Jackson Crow and Angela were both at home, laughing with the kids as they watched one of R.L. Stine’s classics-turned-into-movies for the third or fourth time, when the phone rang.
It was Adam Harrison, their founder, who had been due to spend the evening with them. Jackson had thought he was just running late.
Maybe something had come up. Adam was a busy man between his non-official work with various law enforcement agencies and his many philanthropic endeavors.
But something had come up—something big, he quickly surmised.
“Jackson, need you and Angela now!” Adam said, his voice fraught with tension. “One of the most important men in governmental science has just been kidnapped. They hit his wife in the head with the butt of a gun, sent her to the hospital—and took him. It was his night off. Jackson, I’m afraid if they’ve taken him, it’s for something major. Something as in makingsure a bomb can be placed somewhere a bomb can’t be detected. Or . . . I don’t know. They left his wife, but they also went after his kids. Robert Welborne’s kids. A way to force him to do what they want.”
“Slow down, Adam, slow down. How long ago did this happen—”
“A neighbor got worried because their kids were going over and no one was answering the phone. They went over to the house and the door was open. Whoever took the kids, left Vivian Welborne’s parents alive, gagged and tied to chairs. They untied them and called the police. When her parents told the police what had happened, they sent someone out and found Vivian—no children.”
Jackson knew about Robert Welborne—everyone in law enforcement did. He was a brilliant scientist and one of the nicest men on the planet to boot. Under normal circumstances, he’d die, sacrifice himself before helping anyone blow up anything, especially an innocent crowd.
But they had his children. And when children were threatened . . .
“All right, Adam, we have crime scene units at both locations, right?”
“They wore gloves and were dressed in black with full head and face masks on; eyes only showing, but no one got close enough to see more. Vivian came to; she said that she believes there were four men and it was all so fast . . . all she remembers is black. Naturally, she’s in bad shape, head injury, frantic of course.”
“We’ll get to the Welborne house first—no. I need info on Vivien’s parents, address, I know we’ve met them, but I don’t have an address. I’d say we need to find those kids first and keep everything on the low-down so whoever is holdingRobert Welborne doesn’t know law enforcement has taken their bargaining care and we may find—"
“There were witnesses others weren’t able to interview?” Adam asked dryly.
“Exactly,” Jackson told him. He saw Angela was looking at him. And she knew their evening with the kids was over. But Mary Tiger, their full-time home help and aunt to one of their Krewe agents, was in her room, resting—watching one of her crime shows.
And Mary was amazing; she’d be right out, ready to take care of the kids, the dog—the house. She was so accustomed to step in at a moment’s notice.
“Fast, please!” Adam said.
“Yep, you got it,” Jackson assured him.
Angela was already telling the kids they were going to need to leave; the kids, teenaged Corby and grade-schooler Victoria, were amazing. They understood what their parents did; they knew the strange calling that had created the Krewe of Hunters.
In minutes, Jackson and Angela were in the car and headed out.
Vivien’s parents lived in a nice but not crazy rich neighborhood in Northern Virginia, not far from their own. Jackson and Angela had met Vivien and Robert Welborne and Vivien’s parents; they’d all been at several of Adam’s charity events together. Welborne could have been a remarkably rich man. He’d chosen, instead, to use his incredible brilliance to help prevent catastrophic events from happening, to help save the lives of American military members—and members of law enforcement.
“There is only one reason to kidnap a man like Robert Welborne,” Angela said as they drove. “They want—”
“To bomb something major,” Jackson finished.
“And I’m thinking . . .”
“What?”
Angela turned to look at him. They’d left the house immediately—no time to change. She was usually dressed extremely professionally, in a pantsuit with a jacket that hid her Glock, hair often in a bun . . .
Tonight, she’d been in a casual tunic and jeans. She’d thrown on a light blue trenchcoat—something that covered her Glock. He realized, too, he was wearing a T-shirt and jeans and a casual denim jacket. Well, they needed to hurry. And with her blond hair free and falling around her face, he had to smile. She was a brilliant agent; she was his wife. She was as beautiful as the day he’d met her.
“Perseid meteor shower,” she said. “It’s already begun; in a few days, it will light up the sky in a beautiful display. And that will allow for a lot to happen that people might not notice.”
“Like someone planting a bomb and setting it off as a finale?” Jackson asked.
“Theory,” she told him.
“Hopefully, that will give us time!” he told her.
