THREE

June

As the elevator reached the fourth floor of the small hotel, Lyrica Mackay expelled a weary breath and wished she’d asked someone to make this trip with her.

Kye would have been the obvious choice, but Lyrica was trying desperately to stay away from the Brock house after her last confrontation with Graham. Her emotions were still too ragged, her body still too determined to remember every second of every touch he had whispered across her body.

Those memories tortured her, tormented her, and there was nothing she could do to hold them back.

The muted ping of the elevator reaching her floor sounded, forcing back her memories as the door slid open. What caused her to pause, she would never understand, couldn’t explain. Why she placed her hand on the elevator door to hold it open, she never questioned.

Her body tense, she stared up the long corridor to her room. Her gaze locked on her hotel room door, her senses heightening, certain her door was open.

It shouldn’t be open.

She remembered closing it securely when she left. She’d put out the Do Not Disturb sign, too. There was no reason for housekeeping to be there.

There was a strange sense of disbelief filling her. It sent adrenaline rushing through her system, a warning prickle of danger burning through her mind as she tried to tell herself to move. She should go directly to the lobby and complain.

No one had been at the registration desk when she’d arrived though. She’d considered stopping and requesting a cup of the coffee that smelled freshly made behind the receptionist’s counter. She’d even paused and looked around for the young man who had been there earlier, wondering where he had gone.

As she stood there, one hand still braced on the open elevator door out of instinct and the other tightening on her purse strap, a figure moved in the doorway.

Disbelief held her still and silent as their eyes met across the long distance. Dressed in black, masked, a handgun held firmly in his hand, the man’s gaze narrowed on her.

His black shirt fit snugly. He wasn’t in great shape, but overpowering her would be easy. He was taller, his legs longer. He could outrun her.

His arm came up slowly, a smile pulling at his lips as triumph gleamed in his eyes.

Instinct lent strength. Jumping back and hitting the door close button of the elevator, she was suddenly thankful for whatever urge had kept her hand on the elevator door. It closed quickly, moving swiftly back to the lobby as she began to pray.

Seconds later she pushed through the doors as they opened and raced into the lobby, searching desperately for the still-absent receptionist.

She didn’t dare wait. There wasn’t time.

Running through the doors, she considered the parking garage where her Jeep was parked, but knew that would be the first place her would-be assassin would look.

Assassin.

Who would want to kill her?

Running down the sidewalk, pushing herself to move faster than she ever had, Lyrica turned up the alley and began running through the dark shadows that lay over the backstreets. She didn’t know London, Kentucky, well enough. She only came there occasionally. She usually shopped in Louisville.

God, she had to find someplace to hide. She had to find a chance to call her cousin’s husband, the chief of police in Somerset. Alex would send someone after her. He would call someone he knew in London and make sure she was safe.

She couldn’t hear anyone behind her, but she knew how little that meant. She didn’t dare pause or slow down. She didn’t dare let herself believe she was safe. Turning at the next shadowed corner, she kept running, trying desperately to be quiet, grateful she’d worn sneakers rather than the low heels she’d considered.

Why was she being chased? Who would want to hurt her?

Unless . . .

Someone had targeted her older sister two years before. Eve had been placed in danger because of Dawg’s enemies. Had they returned?

They couldn’t have. Dawg was certain they were dead.

Coming to a hard stop, she realized she’d turned into an alley with no exits. Brick walls surrounded her now, and the only way out was back the way she had come, toward the dark figure with his ever-ready gun.

A cat squalled out from beyond the alley entrance, the clatter of metal meeting cement brief, but assuring her she had only seconds. Whoever wanted to kill her was getting closer.

Looking around in terror, she moved quickly to the heavy Dumpster at her side and wedged in beside it, praying he didn’t think to look there. As she all but crawled behind it, her breath escaped in a muffled sob as she realized there was a deep indent at the base of the building.

It had likely been covered once, but the bricks had been chipped away and disposed of at some point. She squeezed herself into it, huddling as close to the boarded back as possible and holding her breath as the footsteps came closer.

“I know I saw that bitch turn in here,” someone hissed.

“I’m telling you, she backtracked to the garage,” another snapped.

“I saw her take that last turn coming this way,” the first argued furiously. “Check behind the Dumpster.”

Footsteps shuffled, moving closer. There was the scrape of a shoe, of clothes against the Dumpster as someone breathed out harshly. The Dumpster shifted, but it didn’t move.

“There’s no one back there,” the second voice retorted in disgust. “I can see behind it and it’s clear. She’s not here.”

“Fuck!” The curse was filled with anger. “I can’t believe you didn’t see her come into the lobby.”

“She was supposed to be in her room, dammit. You didn’t see her leave it.”

“Fucking moron,” the other man growled. “Let’s go. She has to be close. She couldn’t have gotten far.”

Lyrica didn’t dare breathe. She couldn’t breathe. Terror was like a fever, weakening her, tearing through her senses, shredding her control. Her entire body shuddered, chilled, shock and fear racing the adrenaline tearing through her body.

How long she waited she didn’t know. She didn’t dare move from the precarious hiding place. They were waiting for her, watching for her.

Moving slowly and reaching into the purse she clasped desperately to her chest, she pulled her cell phone free. It hadn’t been working earlier. She’d tried to call her sister to let her know she’d arrived, but the automated message had told her to try again later.

Fingers shaking, she hit Alex Jansen’s number again. When it didn’t go through, she began calling every number in her contact list, one after the other.

None of them were going through.

“We’re sorry, but this number is no longer accepting calls. Please try again later.”

The message played again, the computer-generated voice completely unsympathetic to the small, barely muffled sob that escaped Lyrica’s lips.

Hands trembling, she pulled the phone from her ear, closed her eyes, and huddled deeper into the small crevice she’d found in the brick building behind the stinking Dumpster.

She was too terrified to move out from behind it, the stark, mind-numbing fear rising from the depths of her soul at the very thought of it.

She couldn’t make a call out. Her texts weren’t going through to any of her family. Not her brother or her cousins, not her sisters or her mother or even her mother’s lover, Timothy Cranston. She’d tried everyone and nothing worked. She stared at the muted display, fighting desperately to think, to figure out what to do.

Even Alex Jansen, her cousin Janey’s husband and chief of police of Somerset, Kentucky, was unreachable. And she needed help. Oh god, she needed help.

She had no idea how to navigate the alleys and backstreets of downtown London. She was trapped here with no idea how to identify who was after her or why.

Why?

What had she done?

She’d just driven into town to meet some friends for dinner, then to go shopping early the next morning. The party she’d been invited to at one of her brother’s friends’ home in a few weeks required a new outfit. She wanted to look good. She wanted to get new shoes, something girly and pretty. Something to draw attention . . .

She’d checked into the hotel just before dark then left for dinner at a nearby restaurant where her friends were waiting for her. She could have never anticipated that someone would be waiting to kill her when she returned.

She shuddered remembering the muted pop that the gun had made as she had quickly stepped back into the elevator. The bullet had missed her by inches. She could have been killed. She would have been killed if she hadn’t held that damned elevator door open.

What was she going to do now?

Dawg had taught her and her sisters how to fight. He and their cousins had taught them how to survive in the mountains. But she had no idea how to survive here, in this dark alley, without a weapon.

The vibration of her phone had her turning it in her hand, staring at it in breathless hope.

Lyrie, this is Kye. My phone is acting really wonky. Using Graham’s. Where the hell are you? I’ve tried to call all day.

The text shocked her.

Kye? Kye had gotten through?

Graham would know what to do. He would get hold of Alex. Someone. He would help her. He had sworn he would come if she needed him.

Desperation spurred her as she quickly typed back.

Kye. Need Graham. In trouble. Help me!

Would it go through? Oh god, please let it go through. She watched the bar, nearly crying out as the “Delivered” message showed next to the text.

What if he refused to help her? He wasn’t too happy with her but, god, she needed him now.

She was dead if he didn’t find a way to save her. And she really didn’t think she’d like being dead.

—

Graham stared at the text, his senses hardening, turning to ice at the realization that Lyrica was in trouble.

“Graham,” Kye whispered, her face pale.

Graham dialed Lyrica’s number quickly before hitting the speaker option and hearing his call go straight to voice mail.

Inputting the secure encryption key on the stealth phone, he quickly dialed her number again.

“Kye. Kye, please help me.” Terror lanced through her tear-filled voice and shoved a dull blade through his chest. Her voice came quickly across the line. “I’ve called everyone. No one’s call is going through.”

“Where are you, Lyrica?” He was moving as he spoke, watching the readout on the screen of his phone and hitting the jamming signal that would keep the call from being tracked even as the program tracked her location. “Quickly.”

“Graham?” The hope, the terror in her voice ripped through his guts like a dull blade.

“Quickly, Lyrica,” he snapped.

“London.” Her voice was hushed, shaking. “I don’t know where. I was running, trying to get away. It’s a brick building, down an alley close to the new London Suites in town. I’m behind a Dumpster. Some guys are trying to kill me! They haven’t found me yet.”

“I have your GPS. Turn the phone off and pull the battery now, Lyrica. And don’t fucking move. If you have to run again, find a safe place, insert the battery again for three minutes, then pull it. You hear me? I’m coming for you, honey. I’m just a minute away.” He tried to reassure her. “Now do as I said.”

“Graham? Please hurry.” The whimper of terror had his guts turning to mush as he grabbed his duffel bag from his bedroom closet and raced to the front door.

“Do as I said, now. They’re tracking you and I won’t be able to block it for long once I leave the house. Pull that fucking battery and stay where you are. I’m on my way.”

The call disconnected.

“Graham, what’s going on?” Kye was rushing behind him, fear filling her voice as well, though she spoke low, nearly whispering, as he jerked the door of his car open and threw the duffel bag in it.

“Stay here.” Turning on her, he caught her shoulders in his hands and gave her a quick little shake as he spoke just loud enough for her to hear him. “Do not use your phone, Kye, it’s being monitored. Do you understand me?”

Frightened gray eyes widened, dilating with shock and fear at the information.

“Why?”

“Someone’s trying to track Lyrica. Stay off the phone. Do not answer it. I’ll call Sam and she’ll be out here to get you soon. Leave the phone here; don’t take it with you.”

“What if your phone is being tracked, too?” she whispered, still following him as he moved around to the driver’s side.

“It’s not or I wouldn’t have gotten through to her. It’s encrypted and secure. No one tracked it. But I want you to go with Sam and stay there until I call.”

“You’ll call soon?” she implored, stepping back from the car as he revved the motor of the powerful Viper.

“As soon as I can, sweetie,” he promised. “Now get in the house and lock up until Sam gets here. Now!”

Shifting quickly into gear, he tore out of the driveway, checking the rearview mirror just long enough to see her racing into the house.

“Call Sam.” He activated the Bluetooth calling option built into the powerful vehicle.

“Detective Bryce,” responded the strong, feminine voice that came over the line.

“Sam, could you check the house for me?” Graham kept his tone casual, pleasant. “I’m going to be late getting back and Kye’s phone is acting up on me.”

Sam would know exactly what the request meant—that Kye might need protection and to get her out of the house.

“Sure, Graham,” she answered, her own voice never changing, though he knew she was moving, prepping. “I was heading that way anyway to visit with a few friends.”

“I appreciate it,” he drawled. “On your way back, stop by the Mackays’ and ask Zoey if she’ll make a reservation for you tomorrow night. She’s still pissed at me for running off that hoodlum last week who was flirting with her. But let’s not let her family know I butted in. Dawg gets cranky over that shit and he’ll just piss her off when he questions her about it.”

What he said wasn’t important. The fact that he said it and the name he gave was all the detective needed. They’d worked together long enough that she was well versed in reading between the lines.

He didn’t want anyone alerted to the fact that Lyrica was in trouble until he figured out what the trouble was and the danger she was facing. The fact that Kye’s phone was being monitored and jammed each time she attempted to call Lyrica was warning enough that any information going to Lyrica’s phone, or her family’s phones, would be overheard.

“Yeah, we try to keep Dawg calm,” Sam laughed, the ease of the sound assuring him that anyone listening would be none the wiser that Graham was on his way to London. “Talk to you soon, then.”

Disconnecting the call, Graham pushed the little sports car harder, taking the curves at a breakneck speed as he raced for the interstate.

London was forty-five minutes away. In the Viper, he could cut that time to less than twenty. He didn’t worry about being stopped or trailed. Once his tag number was called in, law enforcement would let him go. He made certain he used the privilege often enough that he was rarely questioned over it. It shouldn’t so much as blip anyone’s radar. At least not until he collected Lyrica, and only then if he was seen.

Tightening his hands on the steering wheel as his teeth clenched furiously, he hoped he came face-to-face with the bastard who had the delicate, too damned fragile Lyrica hiding behind a Dumpster, terrified for her life.

They’d made a mistake. Whoever had dared to strike out at her for whatever reason had made a costly error. Because he’d make sure they paid. They should have done their homework better, should have checked closer into the fact that Kye was a friend. The very fact that Kyleene Brock kept Lyrica’s number on her main contact list should have been a clue.

She was important to Graham.

He’d encouraged Kye in that particular friendship. Had gently pushed his sister in the other woman’s direction to ensure Lyrica stayed on the periphery of his life, at least.

He had no intention of becoming involved with her. He wouldn’t have become involved with her because of the simple fact that he hadn’t wanted to hurt her.

He didn’t want to break her tender heart.

Now that might not even be an option.

He’d make damned sure that he broke the bastard, ensuring the dynamics in his and Lyrica’s relationship would change, though. Whoever it was, he was a dead man walking.

As he sped toward the interstate, the Viper taking the curves with a roar of power as it easily gripped the pavement, he was aware of a pickup that he passed, as well as the man most likely driving it.

The highway entrance was just ahead, and, calculating his intended speed and that of the man behind him, he quickly revised the plan he’d been considering to rescue Lyrica.

“Incoming call. Secured. Encrypted,” the computerized voice announced.

“Accept,” he ordered tersely.

“Need help?” Elijah Grant, formerly with the Federal Protective Service and now part of the small team Graham headed in the county, asked as the headlights in Graham’s rearview mirror assured him the other man had turned around and was attempting to follow him.

With the motor Jed Booker had put in that truck, Elijah might just be able to keep up if Graham cooperated.

“I don’t have time to stop,” Graham stated. “If you can stay on my ass until we’re close, then I could use some cover.”

“You have to slow sometime,” Elijah told him. “I’ll be there and can slide in fast.”

“I’ll need the passenger seat. You’ll have to be able to keep up.” Hitting the interstate, Graham pushed the Viper faster. “If you can stay close, we’re not going far.”

“As long as we’re on the interstate I can keep up,” Elijah assured him as they roared up the ramp onto the all but deserted highway. “We hit more county roads and I’ll fall behind.”

The truck’s motor was strong as hell and the speeds the vehicle had been logged at amazed even Graham. It wasn’t nearly as steady on mountain curves as the low-built Viper, though, nor did it have the Viper’s full speed. But Elijah could at least keep him in sight on the interstate if Graham stayed at the speed he intended.

“You’ll be fine, then,” Graham promised. “Just follow me and keep my ass covered when I collect my package.”

“Got it,” Elijah promised. “Is there any chance of compromise?”

“Not short term.” The short call was safe, the security on the line still showing green rather than the yellow that would indicate possible encryption weakness. “Long term is iffy.”

“I’m on your ass, then, and prepped to cover.”

The line went silent, the call well within the limited parameter outside of which anyone could compromise it.

God, he hoped Lyrica was still safely tucked away at the last GPS pinpoint he had.

Glancing at the monitor, he tracked the destination and knew he was only minutes away from the exit leading to London.

She was only a few miles from the turn, on a little backstreet just behind one of the older, remodeled hotels that had been popular decades before. He knew the area and was fairly certain she’d found a way to push her slight body into one of the chimney alcoves that had mostly been boarded or bricked up once the fireplaces were removed.

She would be well hidden as long as no one managed to GPS her phone. Though tracking it and jamming it at the same time would be difficult. And tracking would be impossible once the battery was pulled.

Unless it was bugged.

But why bug it if they already had it jammed? And if it was bugged, they would have found Lyrica before Kye contacted her.

What the hell was going on?

Silently, he went over every piece of intel from the past few months and couldn’t find so much as a hint as to why Lyrica would be targeted. There were no current operations in the area. Graham and his team hadn’t been called out in months to provide backup or to cover any current investigations. And the Mackays weren’t even in the country . . .

The Mackays were on vacation overseas, out of reach of two of the young women who were well-known to be important to them and to Timothy Cranston. Could someone have decided to make a vengeance strike against Dawg Mackay while he was gone?

Hell, even that didn’t make sense. Dawg would return the second he knew one of his sisters was hurt or in trouble. If something happened to one of them, then he and his cousins would blow back into town like a vicious wind. There would be no hiding once Dawg began tracking the perpetrators. And once they were found, Natches Mackay would make sure a bullet found their brains, if Dawg didn’t beat him to it.

It didn’t make sense yet, but it would, soon.

Tires screamed but held as he hit the exit and shot through it, forced to lower his speed to make the tight turns that would lead into the backstreet he was looking for.

Elijah was all but on his bumper as Graham forced himself to slow to the legal speed limit. Whoever was looking for Lyrica would still be out there. There was no reason to make anyone suspicious before he managed to find her and get her out of town.

He wanted a chance to figure out what was going on and who’d decided to come after her with a gun before they had any more information other than the fact that she’d disappeared.

“Call Eli,” he ordered the computer.

“Yeah?” Elijah answered before the first ring finished.

“We’re close. Give me enough room to allow me to back into the alley. There’s no exit there.”

“Got it.” The truck immediately slowed. “I have cover ready. I’ll pull in behind you. Give me a second to check the rooftops before you move.”

“Got it.” Disconnecting, he drew to a stop, then reversed quickly and backed to the end of the alley that the GPS had pinpointed as Lyrica’s location.

She had to be here.

God help him if she wasn’t.

God help whoever had her if they’d found her. If she was hurt, he’d find them, and he’d ensure they regretted that mistake in ways they could never imagine.

—

The sound of vehicles pulling to a stop caused Lyrica’s breath to catch. She didn’t dare move. The glow of lights was shining all around her, possibly compromising the shadowed little alcove she was hiding in.

Her back was killing her and her legs were cramped. It felt like she’d been there for hours, still too terrified to move, to do anything more than just breathe. Silent tears slipped from her eyes. She’d prayed silently, certain each sound was a return of the assailant.

And he had returned at least once.

She’d watched his shadow, felt fear screaming through her as he’d tried to shift the Dumpster, moving it enough to wedge himself in between the side of it and the wall, as he seemed to be attempting to look behind it.

He’d thrown the lids open instead and looked inside. He may have glanced behind it, but he’d cursed silently, moving around the alley and kicking boxes seconds later.

She’d nearly screamed in fear at the sound of glass breaking and another cat squalling seconds after he left that second time.

Now the lights would make it far easier to see her.

Moving slowly and biting her lip at the agonizing feel of her cramped muscles being forced to move, she moved into position to run. Crouched, forced to huddle on her hands and knees, tears falling from her eyes again, she promised herself if they caught her, she wouldn’t beg.

A Mackay didn’t beg, she reminded herself. If one did, then she would have done so by now. She would have begged Graham to explain last winter. She would have begged him to love her, perhaps. There wasn’t a lot she would have begged for, but those things, at one time, she might have considered.

If only Graham had managed to get here in time to save her . . .