Heather Graham - Dying Breath

As Vickie continued to stare while her father explained that she hadn’t worked for the Ballantine family since she’d been in college, she saw that Dylan had gone to the men, that he was speaking a blue streak at the same time.

“You have to find my mother. This isn’t fair. My family has lost too much. Whatever the hell it takes, you have to find my mother.”

It was almost as if Griffin Pryce had heard him. Because he spoke next, almost interrupting Philip Preston.

“We will find Chrissy Ballantine. We will,” he said with conviction.

“But what makes you think that Vickie could help?” her father asked, frustrated.

And then Griffin Pryce looked at her. His eyes were older, harder than she remembered, though still determined and macho and beautiful and...

“Because her name is part of the clue that was sent to the media,” he said softly.

2

Taker—as he had determined his code name to be—stood watching the commotion. Cops, reporters, medics—you name it.

It was good. So good. The woman, it seemed, was alive. People everywhere were talking. A tall blonde next to him smiled at him radiantly. “Can you believe it? They saved her! Dug her right out of the ground—and saved her!”

“Hallelujah,” he said, nodding seriously. “Thank God!”

The blonde moved on.

He became aware that Under was coming to stand next to him. Under thought that being Under meant being the leader—and that Taker had agreed with that, since, in the name the press had given them—Undertaker—Under came first. Taker knew that Under was a lackey; he was the smart one. He was the one with the plan. And—though he refrained from saying it—being a Taker was far better than being Under.

No matter. His accomplice was good—and loyal. Loyal, he knew, mattered most.

“So, they saved her ass!” Under said.

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” Taker asked.

“Not when we’ve got a big one all boxed up!” Under said, and laughed.

Taker started moving down the street. Under followed in his footsteps.

“Think we’ll get to see what happens with that one? I got to admit, I’m hoping your clue doesn’t work. That’s one I’d love to see go bad.”

“Yeah,” Taker agreed. “But hey, not the prize we’re really looking for, right?”

“But a thread to the prize,” Under said, and paused in the street, smiling as they watched the growing throng of reporters in the area. “Love this, love it, love it...and best of all...”

“Best of all, what?” Taker asked.

Under grinned. “We’ve got the dough to keeping going and going.” Under paused, frowning. “Hey, what happens when we’ve taken down the prize, huh? I mean, this is cool, really cool. But I mean, you have an objective. And that’s okay. But...”

“You change. You change your direction. Your style, your signature. And start all over again. You become someone else.”

“So, this never has to end?”

“No, it never has to end,” Taker said.

It would end, of course. He did have an objective. And as to his good friend Under...

Well, friendships often—and tragically—came to an end.

But for now...

His eye was on the prize. And as for Under...at the moment, Under was loyal, like a lapdog, and had assets and abilities Taker did not. Under could, upon occasion, behave in a superior manner, but...

Really. It was all just a matter of time.

* * *

“Where Preston ran and good old Paul rode.”

Vickie sat frozen in her chair as Griffin Pryce read the words.

The two men had declined to take seats; therefore, her parents had refused to sit again. They were like a pair of puppies, blindsided by a couple of whacks to the head.

Not that Vickie felt any different. Or, perhaps, she did. She felt frozen.

“This is wrong, just wrong,” Philip Preston said. “I mean, Preston is not an uncommon name. This clue may not refer to Vickie in any way. You’re asking my daughter to become involved with a killer. A killer who might target her. You can’t mean—”

“Yes, Mr. Preston,” Jackson Crow said.

Vickie’s father was not ready to give in. “Victoria was almost killed once. That man, that awful man—it’s him? Aldridge! Bertram Aldridge. She won’t be involved. I’ll get her out of the country, I’ll—”

“Bertram Aldridge is sitting in prison,” Griffin said. “He will be there for life.”

“This is someone who likes to taunt the police with notes,” Jackson Crow said. “Most probably, they simply remembered and took her name from the newspapers or media at the time.”

“They can’t mean Vickie,” her mother murmured.

“They mean Vickie,” Griffin added quietly.

“Oh, no, no, no, no...” the ghost of Dylan Ballantine said, hands pressed to his temples. “My mom, they’re talking about my mom.”

“I know you!” Vickie’s mother gasped suddenly. “You—you’re Officer Pryce. You were the cop who was there the day that...”

“The day I was nearly killed, Mom,” Vickie said.

“Yes, yes, you’ve been at our home before, and we’re grateful, but...no, not again. My husband is right. You’ll get Vickie targeted by this sick person,” Lucy replied.

“She may help save a woman’s life. We don’t like bringing anyone into harm’s way, Mrs. Preston,” Griffin said. “But I’m afraid that whoever is responsible, they know about the attempt by Bertram Aldridge on Vickie’s life. The Ballantine house is near the Paul Revere house. And Vickie ran from that house.”

“Look!” Philip Preston said angrily, “I won’t have it! I won’t have you use her.”

“Dad!” she said, standing up suddenly. “Dad, please. I know you’re talking out of love for me. But I’m an adult. I can make my own choices. And if there’s anything I can do, I’m willing to do it.”

“No!” her mother said, her face going as pale as ash.

“Mom, Dad, it will be all right. These men are FBI. There are cops everywhere. I’m going to go with them and see if I can do anything.”

“Then you’re going to Italy with us!” her father said firmly.

“Dad, we’ll talk later. But time may be of the essence here. Please. I’m going to go with them,” Vickie said firmly. She rose and looked at Griffin and said, “Shall we? I mean, I will be with the two of you at all times, right?”

“Absolutely,” Griffin said, looking at her. He had, she thought, the darkest eyes she had ever seen. Dark eyes, dark hair, bronzed, rugged face. For a moment, their gazes seemed to be locked. He didn’t like this, she knew. He wasn’t happy to be drawing her in.

She realized that he and the other agent, Jackson Crow, were here because they were desperate to save a woman’s life.

And she could help.

“You’ll call me, you’ll call us, the minute... I mean, you’ll keep in touch, you’ll let us know where you are every step of the way,” her father said.

“We’re wasting time,” Dylan’s ghost said urgently.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay,” Vickie assured her parents. She looked from Griffin Pryce to Jackson Crow and said, “We need to go.”

“Go where? Vickie—”

“Where Preston ran and Paul rode,” Vickie said. “The corner where the Ballantine house is—down the street from the Paul Revere house. They have her there somewhere. If I see the site, I might know what the clue means.”

* * *

It had been some time since Griffin had seen Victoria Preston.

Over eight years.

He had never forgotten her.

She had matured well.

When he had first met her—terrified at the scene when he had shot and wounded Bertram Aldridge—she had still been a kid. At least basically. She’d already been about five-eight back then, willowy, with long black hair and tremendous green eyes and fine, slim features. She’d been a beautiful girl—but beautiful girls like her abounded, and he might have seen dozens like her at any sorority party or teen gathering.