Kathleen Creighton: Danger Signals

The third book in the Taken series, 2008

Dear Reader,

Have you ever noticed how sometimes our lives can take us on journeys we never expected, or could possibly have imagined?

Several years back. I wrote a book called One Christmas Knight. That book led to more "Knight" books, then THE SISTERS WASKOWITZ and STARRS OF THE WEST series. A minor character, a little girl named Sammie June, took hold of my heart, and my editor's and readers' hearts as well. Sammie June-now Samantha. or Sam-figured prominently in the RITA® Award-winning The Top Gun's Return, and had her own story told in Secret Agent Sam.

From that book came the inspiration for a whole new series, about her husband Cory Pearson's search for his four lost siblings, who were separated from him after an unspeakable tragedy claimed their parents. We are calling this new series THE TAKEN. There will be four books, one for each of Cory's two brothers and two sisters. Danger Signals is the first.

This is a series that has touched my heart in a very personal way. I hope it touches yours, too.

Enjoy.

Kathleen Creighton

In a house on the shores of a small lake, somewhere in South Carolina…

"Pounding…that's always the first thing. Someone-my father-is banging on the door. Banging…pounding… with his fists, feet. I don't know. Trying to break it down."

"And… where are you?"

"I'm in a bedroom, I think. I don't remember which one. I have the little ones with me. It's my job to look after them when my father is having one of his…spells. I have to keep them out of his way. Keep them safe. I've taken them into the bedroom and I've locked the door, except…I don't trust the lock, so I've wedged a chair under the handle, like my mom showed me. Only now I'm afraid, terrifled even that won't be enough. I can hear the wood splintering…breaking. I know it will only take a few more blows and he'll be through. My mother is screaming…crying. I hold on to the little ones-I have my arms around them, and they're all trembling. The twins, the little girls, are sobbing and crying. 'Mama. Mama…' but the boys just cry quietly.

"I hear sirens…more sirens, getting louder and louder until it seems they're coming right into the room, and there are lots of people shouting, and all of a sudden the pounding stops. There's a moment-several minutes- when all I hear is the little ones whimpering…and then, there's a loud bang, so loud we-the children and I-all jump. We hold each other tighter, and there's another bang, and we flinch again, and then there's just confusion…voices shouting…footsteps running…glass breaking…the little ones crying…and I think I might be crying, too…"

"Oh, God…I'm sorry, Cory. It's all right…it's all right…I love you…I've got you…"

He discovered he was crying, but he also knew it was all right. He was all right. Sam, his wife, was holding him tightly, cradling his head against her breasts, and her hands were gentle as they wiped the tears from his face.

"I'm going to find them, Sam. My brothers and sisters. I have to find them."

Samantha felt warm moisture seep between her lashes. "Of course you do." She lifted her head and took his face between her hands and smiled fiercely at him through her tears. "We'll find them together, Pearse," she whispered. "We'll find them. I promise you we will."

Portland, Oregon

Detective Wade Callahan had nothing against mind readers, or fortune-tellers, or whatever they were calling themselves nowadays. So long as they stuck to their tarot cards and beaded curtains and refrained from activities that might conceivably engage the interests of the bunko squad. As far as he was concerned, those so-called psychics had no business in a police squad room unless it was as a victim or perpetrator of a crime.

And, given the nature of their business, he figured one scenario was about as likely as the other.

They sure as hell had no business wandering around a crime scene. Particularly his crime scene.

For some reason the fact that this one happened to be a particularly attractive woman only made matters worse. What in the hell was the captain thinking? And who'd ever heard of a psychic with tousled sunshine hair and big, innocent blue eyes, freckles scattered across her rosy cheeks and pert little…

Ah, hell.

"You're growling again," Ed Francks said, giving him an elbow nudge in the ribs.

"Wasn't growling," Wade growled. "Muttering. That was muttering. There's a difference."

"Uh-huh." His former partner looked him over, eyebrows raised in mild rebuke. "Best get used to it, man. You heard what the captain said. She's part of the task force from now on." He shrugged. "Anyways, from what I hear this one could be the real deal."

Ed Francks was a Vietnam vet who'd seen too many young lives wasted in the jungles and rice paddies of the Mekong Delta and was spending his life making up for that by teaching young police recruits how to stay alive in the urban jungles of Portland. Oregon. He was a gentle bear of a man and a tough task master of a police sergeant and one hell of a fine police officer who, in Wade's opinion, should have been made detective long ago. And no doubt would have, if he'd wanted any part of it.

It had been a long time since Wade had been partnered with Francks, but he'd requested him for this task force because he had a fine analytical mind and more common sense than anybody else he knew, and was the person he most wanted watching his back when push came to shove. Which didn't mean he always agreed with him.

"Yeah, well, she looks more like a damn high school cheerleader than somebody that talks to dead people," Wade muttered. Muttered, not growled.

"That's not what she does." Francks had shifted unconsciously into his drill sergeant's pose-feet planted apart, arms folded on his chest. Now he tilted his shaved head toward the woman wandering-apparently aimlessly- around the section of park playground that had been roped off with yellow crime scene tape. "You heard her at the briefing. She picks up vibes. Feels things."

Wade made an ambiguous noise.

Francks looked over at him. black eyes reflecting sunlight in a way that turned them the color of dead ripe plums. "I don't know. Could be something in it. The way she explained it, she says all thoughts and emotions give off electrical energy-that's a proven fact-and it stands to reason intense emotions would give off a whole lot more energy. Like fear… rage… the kinds of things you'd expect from somebody involved in a crime, particularly a homicide. So, say there's all this energy floating around, it seems like there might be people, certain people, that are more sensitive to it, that could maybe pick up on it. Like, you know, the way dogs can smell things we can't." He stiffened his stance, as if to shore up his case. "Sounds possible to me."

Wade snorted-nothing ambiguous about it. "Come on."

"Look, all I know is, she's had some success working with other departments-Seattle, San Francisco, L.A.- and there was that kidnapping in Yreka last summer, she was involved with that. Hey, man. let's face it, we're not getting anywhere with these murders, and she lives right here in Portland. Be pretty dumb not to give her a shot, seems to me. What've we got to lose?"