Ransomed Dreams (25 page)

Soon after, Clint escaped the tall tales going around about their rookie years. He reappeared from the kitchen, followed by three little ones carrying a cake glowing bright with mostly black candles. Sara had made him add a few red ones for Steven’s University of Louisville.

The room exploded with a rendition of “Happy Birthday” that could have been rivaled only by a circus parade.

Clint and Sara dispensed cake and ice cream as Andrew peppered the discourse with tales of Steven and his sister’s childhood mischief and antics. Too bad Hanna’s work kept her in Kentucky. She’d have had some roof-raising anecdotes. But James added his own funny stories about his dad, and the children’s laughter blended with the adults’.

No one mentioned Angela. FBI compartmentalizing at its finest. It was like that period of his partner’s life had never existed. But it had. And it was still affecting life today. More than Steven wanted to admit.

It wasn’t the time or place, but Clint wanted to know more about Steven’s budding romance and how he planned to balance it with the upcoming custody battle that Angela had promised.

Steven and Gracie’s close contact throughout the rest of the evening made Clint glad on one hand. On the other, a new romance might distract Steven from his work when the Kensington case was so close to breaking.

It might even keep him running from God.

Clint’s stomach tightened. His wife may have had the intuition of an old-time biblical prophet, but he had his share of gut-level hunches. And one kept buzzing to the surface.

No doubt about it. Dangerous waters lay ahead.

I
want to see my son, Gordon.”

In the last two and a half weeks, Charlotte had become more insufferable than Sir Kensington’s brat. Gordon closed the tiny kitchen curtain, blocking out the gray Monday skies. The rented flat, eighty kilometers outside of Alexandria, served to keep them hidden and sheltered. Little more than that.

“I will not go to prison because you can’t stand a holiday from Stewart.”

She stepped closer. “How long, Gordon? We have new passports, tickets, and …” Charlotte ran her hand through her now cropped reddish hair. “I look like nothing Stew would recognize. I can’t bear this much longer, and why should I? Just so you can torment the ambassador? You’ve done enough. Let’s go home for good. Today.”

“No.” He glared at his sister with steel resolve. “I will finish what that fool started. He has other children. I won’t ever have another brother.”

The mention of Harry sent Charlotte into another crying jag.

Gordon let her run into the postage stamp-sized bedroom and have her fill of tears. He threw back the last swallow of another bitter. What he wouldn’t give to be home in his pub, dossing about with people who spoke the Queen’s English.

Not the American tourist trash he’d succumbed to once again.

He was as ready as his sister to return to Piccadilly Circus, but the time of departure had yet to arrive.

Soon. Three weeks from tomorrow. October seventeenth.

A slamming door set his senses on alert. Charlotte knew better than to leave in the daylight, but starting another bitter took precedence over chasing his stupid sister out of the nearby park. He’d fetch her in a few minutes.

Why she couldn’t wait two more days blustered him. Wednesday night they’d grab Stew at his nanny’s, and Gordon would put the two of them onto a transport bound for Heathrow. Her American bloke of a husband could rot.

That blighter and his computer girlfriends weren’t Gordon’s concern. Except that Jimmy could help the coppers if he’d kept his fool ears open. But he hadn’t yet. Never even knew they’d been near the house. As observant as the FBI rookies had been during the wee hours of the morning.

Gordon grabbed his rental keys in a huff and drove on the wrong side of the road to the little park Charlotte had found as an escape in the past few days. He’d likely find her perched on a swing, singing some incessant nursery song.

The park came into view. But no Charlotte.

“Where are you, dear sister?”

He remembered her tear-drenched words about leaving today Surely not. He pointed his tan family wagon toward Alexandria.

Once he throttled her for risking everything just to leave the US early he’d have to give her a cheers for stuffing her money and trying to make a go of it on her own. As long as she didn’t get caught.

Midday was no time for evading the FBI.

She couldn’t have much more than a quarter hour on him, and only if she’d found a taxi as soon as she left the flat. She may have rung one before slamming the door. His baby sister had proved not to be so daft. A true Landridge, after all.

Harry would have been proud.

Gordon drove around the two federal cars outside of Charlotte’s tiny flat, cursing all the way to their little subdivision park, the one Stewart used to prattle on about. Her wally
of a husband must have called the coppers in as soon as Charlotte set foot in the door.

He parked on the outskirts of the little park and disappeared into a tangle of trees where he had a good sight line to her house. Things had been ghostly when he’d driven past earlier, but he couldn’t risk making that trek again. He needed his rental a few more days. Then again, he might trade it in today in case some FBI bloke noted his tag.

Charlotte’s new red bob came into view, walking out of her front door. Flanked by two suits. Gordon guessed the well-over-six-foot bloke was the Texan who Charlotte spoke of fondly. The one who had shown her kindness after the Kensingtons found out about Olivia’s demise.

Wonder what his sister thought now.

Gordon killed every urge to start shooting and race his sister and nephew to safety He was too far in to stop now. The plan had to be completed. Then he would deal with Charlotte and Stew, dead FBI agents or not.

He packed up his gear and left the little park, heading west. He would ditch this rental near Dulles Airport at a place he’d spotted on his last visit.

“Be loyal to me, Charlotte.” If she fouled his October plans, he’d have to disappear with unfinished business. How that thought lit a fire through him.

No loose ends. Not this time.

He swapped the tan wagon for another nondescript rental. The promise of a better flat and a pint or two to relax tonight doused his flames.

If his sister kept her gob shut, she would use her brain and play dumb. No doubt she’d lost track of his few secrets she might have remembered. She knew nothing specific of his intentions for Sir Kensington’s other child. And probably less than the FBI had already uncovered about him. Which, thanks to a few loyal blokes in SIS, amounted to precious little. All his sister thought of was Stew, anyway.

On his drive back to Alexandria, Gordon tried to conjure a way to follow her progress through the American court system. No doubt she’d be out on bail in less than a bit. Just to be safe, he’d scour their flat clean, and then pay a visit to an American bloke who might be of some use for the million he’d already paid him.

One Yank that would ensure his last bit of business in the US went on as planned.

The late evening storm captured Tom’s attention.

Better than “Monday Night Football.” He clicked off the television. With his brandy, he toasted Caesar. The tabby had taken to hiding under the bed during storms. Maybe he should do the same. Because with every flash of lightning, childhood fears mixed with overanxious thoughts of prison bars and milliondollar routing numbers.

Disappearing was his only option, thanks to Gracie.

A knock on the door kicked his heart up to his Adam’s apple. So not a good feeling.

Who was there? Visions of his mother came to mind. “Sorry, Mother. I’ll get the door.”

“Not your mum, I think.”

Tom startled at the well-built, deep-voiced Brit who stood on his porch. “No, but I recognize the voice.”

“A million dollars does wonders for the senses, eh?” The man strode into the townhome like he owned it.

Shutting the door, Tom motioned to the living room couch. “Care to join me for a brandy? Or do you prefer, what do you call it? A bitter?”

“With the chill off, if you have it.” The man sat at the small dining room table and leaned back in the expensive Chippendale chair.

The man’s dark tan and muscled arms gave Tom pause. This was a guy who could snap his neck if the mood struck. Tom
swallowed back the caustic comments on the tip of his tongue. “Sorry. We Americans keep our beer cold.”

“It’ll do.”

Tom poured himself a shot of dark amber liquid and guzzled it in the kitchen before bringing out a tall glass and the beer to his guest. “Care to share a name with me, or is this all CIA secretive?”

“You can call me Joe. That’s a name I’ve never used on any documents.” Joe drank his bitter from the bottle. “Due to unforeseen circumstances, we need to move our target date ahead. Send me the new codes and security schedule on October tenth. I’ll pay a visit on the eleventh, and if all goes well, your remaining wad will hit the Swiss bank by the fourteenth.”

Two and a half weeks. Tom nodded. Plenty of time to finalize his new living arrangements and book tickets across the big blue ocean. He’d always dreamed of a European vacation. Maybe even some plastic surgery Men were gaining on their female counterparts in the realm of surgery for vanity—or, in his case, for safety He couldn’t hide quite as well as this mystery man at his dining room table. But taking care of one loose end might wrap it all up nicely.

“One question. How good of a shot are you?”

Joe studied him a full minute before responding. “Marksman. Why? Want to pay me a million for a quick hit on a first-grade teacher’s pet?”

“No. Just a first-grade teacher.”

Joe whistled. “You Americans and your thwarted love lives. So soap opera. Can’t you simply walk away from the lass and find another? Or has the alimony got you in a dither?”

“Nothing like that.” Tom drained his last shot and stood, grabbing the back of his chair to steady himself. The wooziness had caught up to him quicker than usual.

“Ah, now it comes to me. Your Gracie problem. Pretty bird, she is. Too bad for her FBI bloke if I agree to this new twist.”

“How do you do that? I mean, your piecing together my past
was bad enough. But how do you know what’s going on with Gracie and Kessler?”

“To say my life is now entwined with theirs is a gross understatement.”

Tom didn’t want to decipher the pensive Brit’s comments. The less he knew, the less likely this man would remember him past October. Better to forge ahead and be done with the entire mess. Freedom. Greek beaches. Paris romances. Dreams finally becoming reality. Without the threat of Gracie uncovering some speck of truth and destroying it all. Dead men, or women, tell no tales.

If all went according to plan, live Brits wouldn’t either. Especially ones who had no proof but Gracie’s stupid sketch. The one that would rate the trash can when her great PI lost his retainer due to a client’s untimely death.

Tom gripped the back of his chair and looked into the Brit’s green eyes. “I’d be more than happy to call us even financially if you’d use two bullets and help me out of my situation.”

“Freedom’s worth two million to you, is it now?” Joe’s face erupted into a Cheshire grin.

Tom swallowed hard. “Yes.”

Hopefully Joe’s business at Hope Ridge would drive him so deep no one would ever find him. After all, killing a federal agent ranked higher on America’s Most Wanted than a drunk driving accident years ago.

Joe nodded and drained his beer. “Cheers to you. We’ll call it even after all is complete October eleventh.” The man stood and left without another word, closing the door behind him.

Good riddance. Tom threw his empty bottle in the trash and set the glasses in the dishwasher. Time to pack and make a list of things to do before he bid the United States a fond farewell. Forever.

Less than three weeks. Freedom had never tasted so good.

S
teven flipped thin strips of beef in the skillet while Gracie sat munching carrot sticks with dip at his breakfast bar, talking about school.

His mind kept slipping back to the case. Almost two weeks, and their amazing break in the Kensington investigation had stopped cold. Charlotte Brown’s dual citizenship added more frustrating threads to untangle, and her house arrest as a precautionary measure left more work for Steven’s team, which had fewer agents working all the angles of information she’d supplied.

He doubted her truth-telling ability. She was a staunch and proper Brit to the core, and he’d never seen more loyal blood. Not even he and Clint could drag additional information from her. She had her son, and for her, that was all that mattered.

Not Olivia’s death. Not Sir Walter’s future, especially since the older man didn’t even recall the name Landridge. Certainly not Steven’s investigation and attempts to put her only other living relative behind bars for life.

Steven added green and yellow peppers to the strips of sizzling steak, trying to push work aside and enjoy a Friday night off at home. James was spending the night at his grandparents’.

Gracie’s amused look made him laugh out loud. “What did you think I was fixing for dinner, peanut butter sandwiches?” He set out sour cream, cheese, and salsa, then put the tortillas in a terra-cotta serving dish to keep them warm.

“Can’t I help just a little?”

“No. You sit there looking beautiful. Dinner will be served
momentarily.” He slipped the steak into another warming dish and set the table.

Minutes later, he held out a high-backed and seldom-used formal dining room chair and waited for Gracie to settle. He flipped the cloth napkin and rested it in her lap with a dignified bow.

She covered her grin with her hand. “This is too much, even for you.”

Steven looked over what she had called her cream-colored tunic sweater and long moleskin skirt. “From where I stand, you deserve every bit of it.”

She blushed.

They’d covered a lot of ground in the two weeks since his birthday Getting-to-know-each-other e-mails, more pleasant conversations at school, and no ex-wife trouble had helped. He’d even begun to rib her a little.