Mallory Kane - A Father's Sacrifice

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This book is for Galen.

I couldn’t have done it without you.

Prologue

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

FBI Special Agent Natasha Rudolph drew her FBI-issued Glock .23 and eyed the burned-out building in a run-down section of downtown Washington, D.C. The broken door hung off its hinges, and as she entered, weapon first, the smell of smoke, urine and dead rats hit her like a noxious wind.

Her wrist communicator beeped quietly.

“Natasha, damn it, where are you?”

It was Storm.

“I just got here,” she whispered into her COM unit. “The cell phone signal had to come from this building.”

“I’m right behind you. Three minutes. Wait for me.”

She knew from experience that in three minutes, Bobby Lee Hutchins could be long gone.

She and fellow Agent Ray Storm had been tracking Hutchins for months, since he’d detonated an explosive device in the Mall in Washington, D.C., that had killed two people and injured over a dozen, including the daughter of a prominent U.S. congressman.

Hutchins was clever, but Natasha and Storm had finally located his mother and tapped her phone. Now they had him, and Natasha wasn’t about to let him slip away again.

“Natasha! Answer me!”

After an instant’s hesitation, she muted the wrist COM’s speaker and stepped into the dim, suffocating interior of the building, her weapon ready.

As she skirted a pile of broken glass, she heard a noise above her head. She froze, tightening her grip on her weapon.

Without moving, she examined the area. She spotted holes in the ceiling, glass and debris on the floor, fire and water damage everywhere.

Carefully, her ears attuned to the smallest sound, she started up the wobbly staircase. Something moved in the darkness beyond the stairs. Natasha jerked, but it was just a mouse. She blew out a breath of relief. She was after human vermin.

Her wrist COM lit up. Storm—trying to reach her again. She ignored it. Hutchins had slipped out of their hands too many times. She wasn’t about to lose him this time because protocol dictated she wait for backup. Agents were supposed to use their best discretion in urgent situations.

The sound of wood scraping against wood above her head sent her heart hammering in anticipation.

He was up there. She silently eased her way up the rickety stairs, careful to avoid broken steps. The creak of a board under her boot froze her in place. She stood awkwardly poised between two steps, not daring to breathe. After a few seconds of silence, she moved forward.

As she approached the second floor, she crouched low, taking the steps at a crawl, then slowly raised her head and her gun. Sucking in a deep breath, she prayed Storm really was only seconds away.

She jumped up, swinging her weapon in an arc, checking all sides. Nothing.

Cautiously, she angled around the banister.

A soft thump from behind had her wheeling around. A man threw all his weight against her, knocking her to the floor. She twisted as she fell, getting off a shot, but it went wild.

Screaming like a madman, Hutchins swung a rifle barrel at her head. Blinding pain wiped out her vision for an instant. She grasped her Glock desperately.

Then he was over her, the barrel of his rifle digging into her abdomen.

“You shouldn’a gone after my ma!” he screamed.

Natasha pointed her weapon at his chest and struggled to breathe. “Put down the gun!” she gasped.

Hutchins laughed. “You gonna make me?”

“Drop it now or I’ll shoot!” Her voice cracked with fear, but she couldn’t back down. She didn’t want to die. Not today.

He took a step back, and Natasha recognized the instinctive move—he was putting distance between himself and his victim.

“Last chance, Hutchins. Drop it!” she yelled.

His grimy finger tightened on the trigger.

She fired.

Hutchins staggered and blood blossomed on the front of his dirty T-shirt.

She scrambled up, her head spinning.

He recovered and rushed her. Before she could get off another shot, he head-butted her in the gut and her back slammed against the banister. With a loud crack, the railing broke.

Then she was falling—falling. She hit the stairs. Splinters rained around her as her weight broke through the rotten charred wood. Frantically she tried to cushion her landing, but a piece of wood stabbed her hand and her head slammed against a step’s solid frame.

A section of floor disintegrated under her weight.

Then with a jarring thud she hit bottom. The impact knocked the breath out of her. A ridge of hard-packed dirt dug into her back.

She looked up. She’d fallen through to the basement. Two floors above, Hutchins raised his rifle. Natasha tried to roll out of his range of vision, but a massive board pinned her legs.

She watched in horrified fascination as his finger tightened on the trigger. She spotted a board she could use as a shield, but she couldn’t reach it.

She felt the impact as the bullet slammed into her. The report was deafening. Her stomach lurched at the feel of hot sticky blood pooling in the hollow of her shoulder, and she wondered why it didn’t hurt.

Then it did. Pain ripped her in two, stole the last of her breath. Hutchins raised his rifle again. Instinct took over and her fingers tightened on the trigger. She looked down at her hand, surprised she still held the gun.

Gathering the last of her strength, she lifted her arm. Aiming the gun at Hutchins’s leering face, she pulled the trigger.

A horrible rumbling filled her ears. Dust and wood and drywall rained down on her. She struggled to move, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. The cold dirt beneath her and the heavy, suffocating debris on top of her threatened to crush her. Dust and grit filled her eyes. She couldn’t see.

She was trapped. Buried alive.

She screamed and pushed at the jagged boards and piles of drywall and broken glass weighing her down. A sharp edge cut into her palm. Drywall dust coated her throat. Soot caught in her nostrils.

Buried.

Panic threw her into insanity. She screamed until her throat swelled and her mouth was full of soot and dirt. Tears soaked up the dust and caked like concrete on her cheeks.

Terror crowded all rational thought from her brain. The past welled up to suck her into childhood horrors.

She was back in the mangled smoking car, the air thick with the moans of her dying parents, her face and body slick with their blood, her little arms and legs pinned beneath twisted metal.

Her screams mixed with the echo of explosions and gunfire.

But no matter how loud she screamed, nobody came.

Dylan Stryker looked down at his sleeping son. He’d been working with the virtual surgery program and missed Ben’s bedtime again.

In the dim glow of a caterpillar night-light, he watched his little boy’s lips move slightly with each gentle breath. He looked so small, so innocent—so vulnerable.

Dylan’s heart squeezed with guilt and grief and stinging regret. Looking away, his gaze landed on Ben’s leg braces in the corner. In stark contrast to his son’s softly lit face, the ultralight titanium sucked up the light greedily, shining with the stark whiteness of bones. They mocked him, a constant reminder that his child’s handicap was his fault.