Dead Reckoning Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Kudos for Stanalei Fletcher

  Dead Reckoning

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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 Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  “Please, Egan. Do this for me.”

  Byron O’Neal’s pleading seemed completely out of character.

  Egan swallowed his questions. He couldn’t begin to guess at O’Neal’s agenda, but he could locate Kellee and hide her for a few days. Like O’Neal said, it was what he was good at. “How will I know when to bring her home?”

  “You won’t. Once I know you’ve located her, I’ll have an all-clear signal ready to pass along to you.”

  “Why all the secrecy?”

  “I’m not at liberty to explain. I’m sorry. Please believe me when I tell you, I don’t think it’s safe to bring her home right now.”

  “You’re asking me to find your daughter and keep her safe, but you’re blindfolding me and tying my hands.” Egan couldn’t keep the disapproval out of his voice. “This is just like the last assignment. Who am I supposed to hide her from?”

  O’Neal hesitated. “Everyone.” The older man leaned back in his chair with a sigh that seemed to deflate him. “I know it’s a lot to ask, Maddox. I believe you’re her best chance at coming out of this alive.”

  Egan’s fist found the desktop before he even realized he’d swung it. “Out of what alive? Tell me something, for God’s sake!”

  O’Neal’s eyes flashed with familiar fire. His lips thinned and gaze narrowed. “All I can tell you is what my gut says—this isn’t about a case Kellee worked. I believe my past, and hers, has finally caught up with us.”

  Kudos for Stanalei Fletcher

  2011 Absolutely Write First Page—1st Place

  2011 Utah RWA Great Beginnings—Finalist

  2010 Utah RWA Heart of the West—Finalist

  2006 First Coast Romance Writers Unpublished Beacon —Finalist

  2006 Florida Romance Writers Golden Palm—Finalist

  Dead Reckoning

  by

  Stanalei Fletcher

  Northstar Security Series

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Dead Reckoning

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Kim Finnegan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Crimson Rose Edition, 2015

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0406-9

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0407-6

  Northstar Security Series

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Mom, who continues to guide and support me,

  and to Dad, who inspires from beyond.

  Thank you for teaching me anything is possible.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my editor ELF and to my critique partners, (you all know who you are), for holding my feet to the fire. A special thank you to Mark Melin and Justin Brown for their assistance with the Russian phrases, and to James Webb for help with boating terms. Any misuse or mistakes are mine alone.

  Dead Reckoning: to navigate by deduction

  through knowledge of current position,

  speed, and heading.

  Chapter One

  The howl of Hurricane Igor followed Kellee O’Neal into her second story Panama City apartment—the warning from the car radio replaying in her mind like a klaxon. She closed the door against the wind and noise, and hurried to the bedroom to find her overnight bag.

  She should’ve left the stakeout much sooner. And would have left sooner, had the subject not pulled into his alleged mistress’s garage just as she was putting her camera away. Getting those photos was important—to the client and to Kellee’s new career.

  She smiled as she laid her camera next to the bag, pleased with the success of her first assignment. The pictures were proof the client’s husband was cheating. Well, maybe not definitive evidence of unfaithfulness, but after a week of trailing the target, Kellee had finally photographed the man entering and leaving a house that was not his. Probably making sure his lady friend was safe from the impending storm when he should have been home taking care of his family.

  After stuffing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt inside the duffel, she put her camera on top, and zipped the bag shut—ready to head out the door. Thank goodness her mother, God rest her soul, had taught her how to travel light. In fact, since moving from Washington, D.C., two weeks ago, Kellee’d been living out of boxes, more concerned about the new job with Collins Services than settling into her new digs.

  Satisfaction from a job well done took the chill out of this blustery day. She was good at this kind of work, and she liked it. This step was the first of many toward solidifying her career choice.

  So far, the biggest danger she’d come up against was a hurricane. She was relieved to have gotten through the streets and back to her apartment before the storm hit for real. There wasn’t enough time to evacuate from the city, but she’d make it to the closest community shelter about four miles inland from her apartment building.

  Grabbing her bag, she’d turned to leave the bedroom when a loud pounding sounded on the apartment door. Who, besides herself, or a cheating husband, was fool enough not to have evacuated the surge zone?

  Turning out the lights, she hurried into the living room and frowned at the black sky beyond her front window. Maybe her visitor was the landlord coming to board up the window. Better late than never. If this little place survived the storm, she’d definitely consider making it a more permanent home.

  The pounding came again, louder this time. “Hold on, I’m coming.” She dropped her overnight bag beside a small table next to the door and turned the handle.

  The door flew open with a rush of wind, knocking her against the wall. Pain shot through her shoulder as she struggled to regain her balance. “Whoa! That is some wind.” Pushing away from the wall, she fought to capture the door and hold it still. As she stepped back in the doorway, a hulking, leather-clad man entered across the threshold. Once inside, he grabbed the door and slammed it closed, blocking out the storm.

  The man heaved a sigh as he shook rain off his jacket. “Terrible weather.” His voice rumbled from the depths of his boots, and he stared at the streams running down the window. He muttered something in a language she didn’t understand befor
e facing her. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, making a jagged scar along his cheek stand out. The smile, if she could call it that, looked rarely used. This man wasn’t the landlord.

  “Who are you?” Kellee backed away and bumped into the little table, nearly tipping over the lamp. Light wavered, casting eerie shadows across the apartment’s gloomy living room.

  The man took a step toward her on thick legs. The scent of body odor, tobacco, and damp leather wafted around him. He glanced at an object in his palm, then squinted at her with black, narrowed eyes before tucking the item into his pocket.

  Her heart thudded against her ribs. She backed up to the wall under his bald assessment. “Who are you?” she asked again. “What do you want?” She hated that her questions came out in a choked whisper.

  He smiled again. “Forgive my manners, Katya. I was afraid I would not find you before this storm hit. My name is Petre. I come to take you to your father.”

  She frowned at his thick accent. Having inherited an ear for languages from both parents, she guessed Petre came from somewhere in Eastern Europe. Relieved that he wasn’t one of her employer’s case-gone-wrong clients who had somehow tracked her down, she eased away from the wall. This man was simply in the wrong place, looking for someone else. Her heart resumed a less frantic pace.

  “My name isn’t Katya, but maybe she had this apartment before me. I’ve only lived here a couple of weeks.” Kellee gestured toward the window, where the storm was visibly growing in strength. “This area’s being evacuated. The person you’re looking for is probably at one of the centers. I’m leaving to go there now. You can follow me if you’d like.” She reached down to pick up her bag.

  This time, she braced for the wind as she opened the door, then stepped aside for Petre to leave first. Rain slanted inside the apartment and water pooled on the tiled floor. She gripped the knob tightly to keep the door from ripping out of her hand.

  “I am not mistaken.” He scowled at her. “We do not go to evacuation center. You will come with me.”

  The door only partially protected her. She shivered at the rain soaking into her clothes, but stood her ground. Although he spoke English, it was obviously not his first language, so she tried again more slowly. “Maybe you didn’t understand. I’m not Katya.” She motioned for him to leave. “If you need to find her, you don’t have much time. The storm is getting worse.”

  “Stubborn girl.” He growled under his breath and yanked the bag from her hand. Clammy fingers locked around her arm. “Come now.”

  Kellee’s insides turned cold. “Let go.” What was wrong with this guy? Couldn’t he see he had the wrong person? She jerked her arm but couldn’t break free. “I said, let me go!”

  He started to pull her through the door. Confusion and panic crowded her vision. She swallowed a scream. Was he really trying to kidnap her? She wedged her feet against the threshold to keep him from dragging her outside. “My name is Kellee O’Neal,” she said between clenched teeth. “You have the wrong person.”

  A frown crossed his face. He pushed her back inside and closed the door. “I understand why you resist. It is not good for you to be afraid. I will show you something to make it better.” He dropped her bag, reached into his jacket pocket, and brought out a photograph. “Look.”

  Even though his grip wasn’t as tight, she still couldn’t pull free. Glancing down at the hand clamped on her arm, she spied crude tattoos of crosses, stars, and Cyrillic letters across the back of his fingers. A sick feeling hardened in her stomach. She’d seen pictures of similar tattoos while working on the files in her father’s private security office back in Washington, D.C.

  The tattoos resembled those worn by Russian Mafia.

  Not good. No way had her father sent this man. She had to get him to leave—convince him she was not the person he wanted. Time was running out with the storm bearing down on them.

  Pretending to cooperate, she looked at his photograph. The black-and-white picture appeared twenty, maybe thirty years old. Despite the crease through the middle, the image clearly showed a woman with high cheekbones and exotic eyes laughing into the camera. Her long, dark hair fluttered in a breeze. It seemed the photographer had captured the carefree moment with a loving touch.

  Something about the woman’s smile looked familiar. Then Kellee realized her own features bore an uncanny resemblance to the woman in the picture.

  “You see, Katya?” Petre waved the picture in her face. “Dis is Yelena, your real mother. Nikolai Orlov, your real father, took this picture. I work for him. He wishes to see you.” He tugged on her arm and started once more toward the door. “We go now.”

  “That’s not my mother.” Photographs could be manipulated. “My mother’s dead.” She touched the chain around her neck that held the pendant her mother had given her. It was still there, hidden under her blouse. The reassurance she always felt when she touched the keepsake gave her the calm she sought.

  “My name is not Katya,” she repeated. “My father’s name is Byron O’Neal. I’ll show you my ID.” She dug her phone wallet out of the pocket of her shorts and handed it to Petre.

  He opened it and looked at the photo on her driver’s license. Then he glanced at the old black and white. The scar on his face curved in his almost-smile. “You are Katya Orlov. See?” He held the wallet next to the other picture for comparison.

  The driver’s license photo was awful. Even so, Kellee couldn’t deny the similarities between the two photos, but that still didn’t prove anything.

  “No.” She jerked both the wallet and photo out of Petre’s hand and tossed them away. The wallet flew across the room, but the lighter photo floated to the floor and landed by his feet.

  Petre grunted and bent to retrieve the picture. As he did, his grip loosened.

  Kellee took the opportunity to slip free. Putting distance between her and the would-be kidnapper, she ran into her bedroom and locked the door.

  The flimsy door wouldn’t keep him out for long and the token lock was a joke. She looked around the room for something to brace against the door and spotted the futon mattress she’d purchased last week. That wouldn’t work, either. Instead, she leaned on the door, realizing her hundred and twenty pounds was no match for any real assault.

  Petre’s thunderous pounding vibrated the thin wood. “Come out, Katya.”

  “You’ve got the wrong person,” Kellee shouted. “Please leave!”

  The door handle rattled, then the pounding started again.

  Kellee leaned harder against the door. As suddenly as it started, the pounding stopped. She eased back slightly. Maybe he’d realized his mistake and had given up. Then the door burst open, splintering the frame at the lock and hinges. The force of Petre’s entry knocked her to the carpet.

  His bulk blocked the faint light from the lamp in the other room, yet she could make out his determined expression. “I guess we do the hard way.” His hand slipped into his jacket and came out holding a knife. When he flicked it open, a six-inch blade caught a glint of dim light.

  Hot and cold flushed across her skin.

  “Come, dyevushka.” His voice was almost apologetic. He gestured to the knife. “No one has to get hurt. I only wish to bring you to your father.”

  Petre might not want to kill her, but she had no doubt he’d cut her if she didn’t cooperate. “Get out!” She scooted backward and stumbled into the futon.

  “Nyet.” He stepped closer and stooped over to grab her.

  Kellee ducked under his outstretched arm and scrambled on all fours to get away. She was almost out of his reach when he pivoted with cat-like reflexes that seemed unnatural for a man his size.

  He caught the back of her shirt, stopping her escape. One pull of his massive arm brought her to her feet. His arm snaked around her, but Kellee spun the opposite way until she was free.

  He let out a guttural growl.

  She didn’t need to understand his language to recognize a curse.

  He tur
ned to face her. “You are wildcat!” he said, thrusting the knife toward her.

  Taking advantage of his momentum, Kellee applied an Aikido technique by guiding his knife hand forward and twisting his wrist in a quick reversal to disarm him. Unfortunately, his grip was too strong. His muscular body never slowed.

  Instead of pointing harmlessly to the side, the knife shifted to a lethal angle. The blade plunged into his stomach. The sensation of flesh giving way to the weapon was nauseating. She released his hand and the knife, shocked that the disarming technique had turned deadly.

  Petre grunted, backpedaled, and looked down in surprise at the hilt protruding from his middle. “You bitch!” He raged. Blood soaked into his black shirt and coated his hands where he clutched the wound.

  Kellee’s stomach heaved in response, and she swallowed rising bile. What had she done? In all her years of training, she’d never had to use the techniques against a real attacker. “I didn’t mean to—”

  He pulled the knife free, coughed once, and then rolled his shoulders.

  She backed out of the bedroom.

  Petre came at her again, like some inhuman machine.

  She hesitated too long before turning to run. He grabbed her hair and yanked her against his chest. Twisting, she inadvertently tangled his fingers into strands of her hair. Better to lose some hair, than her life. Except he didn’t release her. His other arm slid around her neck and the knife’s sharp edge nicked tender flesh just below her ear. The cut stung like a wasp bite.

  “‘Dis is a sample of how it feels, Katya.” His mouth brushed her cheek as he spoke. Hot tobacco breath washed across her face. “Do not make me hurt you more.”

  Everything inside screamed to resist. She struggled to slow her ragged breathing since the blade still rested on her throat. If he cut deeper, she’d bleed out.

  Calm down. Let him think you’re giving in. “This Nikolai, umm, my father…he must want me alive.” Her voice rasped, barely audible under his chokehold.

  “Da,” Petre agreed. “But he did not say you must be conscious when I deliver you. I think maybe you are too much trouble to leave awake.”