Someone Safe

SOMEONE WAS OUT THERE… WATCHING…WAITING

Kelly reached in the drawer for her automatic, and she was still digging through the clutter when a pebble shot toward her across the grease-stained concrete floor. She looked up, her fingers finally closing around the butt of the gun. The silhouette of a man filled the hangar’s entrance. She stiffened, her gut filling with an odd mixture of fear and hate.

Nick Cavanaugh.

What was he doing here? Why had he come strolling into her life after all these years?

She watched as he calmly dropped his duffel bag and slowly raised his hands, his cocky grin never fading.

“It’s good to see you, too, Kelly.”

“What do you want?” Her voice was cold.

Nick nodded at the gun. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you guns are dangerous?”

“Depends which end you’re facing. It feels fine from this side.”

He took a step forward. “I guess, but I’ve never been comfortable around a woman with a pistol in her hand, especially when she’s pointing it at me.”

Someone Safe

Lori L. Harris

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

For Bobby Harris With love.

You are my world.

And

For Bobbie Laishley Who made me believe I could do anything.

Thanks, Mom!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lori Harris has always enjoyed competition. She grew up in southern Ohio, showing Arabian horses and Great Danes. Later she joined a shooting league where she competed head-to-head with police officers—and would be competing today if she hadn’t discovered how much fun and challenging it was to write. Romantic suspense seemed a natural fit. What could be more exciting than writing about life-and-death struggles that include sexy, strong men?

When not in front of a computer, Lori enjoys remodeling her home, gardening and boating. Lori lives in Orlando, Florida, with her very own hero.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Nick Cavanaugh—He was one of Immigration and Customs Enforcement’s toughest investigators. And just as there’s always one woman who lingers at the back of a man’s mind, for every investigator there’s one case that he can’t forget. For Nick, the case is Princeton Air, and the woman is Kelly Logan.

Kelly Logan—She’s the scrappy, blond beauty who owns Bird of Paradise airline. Seven years ago, she was in love with Nick, but then he destroyed her family….

Rod Griffis—Owner of the local dive shop and the kind of guy who is always helping out those around him. He’s in love with Kelly, but her feelings for him are anyone’s guess.

Myron Richards—He was the Agent in Charge and Nick’s mentor. He and Nick have always had each other’s back…until now.

Doug Willcox—Recently divorced; Special Agent Doug has his hands full with two kids and an ex-wife, and tended to disappear at all the wrong moments.

Benito Binelli—This big-time drug dealer was the No. 1 bad guy on every federal agency’s most wanted list and the headliner on Nick Cavanaugh’s hit parade.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter One

U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement special agent Nick Cavanaugh scanned the case file one last time before setting it aside.

The first day back after an investigation was completed meant hours compiling detailed reports. Nick preferred field work to paperwork and was a hell of a lot better at it. Unfortunately, the prosecution required both.

For the first time, he realized just how late it was and that the cramped office smelled of the Mexican food he’d thrown uneaten into the trash can. After three weeks of greasy fast food and doughnuts, he hadn’t been able to face the enchilada and refried beans any more than he had been able to face going home to an empty condo.

With the office and his thoughts closing in on him, Nick stood and crossed to the window. He opened the blinds. Gray pavement and shale-colored buildings. Not a view that would make an Orlando travel brochure. Under the last vestige of dusk, the scene appeared as somber as his mood.

When he returned home last night, he’d found a note on the kitchen counter. Stephanie, his girlfriend of more than eleven months, had moved out while he tracked a load of cocaine up the Eastern Seaboard.

He really wasn’t surprised. The job, his lifestyle, wasn’t conducive to long-term relationships. But in the beginning, he’d hoped this time might be different.

When they’d first dated, she had seemed independent enough to handle the occasions when a case kept him out of town and out of touch. In recent months, though, that had changed.

She talked about how, because he wasn’t available, she’d turned down this invitation or that one. He told her often enough to go on without him. But even when he said those words, he knew they weren’t the right ones.

The bottom line was he couldn’t give her what she wanted. Marriage and kids. A husband who showed up at the dinner table every night.

It just wasn’t in him. Wasn’t part of his makeup. He wasn’t a nine-to-fiver. He’d be bored with any job that kept him behind a desk or any relationship that became as predictable as his and Stephanie’s had.

It really was better that she was the one to move on. Easier for her. She’d find someone ready to give her what she wanted. What she was entitled to. And he, no doubt, was getting exactly what he deserved.

Fatigue overtook him as he stood there, staring. He recognized the feeling that crept up on him more and more of late, from the dark alleys of his mind.

Regret.

Over cases gone sour, over failed relationships. Regret that he wasn’t a better friend for Myron when his wife had passed away. That he hadn’t mended fences with his own father before his death five years ago. That perhaps he was responsible for a man hanging himself. That, though he had no other choice, he’d killed a fourteen-year-old kid in a dark warehouse.

He couldn’t seem to let go of any of them; instead, he kept them buried inside. They escaped some nights, and he welcomed them because they were all he had.

The phone rang.

He briefly considered ignoring it, then, relenting, turned and grabbed it. “Cavanaugh here.”

“Can we meet?”

Recognizing his friend Ake Almgren’s voice, Nick managed a tired smile. “That wife of yours must be giving you the night off for good behavior. Or she’s tired of having you underfoot,” he added as he sat again.

He envied Ake and Sue their solid marriage, their kids. Maybe tonight more than at other times. He rubbed the grit from his eyes. “Or does Sue think I need some cheering up?” Recently, Sue and Stephanie had been getting together for lunch or a movie, so Ake’s wife probably knew about Stephanie.

There was a hesitation on the opposite end of the line.

“Hey, Ake. I’m okay.”

“I was sorry to hear about Stephanie’s decision, but that’s not why I’m calling. I almost wish it was.”

“What do you mean?”

Ake didn’t answer him, and at the continued silence, the muscles between Nick’s shoulder blades bunched. “Ake? Sue’s okay, right? The boys, too?”

“They’re fine. You alone?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Does the name Kelly Logan mean anything to you?”

His hand clenching the phone, Nick straightened. He hadn’t heard the name in more than six years. Except in his own head. The case, the woman, were some of his biggest regrets. Even now, if he closed his eyes, he knew he’d see her there.

“You investigated her back in ninety-six.” Ake prompted, obviously thinking his silence was due to his inability to place the case. “Princeton Air.”

“I recall the investigation. It was one of my first cases,” Nick said. “We got a tip a small cargo airline was moving weapons for the Irish Republican Army. I went in undercover.”

Ake picked up where he stopped. “The father committed suicide before he could be taken into custody. Both the girl and Aidan Gallagher, a known IRA sympathizer, walked.”

“Couldn’t be helped,” he said. “We had nothing to tie them directly to the guns. The only material witness, a courier, was dead before we could get to him, and the only prints found on the weapons were the father’s.”

“And just two of the crates were recovered,” Ake said.

“That’s right.”

“The report I’m reading says Aidan and the Logans were friends, that he claimed his appearance in their home was innocent.”

“And there was no evidence to suggest otherwise. The Logan girl even called him uncle.” Nick reached over and switched on the desk lamp.

“Not a casual friend, then?”

“No. If I remember the story right, John Logan and Aidan grew up in the same Belfast neighborhood. Several months earlier, the old neighborhood had been ripped apart by a couple of bombs. John’s sister was one of the ones killed.” He recalled John telling him the story, the tears in the Irishman’s eyes. Nick had never been an IRA sympathizer, but, in that moment, he had certainly been an empathizer.

“Why all the questions, Ake? Most of what you’ve asked so far must be in the report sitting in front of you.”

“What do you know about Benito Binelli?” Ake continued.

With the question, the headache thrumming just below the surface, perhaps for hours, mushroomed, an atomic bomb going off at the base of Nick’s skull.

He massaged the stress-tightened muscles. “Businessman. Scum. Has a team of lawyers to keep him out of jail.”

“What would you say if I told you there’s evidence Kelly Logan’s in bed with him?”

Nick’s fingers tightened on the handset again. “What would I say?” He came up with numerous possibilities. Most of which he was unwilling to voice. “I’d say he’s a little old for her,” he said, though they both knew Ake had meant in bed figuratively.

From all accounts, Benito Binelli appeared a happily married man with two teenage daughters. Currently, his only vices were the selling of illegal drugs and the occasional murder when someone was foolish enough to get in the way of business.

“Where are you going with this, Ake? Are you guys working Binelli now?”

“Yeah.” After another brief pause, Ake picked his words carefully. “This isn’t an official call. It’s strictly one friend asking another for an opinion. It’s important that it doesn’t go any farther. At least for now.”

“Sure.” He stood to look out the window again. “Whatever you say.”

“Kelly Logan’s name came up in several of the reports. As background, I read over the file on Princeton Air.” Ake hesitated again. “There’re some unusual similarities between the two investigations.”

“Unusual? In what way?” Nick asked.

“I rather you look at it for yourself. I may just be seeing spooks where none exist.”

It was an odd choice of words. “Okay,” he said, his tone cautious. “Do you want to meet? I could use some dinner.”

Someone tapped at his closed door. He’d thought himself alone in the suite of offices. Myron poked his head in.

Realizing Nick was on the phone, the resident agent in charge offered a small salute, but remained mute. Nick noticed the strain around the other man’s eyes.

“Myron just—”

Ake broke in. “Watch what you say.”

Nick’s gaze dropped away, and he reached for the empty coffee cup on the edge of his desk. “Okay. What do you propose?”

“We need to talk. Tonight. Alone.” Ake suggested the top level of a nearby parking garage.

“I’ll see you there in five.” Nick replaced the receiver just as Myron dropped into the chair in front of the desk.

“Who was that on the phone?”

“Old college friend,” Nick offered. “Wants to meet for a beer.” He pulled his holstered weapon out of the top drawer and slipped it on. “Did you need something?” he asked when Myron made no move to stand.

“No. I was just finishing up and saw your light on. Thought we could catch a sandwich.” He rubbed his knees. “Maybe another night.”

“Sounds good.” Nick said. “Everything okay with you?”

“Sure.” With a forced smile and a soft grunt, Myron pushed stiffly to his feet. His shoulders sagged. “I guess I’m just restless. It’s been a year today, and I still don’t know what to do with myself. Pathetic, isn’t it? I feel like a lost pup scratching at the back door of a dark house.”

The previous July, Myron had buried his wife of thirty-four years. Nick hated seeing the pain in the other man’s eyes. Myron was more of a father to him than his own had been, and still he didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing. And regretted it.

“If you’re on your way out, I’ll walk down with you,” he offered.

Myron opened the door. “I just need to stop by my office and make a quick call to my daughter.”

When they reached Myron’s office, Nick stayed outside in the hall. After several moments, though, he found himself glancing down at his watch. He’d told Ake five minutes. Something had rattled the experienced FBI investigator. Nick reached in his pocket for the pack of cigarettes he carried. Instead of taking one, he glanced with uncertainity at the bank of elevators twenty-five feet away and considered going on ahead, but then he remembered the look in Myron’s eyes. A few more minutes couldn’t hurt. As he waited, he did his damndest to keep his mind away from Kelly Logan. Without success.

He couldn’t say he was surprised to hear of a connection between Kelly and Benito. Disappointed, though. He’d always hoped he was wrong about her.

He rested his head against the wall behind him and closed his eyes.

Why was it, when he could barely remember the color of Stephanie’s eyes, he could still recall the way Kelly had looked the first time he’d watched her climb down from a plane and stride across tarmac?

Tight jeans and a baggy sweater. Long, loose stride. A smile that hit a man dead in the gut and kept going.

Myron closed the door to his office, and Nick straightened.

“How’s Lily?” Nick asked as they headed for the elevator.

“Okay. Better than me.” Myron shifted his briefcase to the opposite hand and reached into his pocket for his keys. “I finally agreed to put the house on the market, so we’re at least talking again.” He glanced at Nick, offering a weary smile. “She’s like Bev. Determined.”

“She’s like Bev in other ways, too.”

“Suppose she is,” he admitted, seeming to give additional thought to the observation. “Can’t cook like her mother, though.”

Nick followed Myron into the elevator. “Different generation.”

“You can say that again.”

“You’re a dinosaur.”

“Lily has another term for it, a long word that manages to sound like a compliment, but isn’t.” Myron stepped out into the parking garage and Nick followed.

“How about we catch that sandwich tomorrow night? Maybe shoot a few games of pool?”

“Sounds good,” Myron called and offered a small wave.

Four minutes later, Nick’s car skidded into the parking garage.

After taking the ticket from the entrance machine, he entered the parking structure. At this time of night, the garage, which catered to bank customers and employees, was mostly empty.

What in the hell was going on? Was Kelly hauling for Benito? Nick felt his gut tighten at the possibility.

His sports car roared up to the top level. A clear, star-studded Florida night spread overhead. Tall buildings, several lit to reveal the bold architectural details of the New South, surrounded the structure.

As soon as he circled around the ramp’s guard wall, he spotted Ake’s car, one of the few vehicles parked on the unprotected rooftop. He pulled alongside the large sedan expecting to see Ake sitting behind the wheel, but the Buick was empty.

But, then, he was more than ten minutes late. Maybe Ake had decided to stretch his legs.

Nick climbed out, stood next to his own vehicle. In the distance, interstate traffic hummed. Closer, an ambulance wailed. He searched the lot for movement. What had made Ake think of a deserted garage as a meeting place? Only rookies considered deserted lots and buildings good places for private conversations. He preferred crowded restaurants with loud music and booths. As did Ake usually. So what was different about this time? What did Ake want to show him?

He walked out into the driving lane, looked toward the far wall, then behind him. Nothing.

Backtracking, he glanced inside the Buick, front seat, then back. John’s child seat was strapped in place, a diaper bag sat on the seat, and Ake’s briefcase lay on the floorboard.

He tried the door and found it unlocked. The damp stickiness on his fingers registered at the same time the interior light came on.

Dropping into a crouch in front of the open door, he released the strap holding the 9mm secure in the shoulder holster, flicked off the safety as soon as steel broke free of leather.

Blood glistened on the charcoal upholstery. At least one bullet had missed its mark and torn into the seat back, the blood-splattered guts of the upholstery leaking out like torn flesh. Not a lot of blood, though.

He could taste the vaporized gun powder against his tongue now. Only minutes old. Which meant whoever had done this might still be close by, might have Ake pinned down somewhere.

“Ake!”

Nothing.

Looking down for the first time, he spotted more blood leading toward the rear of the car. A lot more.

He shouldn’t have waited on Myron. He should have sensed something was wrong. Reaching in, he removed the keys from the ignition. As he backed out of the path of the dome light, his shoe sent an object pinging across the pavement. A small caliber casing from the sound of it.

Stopping short of the rear of the car, he rested his back against the fender of his small car, distancing his body the same way he attempted to distance his mind.

He’d opened doors and trunks in his career, often knowing what he would find inside. He’d seen the bodies of men tossed into large shipping cartons after their illegal contents had been emptied, their remains left there undiscovered for days, until the stench of death brought help too late.

Nick shoved the key into the trunk lock and turned it. As the lid came up, the interior light blinked on.

He staggered back as if he’d taken a couple of shotgun blasts to the chest and gut. The pain was real. Not physical, maybe, but still burning and messy.

Ake’s body was folded nearly in half, the gray carpet beneath him rapidly turning crimson.

The wave of nausea hit Nick with the solid vengeance of a Louisville Slugger.

It was several seconds before Nick could move again. Refusing to look back, he calmly walked to his car, almost daring the shooter to take him out, too. Better the pain of a bullet tearing into flesh than what he felt inside.

He called it in. As he waited for homicide, for the FBI and the crime scene technicians, anger replaced shock; determination, the pain.

He could hear the keening of sirens. The muffled, mechanical scream as they climbed through the bowels of the parking garage. But they were nothing compared to the raw howls roaring inside his head.

Ake and he went way back. Had gone to school together. Played basketball on weekends. He’d been the best man at Ake’s wedding. Was godfather to both of his boys. Ake was one of the few people he truly trusted.

And now he was gone.

Somehow, Nick would find whoever had done this. Someone would pay.

Chapter Two

Hell was probably ten degrees cooler than the Abaco Islands in late July, Kelly Logan decided.

Massaging the stiffness in her neck, she tried to ignore the way her clothing stuck to her skin. The corrugated metal sides of the airplane hangar, when coupled with the island heat and the ceiling fan revolving slowly in the dense, skeletal shadows overhead, turned the structure into a large convection oven. Everything seemed to cook faster. Except for the company books.

She lifted the top page of the bank statement. What she wouldn’t give to just cram all six months’ worth in the trash can. She could fly anything from a single-engine prop to a heavy cargo plane to a small jet, but even the simplest accounting managed to defeat her. She just wasn’t a numbers person.

Fatigue overtaking her, she checked the time. Ten-thirty. No reason to take a dinner break at this point. In fact maybe she should just pack it in.

And maybe she could have if her mechanic, Ben, Bird of Paradise’s only other employee, had managed to come back as promised after his dinner break.

Closing her eyes, she scrubbed her face. What was she going to do if the ads didn’t bring in more business? Cutting fares again wasn’t an option; the margins were already nonexistent, and there was more meat in a poor man’s stew than left in her operating budget. And fuel costs were expected to continue to rise to the record levels of early 1970s.

What was going to happen when she couldn’t keep it together any longer? What then?

She studied the plane sitting thirty feet from her and wondered where in the hell she had gotten the dumb idea she could build an airline from the ground up?

Her father had taught her how to dream, how to reach for what seemed impossible when her feet were flat on the ground. He’d taught her to set goals, to work hard to achieve them. But, unfortunately, he hadn’t taught her how to fail, which accounted for the sick feeling curled up inside her most nights when she closed her eyes.

A noise broke the silence in the hangar.

Kelly glanced toward the large opening at the front of the hangar, all thoughts of business vanishing. She couldn’t quite identify the origin of the sound. An animal foraging in the underbrush along the edge of the tarmac? Or had the sound been of human making? Considering the time, she knew it wouldn’t be her mechanic. If he was following his recent pattern, Ben was facedown on the pub’s bar by now.

She continued to watch the doorway where the shadows of swaying palm fronds broke the halogen glare of the outside light. A gust of wind stole through the doorway, bringing the scent of the nearby Atlantic, and with it, the certainty that someone was out there.

Watching.

Waiting.

She reached in the drawer for the small automatic weapon that she usually kept locked on the plane, was still digging through the clutter when a pebble shot toward her across the grease-stained concrete.

Kelly looked up, her fingers closing around the butt of the gun. The silhouette of a man filled the opening, the lamp light from the desk barely reaching him.