Guardian Angel

A woman alone in the dark with a stranger…

Hands in the air. Feet wide apart. She was prepared to fight if the need arose. She’d had nearly identical training as the federal agent cohorts she once worked with, but she wasn’t even close to the stranger’s level. His gaze skimmed her body. The formfitting T-shirt and jeans didn’t leave any room for concealing a weapon.

She certainly didn’t look like his idea of a private detective. But looks were often deceiving. After all, he was an expert at creating illusions. Perhaps she was an illusion designed to do exactly what she appeared to be trying to do: drawing him into a trap.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Debra Webb was born in Scottsboro, Alabama, to parents who taught her that anything is possible if you want it badly enough. She began writing at the age of nine. Eventually, she met and married the man of her dreams, and tried various occupations, including selling vacuum cleaners and working in a factory, a day-care centre, a hospital and a department store. When her husband joined the military, they moved to Berlin, Germany, and Debra became a secretary in the commanding general’s office. By 1985 they were back in the States, and they finally moved to Tennessee, to a small town where everyone knows everyone else. With the support of her husband and two beautiful daughters, Debra took up writing again, looking to mystery and movies for inspiration. In 1998 her dream of writing came true. You can write to Debra at PO Box 64, Huntland, Tennessee 37345, USA or visit her website at www.debrawebb.com to find out exciting news about her next book.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Guardian Angel – Is he really a saviour or merely a vigilante? And what of his alter ego, Nathan Tyler, the mysterious recluse with far too many secrets of his own?

Ann Linker Martin – A Colby Agency investigator with a deep, dark secret of her own. Will that secret prevent her from doing her job?

Victoria Colby-Camp – The head of the Colby Agency. Victoria has complete faith in all her investigators. She is certain that Ann will not fail her or the client.

Katherine Fowler – A mother who will go to any and all lengths to find her missing child.

Trey Fowler – The child’s father is terrified that the Colby Agency’s involvement will jeopardise his child’s life.

Kevin Addison – The top public relations agent in the business. How far will he go to put his boss in the limelight?

Owen Johnson – Will loyalty and ambition continue to outweigh any sense of basic human compassion he has left?

Phillip Kendall – Wealth and power are the only moral codes he follows.

Ian Michaels and Simon Ruhl – The top men at the Colby Agency.

Guardian Angel

DEBRA WEBB

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To all members of law enforcement, local,

federal or international, the true guardian

angels who protect our children.

Chapter One

Western Virginia Monday 8:35 p.m.

The girl was here.

He could feel it, could taste the evil in the air. His senses went on high alert.

Moving silently, he eased closer to the run-down shack that sat deep in the wilderness backing up against the George Washington National Forest.

An acrid chemical stench lingered in the September air. He recognized that solvent-laden stink. The remote setting provided the perfect anonymous spot. Most meth labs were found in trailer homes, old sheds, run-down motels and places exactly like this, where no one wanted to look.

It was too dark to see just now, but somewhere nearby there would be a mounting refuse pile that would tell the tale and would, all by itself, provide sufficient probable cause for a search warrant. But he wasn’t here about the classic lowlife-style meth lab.

He was here for the girl.

His heart rate remaining stable despite the anticipation coursing in his veins, he stole toward the east side of the shack. Light poured through the bottom portion of the single window on that end, its faint glow cutting through the darkness like a ray of hope.

Anticipation fueled his determination, limiting his patience; but before going in, he needed the number and location of the trouble he would encounter inside. He pulled the bill of the cap lower over his face and prepared to move closer.

The front door swung open and a lone man, maybe six feet, one-thirty or one-forty pounds, lumbered onto the ramshackle porch. He muttered what might have been song lyrics as he stumbled down the steps. Dark hair. Ragged jeans, T-shirt sporting what appeared to be the logo of some defunct heavy metal band. Not enough light reached beyond the door to determine whether or not he was carrying anything other than the sheathed knife on his belt.

The skinny degenerate lurched his way to the tree line and proceeded to relieve himself against the bark of the closest one. Too bad he’d chosen east over west. Probably didn’t know one from the other.

Less than five seconds were necessary to acquire his position. The silenced end of the weapon’s muzzle landed against the back of his skull, and the biological urge that had brought the scumbag to the tree halted.

“What the—”

“Don’t move.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” the man sneered. “Five-oh?” The metal-on-metal grate of his fly closing punctuated the cocky questions.

Grabbing a handful of the scumbag’s hair, he jerked his no-good head back and jammed the muzzle against his temple. “No one you want to know, trust me.”

The fool had the poor judgment to laugh. “Unless you’ve got some big-time backup, you’re a dead man—that’s who you are.” He tried to twist free, went for his knife. But he wasn’t nearly fast enough.

Unlucky for him.

One snap of his useless neck and he slumped to the ground. Another clump of meaningless DNA. From the smell of him and his clothes, he was hazardous waste anyway.

Acting quickly would be vital now. The dead man’s associates would be looking for their compadre if he didn’t come back inside in a timely manner.

Focusing on slowing his respiration and calming his pulse, he zeroed in on that one window on the east end of the shack that had been left partially uncovered. Without a single sound that might give him away, he stole into position. The exposed window was most likely an attempt at increased airflow. An unindustrious method of venting the dangerous chemical gases the illegal work inside produced.

The front portion of the shack appeared to be one rectangular room. A tattered couch and chair claimed the floor space closest to the open window. Beyond the sitting area was a makeshift kitchen. Piles of lithium batteries, hundreds of boxes of what was probably a popular allergy relief medication or one of its clones littered a table. A pistol—a.32 maybe—lay in plain sight.

A heavyset woman who looked to be about thirty monitored her latest concoction, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. The cook. The dead guy was probably the shopper. Lots of supplies lying around. Too much so to be just a feed-my-habit operation. These dirt-bags were manufacturing with the intent to sell.

Rage tore through him at the idea that kidnapping had been added to their sick MO, obliterating the much-needed calm. He tamped down the rage, refocused on what he’d come here to do.

Get the girl.

That meant going inside.

The cook wore an MP3 player clipped to the waistband of her jeans, wires extended up to the buds in her ears. Several inches of dark growth revealed the true color of her stringy blond hair. She sang along with the tune playing in the mini headphones, belting out the words in rusty harmony.

He listened but couldn’t make out any other sound. Just the woman’s unpleasant off-key lyrics and the squeak of the floor beneath her exaggerated dance moves as she went about her dirty business.

No sign of the girl.

But she was here.

He could feel it.

He’d never been wrong. He wouldn’t be wrong this time.

There was at least one room other than this one. A door near the couch offered access. A bedroom, probably. And the most likely place to stash a hostage.

Fury contracted in his muscles despite his having banished it only moments ago. He kicked it aside again. Emotion had no place in what he was about to do.

Deciding to use the dead man as his invitation, he returned to the scumbag’s location and hefted him onto his shoulder, then headed to the front door. The woman inside continued to chant and sway to the music only she could hear.

The fingers of his right hand curled more tightly around the butt of the 9mm as he braced for a fight. He opened the door with his left hand and stepped inside.

Still humming, the woman turned. “I need you to go to the supply room and get—”

The cigarette dropped from her mouth. She grabbed for her weapon as he shoved her dead friend toward her, causing her to stumble back a step even as she pulled off a shot that went way wide of his position.

A muffled crack was the only noise his sound-suppressed 9mm made as he pumped one shot into her forehead. The woman’s finger failed to depress her own trigger a second time. For one extended beat she stood there staring at him before the weapon slipped from her hand and her sizeable bulk followed it to the floor.

Activity stirred beyond the only remaining closed door.

He crossed the room in three strides and flattened against the wall next to the couch.

The door swung inward and a man shuffled out. Forty, forty-five. A hairy beer gut hung over his boxers. A .38 was secured in his right hand.

“What the hell’s going on out here?”

Before the startled man could recover from seeing his cohorts dead on the floor, he found himself pinned to the door frame and his right arm wrenched over his head. After a few violent slams against the wall, the. 38 clattered to the floor.

The 9mm jammed beneath the scumbag’s sagging jowls kept him paralyzed. “Where’s the girl?”

The guy blinked as if he’d just awakened from a deep sleep. The craggy lines of his face, the redness of his eyes and the advanced decay of his teeth signaled that his slumber had been anything but natural.

“I dunno what the hell you’re talking about.”

“The little girl.” He jabbed the muzzle deeper into the scumbag’s filthy flesh. “Where is she?”

Realization appeared to dawn in the bastard’s expression. “I know who you are. I watch the news.” An evil light went on in his eyes as he started to laugh. “Why don’t you kill me, tough guy?”

“Where…is…she?” With each word he wedged the weapon deeper into the fatty tissue of that sagging jowl.

“Go ahead,” the bastard dared, a sadistic grin stretched across his lips, “pull that trigger. Save the courts a lot of time and trouble—if you’re man enough.”

The finger set against the trigger itched to do just that. The rage overpowered him briefly; the need to erase this mistake of nature from the planet made him shudder with its intensity.

The scumbag laughed louder. “I knew you wouldn’t. You don’t kill nobody unless they try to kill you first. I can just walk out of here and you won’t do a damned thing.”

Leaning closer, close enough that there would be no mistaking his words, he warned, “Don’t believe for a second that you’re going to get off that easy. I want you to rot in a six-by-nine cell for the rest of your stinking life. That’s the only reason you’re going to live. Now where is she?”

Too arrogant or too stupid to feel any fear, the scumbag bit out, “She’s in the next room.”

One shove sent him to the floor.

The idiot scrambled for the .38.

Two bullets to the brain stopped him cold.

He stepped over the sprawled trash and entered the other room. A stained mattress lay on the floor. No other furnishings. Only the discarded jeans and shirt the scumbag now decomposing in the other room had worn. Images of what had most likely taken place in this room made his guts knot in disgust.

He couldn’t think about it, had to find the girl.

His tension shifted to the next level, sent his heart smashing against his sternum as his gaze settled on the door on the other side of the room.

She was here.

He knew it.

The knob rattled as he clasped it with his left hand and turned. The hinges creaked with age as the door swung open.

Total darkness engulfed the room or closet that lay beyond. He reached for the flashlight on his utility belt, switched it on and pointed the beam of light into the room. His heart had started to pound in spite of his efforts to remain calm. This room was about the same size as the adjoining room but pungent with chemical odor. The one window had been boarded up.

Containers filled with necessities of the business being conducted here were stacked against a far wall. Drain cleaner, uniodized salt, coffee filters and anhydrous ammonia, a highly illegal and strictly regulated ingredient. This was the supply room. The idiots had their dangerous ingredients stored in the house with them. Too bad the stupid bastards hadn’t blown themselves to hell long ago.

Where was the girl?

His heart rate continued to rise traitorously.

He wasn’t wrong. She would be here. Left amid all this poison.

A faint whimper tugged his senses to the opposite corner of the room, where what appeared to be discarded boxes were piled high. He eased in that direction, not quite ready to put his weapon away. Not quite certain of the sound he’d heard.

He moved first one box and then the other. Some contained evidence of more of the accoutrements essential in this illegal operation. Others were empty, their former contents anyone’s guess.

Halfway through the mound he saw her.

Curled into a fragile ball of arms and legs and pressed as far into the corner as the rough wood walls would allow. She peered up at him, her eyes wide with fear.

“Don’t be afraid,” he assured as he pushed the last of the boxes aside and crouched down in front of her. “No one can hurt you now.” Anguish chewed at his insides. Damn these bastards.

He scooped her trembling body into his arms and strode out of that hellhole of a shack, his anger building all over again.

This had to stop.

He had to do all he could, but he feared it would never be enough.

She started to cry, her sobs racking her small body.

“Don’t cry, Jesse,” he whispered. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore. They can’t hurt you now.”

Chapter Two

Chicago The Colby Agency Wednesday 2:10 p.m.

Seated at the small conference table in Victoria Colby-Camp’s office, Ann Linker Martin’s full attention remained glued to the monitor on the credenza as a previously recorded newscast played. The reporter’s grim tone sent shivers spilling across Ann’s flesh even before the words penetrated her brain.

“According to Front Royal’s chief of police, little Jesse Duncan insists a man wearing a baseball cap took her from the house where she’d been held, then dropped her off at her own front door. As of this hour, the location where Jesse was held is still unknown. No official confirmation has been given, but residents of Front Royal are convinced that Jesse Duncan was rescued by the East Coast’s own Guardian Angel.”

Victoria pressed Off on the remote. “I’m sure this isn’t the first you’ve heard of this so-called Guardian Angel.”

“I’m very familiar with the story,” Ann confirmed. She’d grown up in the Baltimore area, had worked as a consultant to Baltimore’s FBI field office. Anything that went on in that territory was of specific interest to her. Six “Guardian Angel” rescues over the past two years had taken place in her hometown. “Considering the airtime this guy is getting,” she added, “it would be hard not to have heard of him.”

As happy as she was to hear that little Jesse Duncan had been rescued, promoting this man’s agenda was just wrong. Whoever he was, he was no Guardian Angel. Since when did angels wear baseball caps? And leave murder victims behind? He was a vigilante, pure and simple.

Guardian Angel was an unidentified suspect who had reportedly rescued around a dozen children in the past four years. Possibly more, possibly going back as far as ten years. The reports were scattered and inconsistent. But they all had one thing in common: the perpetrators of the crimes against the children were, more often than not, discovered dead in one manner or another.

The guy was probably nothing more than an urban legend, a story that picked up momentum after being aired by the media repeatedly. These so-called rescues could be the work of several people or even the original perpetrators of the crimes who’d had a change of heart, prompted by fear, and who hoped to avoid being caught. The one thread of consistency—the baseball cap he supposedly wore—could be an element the police unwittingly introduced to recently rescued victims. The whole world wanted to believe in a Guardian Angel…especially when it came to missing children.

But Ann, the weight of tension crushing down on her shoulders, knew from personal experience that no such creature existed. There were no Guardian Angels. Far too often it was luck of the draw whether a child was recovered after abduction. Without enough evidence, luck was all law enforcement had. Too many times that luck was bad. The odds of finding missing children grew slimmer with every passing hour after the abduction. A great many variables played a part in whether a child was recovered safely or not, but none of them included a Guardian Angel.

Despite this so-called hero’s intended good deeds, the man—if he even existed—was nothing more than a murderer himself, in her opinion. He’d get caught one of these days. Or he’d get dead when he encountered a more intelligent criminal. Justice should be left up to those carrying the official credentials.

“You don’t see this man as a hero,” Victoria suggested candidly.

Ann had her own reasons for finding that line of reasoning exasperating. But she wasn’t going there. The past was the past—far better left exactly there. “You want my honest opinion?” she asked just as candidly. When Victoria nodded, Ann admitted, “Based on what I’ve seen in the media, he’s just another killer, not a hero.”

Victoria glanced at the blackened monitor. “I’m certain the parents of those rescued children feel differently.”

Ann wouldn’t argue that point. She was immensely grateful that the children in each of these instances had been saved. But what kind of message were the man’s actions sending to the public? And what about all the other children? How did their parents feel? Why were some children rescued by this so-called angel and others not?

The only way to maintain civil order was to have laws. Vigilante justice was not the answer. Prevention was the key. More stringent laws, stronger punishments.

The apprehension started to tighten uncomfortably around her chest. She wasn’t in law enforcement, hadn’t really ever been. A consultant, as she’d learned the hard way, didn’t count. The sooner she stopped allowing her past to influence her decisions, the sooner she would get on with her future. She had to stop obsessing on things that didn’t matter anymore, had to focus on the reason she had been called to Victoria’s office this morning. It usually meant she was about to be assigned a new case.

Victoria rose and crossed to her desk. She retrieved a file folder, then returned to her seat at the small conference table. “Katherine Fowler and her family,” Victoria began as she opened the file, “live in an intimate upper-class community called Edgewater, an hour’s drive outside Baltimore.”

Ann wasn’t familiar with that particular neighborhood, but she knew the general vicinity. Very upscale.

“Four days ago,” Victoria continued, “her only child, Caroline, was abducted from the yard where she was playing not a dozen meters from her mother.” Victoria placed a photograph of a little girl on the table in front of Ann. “The FBI and the Arundel County deputies are working around the clock to solve the case. Unfortunately,” Victoria said as she placed a report next to the photo, “Caroline appears to be the sixth child in a string of abductions aptly dubbed the Fear Factor case. So far not a single child has been recovered.”

Definitely not good. Ann had read numerous articles on Fear Factor. The perpetrators watched for the perfect opportunity, preying on the mother for the ransom in each case.

“Did they use the bank scam for the money transaction?” It amazed her that these guys continued to get away with the same exact ploy. Were the local banks watching for this sort of transaction? Had they briefed their personnel as to what to look for in a stressed customer? Ann didn’t see how such a simple maneuver could continue unchecked. Obviously it had.

“According to the chief of police, it’s the same MO, down to the mother being left to wait for a call that never comes,” Victoria said, her own disbelief evident.

Ann studied the picture of the blond-haired child. No doubt this little girl’s mother had seen the news and on some level had recognized her daughter was a victim of the same perps as the other abductions in this case. But how did a mother risk her child’s life and go against the pattern? Say no to the kidnappers and go straight to the police?

She didn’t. And that was the one unwavering instinct the perps were banking on, no pun intended.

The worst part about this series of kidnappings was that so far the children hadn’t been recovered, period. No bodies. No nothing. Only an empty promise to deliver. One theory mentioned by the Bureau’s press representative was that the bad guys took the ransom and then sold the children for even more money. Why give up a negotiable asset? Why waste it? The prevailing thinking was that the perpetrators were not pedophiles. To the contrary, they appeared to be savvy businessmen. With an intimate knowledge of how the banking system worked and a burning desire to cash in on the world’s leading black-market trade—human trafficking. A shudder started deep down inside her, but Ann bullied it back into submission. Not going there.

“There’ve been no evidentiary discoveries to date?” Ann asked as she glanced over the report prepared by Arundel County.

“Not a single shred,” Victoria confirmed. “Nor is there anything that ties the different victims or their families together other than tax bracket.” Victoria’s gaze settled heavily onto hers then. “This is your specialty, Ann. You’ve worked with the Baltimore Bureau office. You’re the perfect choice for this assignment. Katherine Fowler wants her daughter back and she’s scared to death that the usual channels are not going to get the job done.”