A thud sounded from the bedroom, and Dana pushed herself up with a sigh. “Laura?” she asked, opening the door a crack, then meeting her sister’s tired, confused gaze.
“You’re upset.”
“And you’re out of bed. You know what the doctor said about those sleeping pills. They’re supposed to knock you out and leave you loopy. Which means no getting up.” Dana slid her arms around Laura’s slight frame from behind and lifted her back into bed. “I’m sorry I woke you. Just had a moment.”
“You mean someone else refused to help.” The defeat in Laura’s tone was too much to bear, and Dana shook her head.
“Hush. I’m going to find someone. I promise.”
“Don’t.” Tears spilled down Laura’s cheeks. “He’s gone. Even if by some miracle you did find a way to get to him, it’s been three years. Would there be anything left of him to save?”
When this was all over, Dana vowed to find that jerk PI her sister had hired a few months back and kick the man’s ass into next week. He’d taken Laura’s last shred of hope and stomped on it until it was flatter than roadkill. Not to mention cost them ten thousand dollars.
“No more talk like that.” Dana tucked the blankets around her sister and stood, arms crossed. “Get some sleep. In the morning, we can make some more calls.”
Laura rolled over without a word, and Dana crept out of the room and back to the make-shift command center she’d set up in the apartment’s tiny living room.
As had become her habit every night for the past three years, she spent the last part of her day with a single glass of wine—all she allowed herself—while she browsed the various message boards and forums buried deep in the bowels of the internet.
She’d taught herself everything she could. How to spoof her IP address so no one could trace her activity. How to create an entire fake persona to keep the authorities—and the traffickers themselves—from finding out who she was. Tracking down the scum of the earth who’d kidnapped and enslaved your nephew was strictly frowned upon by law enforcement.
Halfway through the glass of wine, she sat up straight and narrowed her gaze at the screen.
Meet the men and women who help break up the trafficking ring in Miami at a gala fundraising event at the Galt Hotel on Saturday the 24th at 7:00 p.m. Tickets are available for a $1000 tax-deductible donation to Rescue International.
These were the people she needed. When the news had covered the bust in Miami, she’d tried to contact Rescue International, but the poor, frazzled woman who’d answered the phone warned her they were swamped and no one would be able to return her call right away.
Dana had left half a dozen voicemail messages, at least that many emails, and had even sat in their office waiting room for three days straight until they’d finally sent an intern to take her statement and make a copy of all her files.
But it had been over a week, and she’d heard nothing back.
This was her chance. If she could just get some face time with the executives from Rescue International, maybe she could get someone to listen.
3
Terry
The room full of Washington D.C. elite set him on edge. Every time he came to town, all he could think about was what—or rather, who—he’d lost. Dana Michaels. The gorgeous, funny, kind nurse he’d met the night before the mission that took his leg. He’d searched for her once he’d returned home, but she clearly hadn’t wanted to be found, and he wasn’t about to stalk her. Even if he did think about her every single day.
Running a hand through his hair, he tried to relax. This wasn’t his scene. He was decent on the phone, thanks to the Southern drawl that tended to charm most folks. Even a good public speaker—if he could wear jeans and a button-up rather than a stuffy tuxedo that felt like it was going to choke him.
At his heart, Terry was an action guy. Always had been, always would be. His leg might be carbon fiber and titanium, but his training? That was real. And he hadn’t forgotten any of it. Not even three years after his last mission.
He scanned the room, noting every exit, all the pinch points should there be an emergency, and searching for anyone who shouldn’t be there. Security had been tight at the door. Big, burly guys with concealed weapons their jackets didn’t quite hide, metal detectors, and counterfeit-proof tickets printed with a special ink that glowed under black light. Though he didn’t expect trouble, after the operation in Miami, Xavier had warned him to keep an eye on his six.
“Glad you could make it, Owens.” Jim Stafford, Terry’s boss, clapped him on the shoulder.
“Didn’t know I had a choice. Sir.” Terry grinned and kept his tone light, but he wasn’t joking.
“You didn’t. Not after Miami.” Jim extended his hand, and the two men shook. “That was damn fine work. I hope we’ll be able to lean on those contacts of yours again in the future.”
“Sir, those contacts need to remain completely anonymous. You know how important it is…”
Jim took a step back and arched his brow. “I was in the Marines, son. I know the importance of guarding sensitive intel.”
Fuck. “My apologies. I’ve known Xavier for years. The man risked his life and his cover to help us out, and I overreacted.”
“Water under the bridge,” Jim said and gestured toward one of the four bars in the ballroom. “Let’s get a drink and pretend this conversation never happened.”
