Suzanne Forster - The Arrangement

He unrolled the paper and laid it on the counter. Alison had just left in a huff and he didn’t expect her back, but he’d locked his office door all the same. If she saw this, he would never get her on the plane to southern California. The paper’s date was February third, and the lead story was about her disappearance from Bladerunner . But the article had been marked up by whoever sent it. Words had been circled with a permanent marker to create an ominous message, clearly intended for him.

I know what you did. Soon the police will, too .

You won’t get away with it this time .

How much are your secrets worth?

It smacked of a blackmail attempt, but the sender hadn’t given him any contact information. Andrew couldn’t risk dismissing it as a bluff. He had plenty to hide and too much at stake, and the sender seemed to know that.

He picked up the plastic casing the paper had come in and examined the mailing label. It didn’t have the newspaper’s logo, which added to his theory that a private party had sent the paper, and if not for the blackmail aspect, Andrew would have said it was Julia Fairmont. He didn’t think it a coincidence that her invitation had arrived within days of the newspaper message, and she had more reasons than most to want him out of the way.

He’d come between her and her only daughter, and even if Julia didn’t buy the media hype about the Villard curse, she undoubtedly had some concerns about Alison’s safety. She might also think he was trying to use Alison to get his hands on the fifty-milliion dollar trust fund.

How much are your secrets worth? The clumsy attempt at blackmail brought Bret Fairmont to mind. There’d be no other reason for Bret to expose him, certainly not to protect his sister. There was no love lost there. Unfortunately, the blackmail aspect opened the field up to suspects Andrew might not even know. Anyone could have seen something, heard something, although why would they wait all this time? And the second line must refer to Regine, which meant the sender knew something about his past. But then, who didn’t?

He put the paper back in the drawer and locked it, but he was still mentally embroiled in the quandary. What were his secrets worth? Christ, there wasn’t enough money.

He passed the drafting table on his way to the windows. For some reason, the bright blue horizon called up a vision of the first time he’d met Alison, twelve years ago. He’d flown to the west coast to live out his dream of commissioning a sailing yacht from Voyager Yachts, one of the country’s foremost luxury boat manufacturers. Andrew had no idea that Voyager had been owned by Grant Fairmont while he was alive, or that the exclusive marina had been one of Alison’s hangouts.

She’d been there that day, flitting like a butterfly around the shipyard, a shapely sixteen-year-old in a bikini, flirting madly with the college boys from the rowing club next door. She was underage and too young for Andrew anyway, but that didn’t stop her from flashing him a melting smile every chance she got.

He saw a lot of her over the next year as he commuted between the coasts to watch the sailboat’s progress, and eventually Andrew realized he was smitten. His intentions were serious by the time he slept with her, but when she took him home to Mama, everything changed. No one was good enough for Julia Fairmont’s daughter.

Andrew continued to see Alison anyway, even after Bladerunner was done and had been shipped back to Oyster Bay. On her eighteenth birthday he gave her the bracelet adorned with musical charms to encourage her singing aspirations, only to have Julia demand he take it back. She also offered to write him a check if he would name his price. He’d refused the bracelet and the money, but he’d ended the relationship. Julia had been right. He wasn’t good enough.

It was the last time he saw Alison until she moved to Manhattan the following year to attend Julliard. By that time he was involved with Regine, his protégé, and Alison’s unexpected visit to the rooftop apartment where he and Regine lived was not a welcome surprise. But Alison had sworn she only wanted to meet Regine, that she was a huge fan.

Andrew stared out the window, looking hard at the horizon.

Who’d sent him that threat? And what were they trying to accomplish?

He’d even asked himself if the sender could have been part of Alison’s plan to frame him, if there’d ever been such a plan. Maybe the accomplice had decided to finish the job, with or without her. That seemed like a stretch, but Andrew had to pursue every lead—and he was going to start where it had all begun, in Mirage Bay—whether Alison was ready or not.

His first shot put a gaping hole through the perp’s heart. Bullet number two drilled right between the thug’s eyes. And then, just for good measure, Special Agent Tony Bogart shot the guy’s balls off. It was the wrong order. If you were going for a quick, efficient kill, you aimed for the head first. Targets shot in the head did not shoot back. But Tony was letting off steam. This was his release valve for the pressure cooker of law enforcement. Better than taking it out on live suspects, which was frowned upon by the brass.

Another perp sprang up before Tony could eject the spent magazine and jam .40 Glock semiautomatic. The thug came straight at him, howling like a banshee. The clip jammed.

Tony flicked his head and sweat sprayed like raindrops. With a hard snap of his wrist, he Frisbee’d the gun at the target carrier system in the ceiling. It hit the drive motors and gummed up the works, stopping the paper assailant in his tracks.

Laughing, Tony pulled a .45 caliber pistol from his thigh holster and blew the bastard away. Four holes in his forehead. Just call him Mr. Efficient.

The target carrier was dead, too, but Tony wrote it off to the cost of doing business. This was a private range, and the owner knew Tony was good for the repairs, but probably wouldn’t charge him. The law enforcement gig still got him a few perks. Maybe he’d donate the Glock to Goodwill. He didn’t give second chances to guns—or women—who screwed him over.

He holstered his pistol and grabbed a towel to mop his brow. He’d stopped using Quantico’s firing ranges. The Bureau took a dim view of their agents killing the equipment, and they’d started docking his pay. Anyone else probably would have been disciplined, but Tony was this year’s top gun. Even outside law enforcement circles, he was known as the agent who’d tracked down Robert Starr, a cunning and deadly Uni-bomber copycat. He’d also been key in averting another Waco-like tragedy in a religious cult in Oregon.

Yeah, the Bureau loved Tony Bogart these days, so much so that they’d just put him on six weeks’administrative leave and strongly suggested he take anger management classes. And all because he’d been working his ass off trying to convince them to admit him to the training program for the Bureau’s elite crisis response team.

CIRG, the Critical Incident Response Group, was roughly the equivalent of the army’s Special Forces. Tony had the physical skills, but lacked the temperament, according to the psychologist who’d evaluated him. She’d diagnosed him with intermittent explosive disorder . And why? Just because he’d taken offense at some of her snide and insinuating questions and called her a free-associating bitch? She’d accused him of having a flagrant disregard for the rules. Ha. When was the last time she’d danced to the tune of a submachine gun’s bullets? The rules were great until they got you killed.

In his whole life, Tony had only wanted a couple things really badly—and he’d been denied both times. CIRG was one. A woman from his past was the other. He’d grabbed for the gold ring twice, and it had been snatched away both times. But sometimes fate threw you a bone, even years later, and it looked like he might have another chance at the woman.