Debra Webb - Guardian Angel

A woman alone in the dark with a stranger …

Hands in the air. Feet wide apart. She was prepared to fight if the need arose. She’d had nearly identical training as the federal agent cohorts she once worked with, but she wasn’t even close to the stranger’s level. His gaze skimmed her body. The formfitting T-shirt and jeans didn’t leave any room for concealing a weapon.

She certainly didn’t look like his idea of a private detective. But looks were often deceiving. After all, he was an expert at creating illusions. Perhaps she was an illusion designed to do exactly what she appeared to be trying to do: drawing him into a trap.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Debra Webb was born in Scottsboro, Alabama, to parents who taught her that anything is possible if you want it badly enough. She began writing at the age of nine. Eventually, she met and married the man of her dreams, and tried various occupations, including selling vacuum cleaners and working in a factory, a day-care centre, a hospital and a department store. When her husband joined the military, they moved to Berlin, Germany, and Debra became a secretary in the commanding general’s office. By 1985 they were back in the States, and they finally moved to Tennessee, to a small town where everyone knows everyone else. With the support of her husband and two beautiful daughters, Debra took up writing again, looking to mystery and movies for inspiration. In 1998 her dream of writing came true. You can write to Debra at PO Box 64, Huntland, Tennessee 37345, USA or visit her website at www.debrawebb.com to find out exciting news about her next book.

Guardian Angel– Is he really a saviour or merely a vigilante? And what of his alter ego, Nathan Tyler, the mysterious recluse with far too many secrets of his own?

Ann Linker Martin– A Colby Agency investigator with a deep, dark secret of her own. Will that secret prevent her from doing her job?

Victoria Colby-Camp– The head of the Colby Agency. Victoria has complete faith in all her investigators. She is certain that Ann will not fail her or the client.

Katherine Fowler– A mother who will go to any and all lengths to find her missing child.

Trey Fowler– The child’s father is terrified that the Colby Agency’s involvement will jeopardise his child’s life.

Kevin Addison– The top public relations agent in the business. How far will he go to put his boss in the limelight?

Owen Johnson– Will loyalty and ambition continue to outweigh any sense of basic human compassion he has left?

Phillip Kendall– Wealth and power are the only moral codes he follows.

Ian Michaels and Simon Ruhl– The top men at the Colby Agency.

DEBRA WEBB

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To all members of law enforcement, local,

federal or international, the true guardian

angels who protect our children.

Chapter One

Western Virginia Monday 8:35 p.m.

The girl was here.

He could feel it, could taste the evil in the air. His senses went on high alert.

Moving silently, he eased closer to the run-down shack that sat deep in the wilderness backing up against the George Washington National Forest.

An acrid chemical stench lingered in the September air. He recognized that solvent-laden stink. The remote setting provided the perfect anonymous spot. Most meth labs were found in trailer homes, old sheds, run-down motels and places exactly like this, where no one wanted to look.

It was too dark to see just now, but somewhere nearby there would be a mounting refuse pile that would tell the tale and would, all by itself, provide sufficient probable cause for a search warrant. But he wasn’t here about the classic lowlife-style meth lab.

He was here for the girl.

His heart rate remaining stable despite the anticipation coursing in his veins, he stole toward the east side of the shack. Light poured through the bottom portion of the single window on that end, its faint glow cutting through the darkness like a ray of hope.

Anticipation fueled his determination, limiting his patience; but before going in, he needed the number and location of the trouble he would encounter inside. He pulled the bill of the cap lower over his face and prepared to move closer.

The front door swung open and a lone man, maybe six feet, one-thirty or one-forty pounds, lumbered onto the ramshackle porch. He muttered what might have been song lyrics as he stumbled down the steps. Dark hair. Ragged jeans, T-shirt sporting what appeared to be the logo of some defunct heavy metal band. Not enough light reached beyond the door to determine whether or not he was carrying anything other than the sheathed knife on his belt.

The skinny degenerate lurched his way to the tree line and proceeded to relieve himself against the bark of the closest one. Too bad he’d chosen east over west. Probably didn’t know one from the other.

Less than five seconds were necessary to acquire his position. The silenced end of the weapon’s muzzle landed against the back of his skull, and the biological urge that had brought the scumbag to the tree halted.

“What the—”

“Don’t move.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” the man sneered. “Five-oh?” The metal-on-metal grate of his fly closing punctuated the cocky questions.

Grabbing a handful of the scumbag’s hair, he jerked his no-good head back and jammed the muzzle against his temple. “No one you want to know, trust me.”

The fool had the poor judgment to laugh. “Unless you’ve got some big-time backup, you’re a dead man—that’s who you are.” He tried to twist free, went for his knife. But he wasn’t nearly fast enough.

Unlucky for him.

One snap of his useless neck and he slumped to the ground. Another clump of meaningless DNA. From the smell of him and his clothes, he was hazardous waste anyway.

Acting quickly would be vital now. The dead man’s associates would be looking for their compadre if he didn’t come back inside in a timely manner.

Focusing on slowing his respiration and calming his pulse, he zeroed in on that one window on the east end of the shack that had been left partially uncovered. Without a single sound that might give him away, he stole into position. The exposed window was most likely an attempt at increased airflow. An unindustrious method of venting the dangerous chemical gases the illegal work inside produced.

The front portion of the shack appeared to be one rectangular room. A tattered couch and chair claimed the floor space closest to the open window. Beyond the sitting area was a makeshift kitchen. Piles of lithium batteries, hundreds of boxes of what was probably a popular allergy relief medication or one of its clones littered a table. A pistol—a.32 maybe—lay in plain sight.

A heavyset woman who looked to be about thirty monitored her latest concoction, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. The cook . The dead guy was probably the shopper . Lots of supplies lying around. Too much so to be just a feed-my-habit operation. These dirt-bags were manufacturing with the intent to sell.