Jenna Ryan - A Voice in the Dark

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Title Page A Voice in the Dark Jenna Ryan www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author JENNA RYAN loves creating dark-haired heroes, heroines with strength and good murder mysteries. Ever since she was young, she has had an extremely active imagination. She considered various careers over the years and dabbled in several of them, until the day her sister Kathy suggested she put her imagination to work and write a book. She enjoys working with intriguing characters and feels she is at her best writing romantic suspense. When people ask her how she writes, she tells them, “By instinct.” Clearly it’s worked, since she’s received numerous awards from Romantic Times BOOKreviews. She lives in Canada and travels as much as she can when she’s not writing. To Merlyn. Keep fighting, sweetheart. Win or lose, we’ll always love you.

Prologue Prologue “Who are you?” The man on the dock frowned. “You said it was urgent. You told me…” His voice flattened. “You lied.” “I did. But you love, so you believed. You were vulnerable. That’s how I succeed. Love is joy. It’s also pain. Which emotion we experience depends on the person we love.” A cruel north wind blasted the man from behind. His muscles tightened beneath his overcoat. His hand crept toward his pocket. The person opposite smiled. “There’s no point trying to be subtle. I can see you have a gun.” The man’s fingers balled. “You know, for such an educated man, you strike me as rather stupid. Still, I don’t really expect you or anyone to understand. It doesn’t work that way in my case.” A knife blade appeared out of nowhere to press against the man’s throat. He made a choking sound and froze. “Maybe not quite so stupid after all. But an unfortunate victim just the same.” “Why are you doing this?” the man whispered. “Can’t I at least know that?” “I already told you. Love is pain.” “Which you’re going to inflict.” “Unfortunately.” Before the man could react, the knife shifted. The blade slashed. Blood spurted, a steaming red fountain of it. The man jolted and clawed. He tried to grab the knife, as if that would help. He staggered forward in an attempt to run. But he was dead, and he knew it, even if he didn’t know why. When the job was done, the man’s killer stood back. A measure of sorrow crept in and, yes, pity. But no second thought. No regrets. The time for waiting was over. It had begun. Again.

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

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Copyright

JENNA RYANloves creating dark-haired heroes, heroines with strength and good murder mysteries. Ever since she was young, she has had an extremely active imagination. She considered various careers over the years and dabbled in several of them, until the day her sister Kathy suggested she put her imagination to work and write a book. She enjoys working with intriguing characters and feels she is at her best writing romantic suspense. When people ask her how she writes, she tells them, “By instinct.” Clearly it’s worked, since she’s received numerous awards from Romantic Times BOOKreviews. She lives in Canada and travels as much as she can when she’s not writing.

To Merlyn. Keep fighting, sweetheart. Win or lose, we’ll always love you.

“Who are you?” The man on the dock frowned. “You said it was urgent. You told me…” His voice flattened. “You lied.”

“I did. But you love, so you believed. You were vulnerable. That’s how I succeed. Love is joy. It’s also pain. Which emotion we experience depends on the person we love.”

A cruel north wind blasted the man from behind. His muscles tightened beneath his overcoat. His hand crept toward his pocket.

The person opposite smiled. “There’s no point trying to be subtle. I can see you have a gun.”

The man’s fingers balled.

“You know, for such an educated man, you strike me as rather stupid. Still, I don’t really expect you or anyone to understand. It doesn’t work that way in my case.”

A knife blade appeared out of nowhere to press against the man’s throat. He made a choking sound and froze.

“Maybe not quite so stupid after all. But an unfortunate victim just the same.”

“Why are you doing this?” the man whispered. “Can’t I at least know that?”

“I already told you. Love is pain.”

“Which you’re going to inflict.”

“Unfortunately.”

Before the man could react, the knife shifted. The blade slashed.

Blood spurted, a steaming red fountain of it.

The man jolted and clawed. He tried to grab the knife, as if that would help. He staggered forward in an attempt to run.

But he was dead, and he knew it, even if he didn’t know why.

When the job was done, the man’s killer stood back. A measure of sorrow crept in and, yes, pity. But no second thought. No regrets.

The time for waiting was over.

It had begun. Again.

A dockyard in Boston

Wind whipped the rain-soaked body of the forty-something male who lay prostrate on the pavement. Two pennies, one shiny, one dull, sat on his closed eyelids. Even so, FBI agent Angel Carter thought he looked shocked, as if he couldn’t believe he was dead.

Behind her, a Boston police officer made notes and muttered. About the federal presence, Angel imagined. Or maybe he didn’t like the traditional “time of death” pool taking place around him.

“Four hours,” one of the patrols said.

“It’s forty degrees,” another argued. “Factor in the wind chill and we’re talking thirty or less. The guy’s stiff and blue. I’ll go under three.”

Their voices swirled around Angel’s head like the stinging pellets of rain. She studied the corpse and waited patiently for the official pronouncement of death.

At length, the medical examiner stripped off his gloves and blew on his hands. “Someone sliced him up real good, Angel.” He pointed. “Opened the carotid artery, which is why you’ll find a diluted stream of blood from the dock halfway to your place. Guy’s big and well built. Probably put up a fight, but only with one hand. He was trying to stem the blood flow with the other.”

One of the uniforms leaned in. “How long d’you figure, Doc? I’m in for three and a half hours.”

“Joe’s the one who puts the stamp on the time of death,” Angel reminded him.

“I only confirm that he is in fact dead.” The medical examiner signaled the ambulance attendants. “And this one definitely is. Has been since a minute or two after the knife sliced his neck.”

Angel had trained herself long ago not to let a victim’s facial expression affect her. Easier to focus on the wounds.

As the ME left, Angel’s eyes followed the gash on the victim’s neck. “It’s a jagged slash. Either the killer had an unsteady hand or the victim was struggling. Second thing makes more sense.”

Uninterested, the uniform moved off. Another pair of boots sloshed in. The woman wearing them hunkered down. “The victim’s name is Lionel Foret. Forty-two years old. Officially, he lived in Boston, but his work appears to have taken him between here and DC.”

“Government?”

“So his soggy credentials say. State Department. Bergman might know more by the time we check in.”