Michelle Gagnon - Kidnap and Ransom

Thanks to a grenade explosion, her right leg now ended just below the knee. It happened on her last case, back in July. Kelly had been chasing a skinhead who was determined to blow up a dirty bomb at the U.S./Mexico border. They’d managed to stop him, but at the last minute he pulled the trigger on a grenade. Four FBI agents had been killed instantly, including Agent Leonard. Another agent had suffered serious injuries, but pulled through. He was back on active duty already. Sometimes it was hard for Kelly not to resent him.

She’d been running away from the truck when the explosion occurred, which probably saved her life. Unfortunately a chunk of metal landed on her leg, crushing it, and she’d sustained internal injuries. The doctor claimed she was lucky to have come out of the coma, plus they’d been able to save most of her leg. Kelly dried herself off, then snapped on her prosthetic. Without the skin-toned polyurethane foam cover, the carbon fiber pylon that substituted for her lower leg made her look like a cyborg. Lucky was not the first word that came to mind.

As Kelly made her way to the locker room, fighting the limp that took over when her muscles were tired, she focused on the floor, avoiding the eyes of everyone she passed. Everywhere but here she was able to keep the damage out of sight. She’d thrown away every skirt, dress, and pair of shorts she owned. She even wore sweatpants to bed now, removing the prosthetic under the covers when the lights were off.

She flashed back on Jake. He’d been the portrait of compassion, staying by her bedside during the entire healing process, then having his apartment reconfigured to suit her new needs. He’d even offered to support her financially if the FBI refused to put her back in the field. The problem was, he’d become such a good nursemaid that sometimes it seemed like that was all they were anymore, and she hated feeling like a patient. Occasionally Kelly caught him looking at her with pity, but when she confronted him, he always protested that his feelings for her hadn’t changed.

And yet, he’d barely touched her since the accident. Not that she blamed him. If she couldn’t stand looking at herself, how could she expect anyone else to feel differently?

In the locker room Kelly dressed quickly. The showers here were public, so she always waited to wash off at home. She tugged a scarf around her neck as she pushed through the door to the street, instantly swept up by the mass of people swarming Fifth Avenue. The physical therapy center was located on a tiny block in Midtown, across from St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Christmas had come and gone, holiday cheer vanishing along with the fancy window displays. After a week of steady sleet the streets were a mess, puddles of filthy, freezing brown water pooled along the curbs. Everyone pushing past Kelly looked as miserable as she felt, shoulders hunched against the cold, bundled up so that only their eyes were visible. Because of that, it took a minute to recognize the woman grabbing her elbow.

“Kelly? God, I can’t believe it’s you!”

“Monica?” For a second Kelly experienced one of those surreal moments where she thought she might be dreaming. She’d worked a case with Monica Lauer the summer before last, a nasty one where dueling serial killers squared off in the Berkshires. She hadn’t seen her since. “What are you doing here?”

“I should ask you the same thing. Wait, don’t tell me. You married that gorgeous man of yours and live here now.”

“Kind of. Well, no, not married, but…we’re living together. And engaged.”

“Well, good for you.” Monica pulled off a glove and waved her left hand at Kelly. “Just took the plunge myself. Howie and me meet up here, since it’s about halfway between Bennington and D.C.”

“You married Howie?” Kelly said. The brash lieutenant and the forensic anthropologist were the definition of an odd couple. But then, maybe that’s why it worked.

“Yep. He was so great all through Zach’s recovery.” A flash of pain crossed Monica’s face. She waved it away. “Anyway, a guy like that you gotta lock down, know what I mean?”

“Sure. How is Zach?” While they were working together Monica’s son had sustained serious injuries, almost becoming the final victim in the case. Kelly suddenly felt badly about falling out of touch. The last time she’d contacted Monica was over a year ago, by email. Of course, at least for the last seven months she had a decent excuse.

“Better. Not a hundred percent yet, but he’s taking classes at the community college. His short-term memory is still a little ragged, but…” Monica shrugged. “He’s alive. That’s all that matters.”

“Right.” Kelly cleared her throat, thinking that was an easy sentiment to express when you hadn’t faced the alternative. “Anyway, I should—”

“Oh my gosh, I must be keeping you from something. But listen, I’d love to grab coffee sometime. I leave tomorrow, and Howie and I have dinner plans tonight, but maybe the next time I’m in town? I come down every few weeks.”

“Yeah, sure. That sounds great,” Kelly responded mechanically. She dutifully entered Monica’s mobile number in her phone, knowing full well that she’d never call it, and that any messages Monica left would go unanswered.

“All righty, then. Great seeing you, Kelly. Can’t wait to sit down and have a real chat!”

Kelly watched Monica vanish back into the throng. It was nearly dusk and rush hour was about to start in earnest. She’d have to hurry if she didn’t want to end up standing in the subway car the entire ride home.

Before tucking her cell phone back in her purse, she reflexively checked the call log. Nothing today. Jake was out of town on business, but he usually called by now. She considered dialing, but a hard shove from behind almost sent her flying. Kelly gritted her teeth and put the phone away. All she wanted was a hot bath, a glass of wine and a Vicodin. Everything else could wait.

Jake Riley kept his eyes closed, listening to the bustle outside the door. If he concentrated he could distinguish voices, individual conversations. Someone at the water cooler was complaining about stalled negotiations in Colombia. Another voice was speaking Russian, a one-sided conversation over the phone. From down the hall, the distinctive sound of coffee brewing, accompanied by loud laughter. Above all that he registered stiletto heels clicking toward him. That gait he’d recognize anywhere.

He opened his eyes just as the door to his office was thrown open.

“Where are we on the Stanislav case?” Syd asked.

“Hello, Syd. Nice to see you, too.”

Syd Clement shut the door behind her, crossed the room and plopped down in the chair facing him. She eased her feet out of her heels and propped them up on the desk, inches from his own. At this distance, he could almost feel the heat coming off her stocking feet. He caught himself examining her perfect toes.

“The Stanislav case?” she prodded.

“Dubkova is handling it. He thinks one more week, max.”

“Yeah? Dubkova’s an idiot.” Syd’s toes tapped the air impatiently.

“Syd, he’s been a rock star for us so far. Three successful negotiations, no casualties.”

“Those were in Russia. The Ukraine is a whole other beast. I know the Ukraine.”

Jake repressed a sigh. This pattern had become all too familiar. A month or so stateside and Syd got antsy. He’d already had to stop her from intervening in two other active cases that, in her opinion, were taking too long to resolve. What she failed to grasp was that in the private sector, patience and diplomacy usually produced better outcomes than strong-arm tactics. Syd was always a fan of the more forceful approach. Jake weighed his words before speaking. “I think Dubkova deserves another week. The kidnappers are starting to cave. He’s already talked them down another million. One more and we’re in the range that Centaur is willing to pay.”