Julie Miller - Secret Agent Heiress

Dimitri Chilton.

With nothing left inside her, no fight, no breath—no hope—Whitney surrendered to the blackness that consumed her.

“We’re here, Romeo.”

Agent Vincent Romeo opened his bleary eyes and studied his surroundings before ever lifting his chin from the pillow of his chest.

The Lonesome Pony Ranch looked pretty much the way his pilot escort had described it. Low, sprawling hills nestled between two mountain ranges. Horses grazing in snow-spotted pastures. A log house perched on top of a hill, surrounded by ranch buildings and guest cabins. Clear blue sky.

And not a skyscraper in sight.

Vincent unfolded his long legs from the tight confines of the chopper and stepped onto the concrete helipad. He rolled his cramped shoulders and tested the air by inhaling deeply. Nice. No trace of smog. His city-trained lungs would probably rebel.

He swiped his hand down his face and jaw, trying to shake the lingering fatigue. He could use a shave and a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

But when the President of the United States summoned you at one in the morning for a special assignment, you didn’t say no. Even if twenty-four hours earlier you were finishing up a weeklong stakeout that ended in a messy gun battle, leaving one agent wounded and a hit man dead.

That could have been you, Vinnie. He could hear Melissa’s tearful voice in his head, even five years after she’d dumped him at the altar with that grand speech. Yeah, his job was dangerous. He put his life on the line every time he strapped on his badge and gun. But somebody had to walk the line between the good guys and the bad guys. Somebody had to make the world a safer place.

His father had walked that line. He’d known the risks long before that bullet had claimed his life.

Vincent knew the risks, too.

He strapped on his badge and gun, anyway.

“You coming, Romeo?” The dark-haired pilot who had picked him up at the airport, Frank Connolly, was already striding down the hill to a battered tan pickup truck.

Obviously fit and strong, Connolly’s uneven gait piqued Vincent’s curiosity. Like his father, had Connolly, too, been struck down in the line of duty?

Vincent didn’t ask. He wasn’t here to indulge his curiosity or to make friends.

He was here to do a job.

Tucking memories and philosophizing neatly away where they couldn’t distract him, Vincent reached behind his seat to retrieve his gear. He traveled light. He already carried the important stuff, either on his person or inside his head. But it paid to be prepared for any contingency. He slung the black nylon duffel bag over his shoulder, and joined Connolly in the truck.

As they pulled up in front of the ranch house, a blond-haired man opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch. The weight of authority he carried on his shoulders easily identified him as the boss of this operation. He crossed to the top of the steps and waited for Vincent to approach.

By the time Vincent had set his bag on the wooden bench beside the front door, the boss had been joined by Connolly and two other men, who introduced themselves as Court Brody and Patrick McMurty.

The boss introduced himself last. “Daniel Austin.”

Vincent unzipped his black leather jacket and reached inside. He pulled out the wallet that carried his badge and ID and flipped it open. “Vincent Romeo. National Security Agency.”

Daniel glanced at the identification and returned it. His firm handshake welcomed him and urged him to get down to business all at the same time. “The war room is downstairs, but I think we can do this right here.”

Vincent handed him an envelope sealed with a stamp marked POTUS. “President of the United States, huh?” Daniel recognized the eagle logo, then slipped his thumb beneath the flap. “He wants to oversee this mission personally, is that it?”

“The hostage is of personal importance to the president.”

Daniel paused. His clear brown eyes sent an unmistakable message. “She’s important to us. And we call her Whitney around here.”

Vincent acknowledged the warning with a silent nod. He folded his arms across his chest, distancing himself from the palpable urgency of this unusual business meeting. He made no apology for studying the group of men as closely as they scrutinized him. Each man seemed at ease with his surroundings, at ease with the type of job they’d been asked to do for their country. Daniel, Frank, Court—even Grandpa McMurty.

Patrick McMurty was some kind of retired sheriff or military officer. The upright carriage and balanced stance of an alert man ready for trouble were recognizable to Vincent’s trained eye. According to the briefing he’d received on the plane, McMurty had been recruited to run the ranch and provide the cover necessary for the operatives to blend in with this part of the country.

Montana Confidential had put together a pretty fair team of counterterrorist agents. Having outside help to retrieve one of their own probably wasn’t sitting well with any of them.

Vincent shrugged off the observation, only momentarily concerned about treading on another man’s turf. His job was to rescue Whitney MacNair, not win any popularity contest. He focused his attention back on Daniel, who had finished reading the official letter. “Everything clear?”

“We’re to provide you with whatever backup you need. But you’re point man on this mission.” Daniel stuffed the papers back into the envelope. “Name it and you’ve got it.”

Vincent knew his list already. “I need a map of the terrain and I need to talk to the girl. I have everything else I need.”

Frank Connolly shook his head and stepped forward. “You mean we have no part in this? Kyle Foster’s cutting short his honeymoon to help get Whitney back. He and Laura will be here by this afternoon.”

Vincent recognized the name of another agent and his new wife, who’d been recruited to help expose collusion between the Black Order and an American contact who worked at her father’s research facility.

The Black Order was no ordinary adversary. Like any terrorist group, they despised the United States and its global domination. But their insidious attempts to influence and undermine the American government, as well as corrupt and frighten its citizens, weren’t his concern at the moment.

He had to bring home a kidnapped society girl. Let Montana Confidential handle the terrorists.

Daniel Austin understood that. He laid a placating hand on Frank’s shoulder. “President’s orders. The Confidential group is to play a support role only. Gerald MacNair, Sr., Whitney’s father, seems to be an old family friend. This is being handled out of Washington.”

Court Brody swore, clearly as frustrated by the red tape as Frank. “This is our territory. We know it better than any hotshot from the East Coast.”

“Chicago,” Daniel corrected him. Court, a former FBI man who probably understood the politics of Washington better than anyone there, seemed unimpressed. “And you do know this land better than any of us.” The command was clear.

Vincent absorbed the brunt of Court’s steely-eyed glare before he excused himself to do Daniel’s bidding. “I’ll draw up a map.”

Frank, seemingly a respected voice of reason among the men, turned his argument to Daniel. “You’re letting him go in solo? Chilton’s a desperate man. No telling what he’s willing to do.”

Vincent handled his own defense. “There’s one hostage, one kidnapper.” He added the next without false modesty. “I only need me.”

Daniel pocketed the orders. “What Frank’s trying to say is that Chilton’s unpredictable. He may be on his own right now, but he still has a U.S. contact we haven’t been able to uncover. If he somehow managed to make that connection, he may not be alone. You could be walking into an ambush.”