Dirty Secrets (15 page)

Dear Reader,

I hope you’ve enjoyed
Dirty Secrets
.

It’s a novella I wrote years ago, actually before I had started my current series set in Baltimore. When I sat down to write my upcoming release,
Watch Your Back
(available in February 2014), I realized the characters in
Dirty Secrets
were going to play a big role in it. So I thought it would be fun to let everyone see where they came from by offering the novella as a stand-alone eBook for the first time. (It was originally published as part of an anthology called
Hot Pursuit
).

If you like this world, you also might want to check out my recently published novella
Broken Silence
(available as an eBook in October 2013). That features the hero and heroine from
Did You Miss Me?
in an adventure that takes place just after that novel ends—and just before
Watch Your Back
takes place.

They’re all in the same world of Baltimore cops and prosecutors that are featured in my novels
You Belong To Me
(2011),
No One Left To Tell
(2012) and
Did You Miss Me?
(2013). If you’d like a sneak peek at their world, read on!

Best,

Karen Rose

Keep reading for a sneak peek at Karen Rose’s new novel

WATCH YOUR BACK

Available from Signet February 2014

Eight years earlier

Baltimore, Maryland, Thursday, March 15, 5:45 p.m.

I can’t. I can’t do this.

The words thundered in John Hudson’s mind, drowning out the beep of the cash register at the front of the convenience store. The customer at the counter paid for her purchases, then left, oblivious to the fact that the guy standing in front of the motor oil was a cold-blooded killer.

But I’m
not
a killer.
Not yet.

But you will be. In less than five minutes, you will be.
Desperation grabbed his throat, churned his gut. Made his heart beat too hard and too fast.
I can’t. God help me, I
cannot
do this.

You have to.
The small print on the back of the bottle of motor oil he pretended to study blurred as his eyes filled with hot tears. He knew what he had to do.

John put the bottle back on the shelf, his hand trembling. He closed his eyes, felt the burn as the tears streaked down his wind-chapped cheeks. He swiped a knuckle under his eyes, the wool of his gloves scraping his skin. Blindly he chose another bottle, conscious of the seconds ticking by. Conscious of the risk, of the cost if he followed through. And if he did not.

The text had come that morning. There had been no words. None had been needed. The photo attached had been more than sufficient.

Sam. My boy.

His son was no longer a boy. John knew that. At twenty-two his son was a man. But John also knew he’d lost the best years of his son’s life because he couldn’t recall much from that time. He’d spent them snorting and shooting up, filling his body with what he couldn’t live without. Even now, standing here, he was high. Just enough to be borderline functional, but not enough to dull the horror of what he was about to do.

His addiction had nearly killed him too many times to count. Now it was killing Sam.

This is my fault. All my fault.

His son had pulled himself out of the neighborhood, kept himself clean. Straight. Sam had a future. Or he would, if John did what he was supposed to do.

God. How can I?
His hand trembling, John flipped his phone open to the photo that had been texted to him that day—his son bound, unconscious, a thin line of blood trickling from his mouth. Tied to a chair, his head lolling to the side. A gloved hand holding a gun to his head.

How can I?
How can I not?

The assignment had originally come via text yesterday morning from a number John had hoped he’d never see. He’d made a desperate deal with the devil and payment had come due. His target had been identified, the time and place specified.

The target came to this store every evening on his way home from work. John just had to show up. Do the job. Make it look unplanned. Wrong place, wrong time.

But he hadn’t been able to do it yesterday. Hadn’t been able to force himself to walk inside the store. Hadn’t been able to force himself to pull the trigger.

So the ante had been upped, the second text sent, this time with the photo. And Sam was the pawn.
Son. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

John heard the quiet beep of the door as it opened.
Please don’t let it be him. Please don’t let him stop here today. Please.

But if it’s not him, you can’t kill him. And then Sam will die.

“Hey, Paul.” The greeting had come from the cashier, a fifty-something African-American woman who greeted several of her customers by name. “What’s shakin’ in the hallowed halls?”

John’s heart sank.
It’s him. Make your move.

“Same old, same old,” Paul replied, a weariness to his voice that somehow made John’s task seem even worse. “Cops put them in jail, we do our best to throw away the key. Most of the time they’re back on the street so fast, the door doesn’t even hit them in the ass.”

“Damn defense attorneys,” the cashier muttered. “Same old, same old on the numbers, too?”

“My mother is a creature of habit,” Paul said, his chuckle now rueful.

“You’re a good boy to pick up her lotto tickets every day, Paul.”

“It makes her happy,” he said simply. “She doesn’t ask for much.”

Just do it!
Before he makes you like him even more.

He edged to the end of the aisle, closer to the cash register. Pretending to scratch his head, he reached up under his Orioles’ baseball cap to yank down the ski mask he’d hidden under it to cover his face. It could be worse. The three of them were the only ones in the store. If he had to dispose of a lot of witnesses . . . That would be much worse.

“That’ll be ten bucks,” the cashier said. “How’s your wife, Paul? Pregnancy going okay?”

His wife is pregnant. Don’t do this. For the love of God, do not do this.

Ignoring the screaming in his head, John wheeled around, drawing his gun.

“Everybody freeze,” John growled. “Hands where I can see them.”

The cashier froze and John’s target paled, his hands lifted, palms out. “Give him what he wants, Lilah,” Paul said quietly. “Nothing in this store is worth your life.”

“What do you want?” the cashier whispered.

Not this. I don’t want this.

Do it. Or Sam will die.
Of this John had no doubt. The gloved hand holding the gun to his son’s head had killed before. He would kill Sam.

Do. It.

Hand shaking, John pointed the gun at Paul’s chest and pulled the trigger. Lilah screamed as the man went down. John caught a movement from the corner of his eye. Lilah had retrieved a gun from below the counter. Clenching his jaw, John pulled the trigger a second time and Lilah crumpled to the counter, blood pooling around the hole he had just put in her head.

It’s done.
Nausea churned in his gut.
Get out of here before you throw up.

He took a step toward the door when he froze, stunned. Paul was struggling to his knees. There was no blood on the man’s white shirt. Holes, but no blood. Understanding dawned. The man wore a vest.

What the fucking hell?
John lifted his gun, aiming at the man’s forehead.

The shrill beep of the door opening had him glancing to the left.

“Daddy!”

Oh hell. A little boy.
The devil had never said anything about a kid.

Fucking hell. Now what? What do I do now?

Keep reading for an excerpt from Karen Rose’s novel

DID YOU MISS ME?

Available now from Signet

Cold. So cold.

Ford curled into himself, instinctively trying to find some warmth. But there was none.

Cold.
The floor was cold. And hard. And dirty.
Hard to breathe.

The wind was blowing outside, rattling windows, sending jets of frigid air around his body. Over his skin.
So cold.
A shudder racked his body and he struggled to open his eyes. It was dark.
Can’t see. Head hurts. God.
He tried to get up, to push at whatever covered his eyes, but he couldn’t.
Where am . . . What hap—

Clarity returned in a rush and with it came blinding panic. He was blindfolded. Gagged. Tied, hands and feet.
No.
He fought wildly for a few seconds, hissing when the rope seared his skin. He slumped, fatigued, his heart racing.

Kim.
The image of her face broke through the pounding in his head. He’d been with Kim. Walking her to her car. He drew a sharp breath through his nose, the dirt he inhaled making him sneeze violently. Nausea roiled as bright lights flashed behind his eyelids.

Alley.
They’d gone through an alley. Kim had parked behind the movie theater.

That damn foreign film.
She’d had to see some French film for class. Weird theater, bad part of town. He’d insisted she not go alone. They had to go through the alley to get to her car.

Ford tried to remember. He’d heard a noise. Felt . . . pain.
Oh God.
The fear in Kim’s eyes. Her scream. The shattering pain in his head, right before everything went dark.

Kim.
He threw his body forward and grunted, the exploding pain in his shoulder sending him back to the floor, where he huddled, grimacing, catching his breath.
Where is she?

He drew another breath, taking care not to inhale the dirt this time. Quieting himself, he listened for any sound— a whisper, a wheeze, a whimper. But there was none.

She’s not here. She’s not here.
He closed his eyes, fighting to control his pounding heart.
Please don’t let her be here.
Because if she was here, she wasn’t breathing. If she was here, she was hurt. Maybe dead.
No. No.
He shook his head hard, wincing when the pain spiked deep.
She got away. Please let her have gotten away.

Away . . . from what?
From whom? Where is here?
The panic rose in his throat, choking him.
Calm down. Think. You know how to think.
Thinking was what Ford Elkhart did best.

He closed his eyes, forced himself to calm. To think. To remember.
It’s cold
. Which told him nothing. It was December, for God’s sake. He could be anywhere north of Florida.

Why? Why me?
He gave the ropes binding his wrists another hard yank, then swore when his frozen skin burned.
Why?
He knew why.

Money. Ransom. It had to be. He wondered if they were contacting his mother or his father. He hoped his mother.
Dad won’t pay a dime to get me back,
he thought bitterly. Then he pictured his mother and his heart clenched.

Mom.
She’d be terrified. Out of her mind with worry. Because his mother had prosecuted enough of these cases to know what was happening to him right now.

And what was likely to happen next.

I’m sorry, Mom.
His eyes filled.
I’m so sorry.
She’d warned him to be careful, urged him to let her hire a bodyguard. He’d scoffed at her fear. He hadn’t needed any bodyguard. He could take care of himself.

Hell. He’d taken care of himself so well that he was trussed up like a Christmas turkey. Probably awaiting the same fate. He blinked hard, shook the tears off his face.
Stop it,
he thought.
Crying won’t help you get away.

And he had to get away.
Kim needs me. So think. Breathe
. He forced himself to calm, willed his mind to hear the voice of his mother’s friend Paige, who taught self-defense. He’d taken Kim to see Paige for instruction because he’d wanted to keep her safe, even when he wasn’t there to protect her.

You were there,
his mind mocked.
Standing right beside her. And it didn’t make a bit of difference.

He fought the terror that closed his throat.
Please let her be all right. I’ll do anything. Please, God, just let Kim be all right. If something happened to her . . . because somebody was trying to get to me . . .
He’d never be able to forgive himself.

You might not get the chance to forgive yourself—or to save her—if you die here, so stop whining and think.
He tried to remember what Paige had said, but he’d been watching Kim from the sidelines, admiring her body as she practiced the escape moves Paige had demonstrated. He’d been thinking about what they’d do when he got Kim back to his room.

He prayed that Kim had been paying attention, because he hadn’t been.

So pay attention now.
Eventually whoever brought him here would come back, if only to kill him.
You need to be ready to strike. To get away.

Ford closed his eyes, took an inventory of his injuries. His head . . . The back of his skull hurt like hell.
That’s where the bastard hit me.
His right arm hurt, too, but probably wasn’t broken. His shoulder throbbed, but it had before. Rowing training last week.
At least I’m in decent shape.
It might give him a fighting chance.

His legs . . . He tried to move them within the confines of the ropes. They seemed okay. Stiff from being tied, but not injured.
So you can run. When you get the chance, hit with your left and run like a bat out of hell.

To where? He could hear nothing, no sounds of the city. They were far enough out that getting back might be a challenge. It was cold and he had no coat. At least he had shoes. He might have to walk a long way. But he’d do it.

He’d get back. He’d find Kim and they’d get back to their lives. He’d take her home, introduce her to his mother and Gran. He wished he’d done so already.

He’d marry her, just like they’d talked about when the night was quiet and he held her in his arms. They’d have a whole life together. They would.

But first he had to get away from here.
Wherever the hell here is.

Ford froze, straining to hear. Someone was coming.
Stay calm. Pay attention to details.

A door creaked as it opened, an icy blast rushing into the room. His teeth would have chattered had it not been for the gag in his mouth.

He heard footsteps. Coming closer. Heavy footsteps. A man. Boots. He was wearing boots.

The footsteps stopped close to Ford’s head and he could feel warmth from the man’s body.

“You’re awake.”

Gravelly. The voice was deep and harsh. Filled with . . . laughter? Yeah, laughter.
Asshole’s laughing at me.
Ford bit back the fury that roared through him.
Focus. Pay attention.

He heard the crack of knees and the warmth came closer. There was a scent. Aftershave. Familiar. He’d smelled it before. He was sure of it.
Where?
He tensed when fingers ran over his hair, then hissed a curse when a fist grabbed his hair and yanked his head up.
Fight. Dammit, fight.
Ford thrashed, flinging his body to one side. A heavy knee planted itself on his chest, holding him down. His head was yanked to one side, exposing his neck.

“Honey, I’m home,” the man crooned. “Did you miss me?”