer and clenched her fist. "I try to take it day by day, and I pray a lot. Some days are easier than others. Yesterday wasn't one of them. Not after this arrived in the mail." She touched the corner of the plastic-encased envelope.

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Excerpted from Thin Ice by Irene Hannon. Copyright © 2016 Irene Hannon. Excerpted by permission of Revell.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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