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  Hostage Moon

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  Hostage Moon

  by

  AJ Quinn

  2011

  HOSTAGE MOON

  © 2011 By aJ Quinn. all RigHts ReseRved.

  ISBN 10: 1-60282-568-8

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-568-0

  This Trade PaPerback Original is Published by

  bOld sTrOkes bOOks, inc.

  P.O. bOx 249

  Valley Falls, ny 12185

  FirsT ediTiOn: OcTOber 2011

  THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. NAMES, CHARACTERS, PLACES, AND

  INCIDENTS ARE THE PRODUCT OF THE AUTHOR’S IMAGINATION OR

  ARE USED FICTITIOUSLY. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL PERSONS,

  LIVING OR DEAD, BUSINESS ESTABLISHMENTS, EVENTS, OR LOCALES

  IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.

  THIS BOOK, OR PARTS THEREOF, MAY NOT BE REPRODUCED IN ANY

  FORM WITHOUT PERMISSION.

  CRedits

  ediTOr: ruTh sTernglanTz

  PrOducTiOn design: susan ramundO

  cOVer design by sheri ([email protected])

  Acknowledgments

  My heartfelt thanks to Radclyffe for drawing together an amazing

  group of people and creating a place where storytellers can gather

  and dreams really can come true.

  Dedication

  For BJ, who listened, encouraged, and supported me

  throughout this adventure. Thanks for believing in me.

  Hostage Moon

  PRologue

  March 22, 6:35 a.m.

  Her first sensation was pain—blinding pain lancing through

  her body. A wave of dizziness followed. Coming fast and hard, it

  hit with such force that all she could do was keep her eyes pressed

  tightly closed and try to ride it out. She repressed the urge to moan

  as reality faded away.

  “You are mine.”

  The words seemed to reverberate around her as awareness

  returned. She started to open her eyes, but the act triggered another

  flash of pain. She immediately shut them, preferring the darkness

  and the illusion of protection it offered. Confused and fighting an

  unnamed fear, she tried to concentrate on the jumble of nearby

  sounds—the muted rumble of traffic, a car horn, the wail of a siren.

  But she didn’t know where she was and had no idea where she’d

  been.With awareness came the realization that the air was brutally

  cold. But in spite of the temperature, beads of sweat formed on her

  brow. Involuntary shivers coursed through her body, and her jaw

  clenched spasmodically. More than anything, she wanted to go back

  to sleep, to escape the cold and pain, but some primal instinct knew

  not to take that course of action.

  Instead, she forced her eyes open and tried to bring into focus

  a world that swirled around her like a mist. She tried to remember

  • 7 •

  aJ Quinn

  what had happened to her, but she couldn’t push past the pain that

  enveloped her mind and racked her body. With a low moan, she

  slipped back into the comforting darkness.

  “You are mine. ”

  She awoke with a start, unable to tell whether someone nearby

  had spoken or the words were simply in her head. Uncertain, she

  began to assess her situation. Her throat felt as if she had swallowed

  shards of glass. It hurt to breathe, and she was having difficulty

  seeing out of one eye. She recognized the metallic taste of blood in

  her mouth and felt the first hint of panic.

  She lifted her head, conscious of her heart pounding erratically

  in her chest. Her last clear memory was…Damn. What was wrong

  with her? Why couldn’t she remember?

  With concerted effort, she raised herself onto her elbows

  and, after a brief struggle, managed to push her back up against

  a cold wall, her legs stretched out in front of her. Taking shallow,

  labored breaths, she waited for the dizziness to pass, braced herself

  against the wall, and made it first to her knees, then onto her feet.

  She shivered, swaying unsteadily, her legs threatening to buckle

  and her vision swimming as she walked toward the light. A lifetime

  later, she managed to get beyond the mouth of the alley and stood

  by the water’s edge. Looking up, her gaze swept over a full moon

  suspended above a familiar skyline.

  Without conscious thought, her hand reached automatically

  and found her phone hooked to her belt. She hastily unclipped it,

  silently praying it still had a charge. An instant later, she turned it on

  and hit a speed-dial number.

  “Hey,” she said hoarsely when a sleepy voice finally answered.

  “Hunter?” The sleepiness vanished instantly. “Where the hell

  are you? Do you realize everyone’s been looking for you?”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered softly. She hated that her voice

  sounded so strained.

  There was a moment of dead silence, followed by the sound

  of a deep breath being released. “Shit—no, I’m sorry. Are you all

  right? Where are you?”

  “New York. Brooklyn, I think.”

  • 8 •

  Hostage Moon

  “New York? What the…you were scheduled to leave New

  York yesterday. But when the limo arrived to pick you up, you were

  nowhere to be found. Where the hell have you been? Talk to me.

  What’s going on with you?”

  Her heart hammered in her chest as the lights in the sky danced

  in a crazy pattern and adrenaline pumped through her in a fight-or-

  flight rush. She gulped a deep breath, then another.

  “I don’t know,” she said, unsuccessfully fighting the rising

  panic evident in her voice. “Matt, I don’t know what’s going on. I

  don’t know where I’ve been. And I especially don’t know why I just

  woke up in an alley near the East River or how I got here.”

  “Okay—okay. Take it easy. Are you hurt?”

  She raised a hand and touched the side of her head where it

  continued to throb. Drew it back and stared at the dark blood staining

  her fingers and palm and tried to comprehend.

  “Damn it, Hunter, answer me. Are you hurt?”

  “I’m not sure…there’s some blood…I’m pretty sure most of

  it’s mine.”

  ❖

  He watched her from the shadows of the rooftop.

  He had seen the confusion on her face from the moment her

  eyes opened. Watched her struggle as she tried to think, tried to

  move beyond the pain. But the drugs he had given her were still

  flowing fast and hard through her system. It would be some time

  before she would be able to think clearly.

  Of course, she wouldn’t know that—at least not yet.

  He continued to watch as she made her phone call. He was

  disappointed that he couldn’t hear her conversation, but now

  wasn’t the time to take any unnecessary chances
, and he couldn’t

  risk moving closer. So he waited. Once she completed her call, she

  began making her way slowly toward the lights, stumbling as the

  drugs played havoc with her body and mind.

  Still he watched and waited. Just a little longer. Just a matter

  of time.

  • 9 •

  aJ Quinn

  It happened as she reached the intersection. She had thrust her

  shaking hands into the pockets of her jeans, felt something, and

  pulled out the note he had purposefully left there. He watched her

  read it.

  You are mine.

  He smiled and walked away.

  • 10 •

  Hostage Moon

  CHaPteR one

  Six months later

  All actions have consequences.

  Sara Wilder knew that to be one of the basic tenets of life, and it

  was certainly one she should have remembered when her cell phone

  began to vibrate. For an instant, she stopped her restless pacing in

  the departures lounge and considered not answering it. Even the

  little voice of reason inside her head told her to ignore the incoming

  call, reminding her that calls so late in the day seldom brought good

  news.But it seemed the fates had conspired, and a sequence of events

  had been set in motion. She should have been on a plane bound for

  Bali and her first real vacation in years. Two weeks of glorious beaches

  and dense jungles that beckoned and called out for exploration. But

  her flight had been inexplicably delayed, leaving her stuck on the

  ground at San Francisco International with her phone on.

  In the end, she answered the phone even as she noted the name

  on the call display. FBI Special Agent David Granger—former

  mentor, friend, and, perhaps most importantly, her partner until her

  resignation from the bureau eight months earlier.

  She had met David when she had been a raw recruit out of

  Stanford, armed with a brand new doctorate in psychology and an

  indefatigable belief that she could make a difference. He’d been a

  field counselor assigned to her training group, and initially, he’d

  • 11 •

  aJ Quinn

  been tough on her. Demanding. Pushing her to excel, both during

  and after completion of her training at Quantico. But over time, he’d

  proven equally generous with his support, and she’d been able to

  carve a niche for herself within the Behavioral Analysis Unit.

  It wasn’t until much later, over shots of tequila in a bar

  somewhere in Texas, that he admitted he’d seen something special

  in her. And when all was said and done, they had made a formidable

  team. Still—

  “Whatever you want, the answer is no,” she said.

  “It’s been a while,” David chided. “You could try saying hello

  first.”Sara sighed. “Hello, David. Whatever you want, the answer is

  no.” “Hear me out, Sara. I only want you to take a quick look at a

  crime scene…and maybe give me your impression.”

  “Not interested.” She swallowed hard. “I quit…eight months

  ago. Remember?”

  “I’m not likely to forget,” he replied softly. “But I’m not calling

  to try to get you reinstated in your old job. And you know I wouldn’t

  be calling if I didn’t really need your help. Please, Sara.”

  In the end, it was the simple plea that worked. It was a tactic

  Sara always found impossible to ignore—a fact David knew all too

  well. Smiling tiredly at the customer service agent, she explained

  her situation and made arrangements to have her luggage returned

  to her. Thirty minutes later, with doubt and uncertainty shadowing

  her footsteps, she walked out of the airport.

  Just before midnight, the cab she had hailed pulled up to the

  curb in an upscale residential neighborhood. The driver turned and

  gave an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, but this is as far as I can take you,”

  he said, although they were still almost a block from her destination.

  A glance through the passenger-side window revealed several

  black-and-whites blocking the road, their flashing red and blue lights

  marking the perimeter of the site. Beyond them were the glowing

  spotlights from several news vans that lined the street, backlighting

  the growing crowd of curious onlookers drawn by the drama that

  was being played out.

  • 12 •

  Hostage Moon

  “Looks like somebody sent out invitations,” she said. She

  paid her fare and exited the vehicle. Showing her driver’s license

  in lieu of FBI credentials she no longer had, she gave her name

  to the uniformed officer in charge of perimeter security. Intent on

  keeping both the media and spectators behind the yellow tape, he

  barely glanced at her and nodded.

  David had obviously cleared her, Sara realized. She allowed

  herself a ghost of a smile and gave a moment’s consideration to his

  probable reaction when he saw how she was dressed. Khakis and

  a red polo shirt instead of the conservative, tailored suits she had

  always favored on the job in the past. She looked startlingly out of

  place, a stark contrast to the uniforms and suits that now surrounded

  her, and she hoped David, a stickler for protocol, remembered she

  had been at the airport on her way to a tropical destination when he

  called.

  Giving a mental shrug, she pushed past the yellow tape and

  along the narrow walkway. She carefully avoided the crime scene

  markers that indicated evidence—in this case, what looked to be

  bloody footprints—and made her way to the front of the house.

  At the door, she paused briefly, inhaled deeply several times, and

  cleared her mind before entering the house.

  “Dr. Sara Wilder.” She flashed her ID to the uniform at the door

  and watched him write down her name and driver’s license number

  before stepping aside.

  “They’re upstairs,” he said.

  From the doorway, she could see various crime scene techs

  engaged in the meticulous process of collecting physical evidence.

  Just inside, to the left of the door, she paused long enough to grab

  a pair of latex gloves and some booties from boxes on a table and

  slipped them on. Moving farther down the hallway, a staircase

  opened up on her right. At the top of the stairs, she spotted David

  speaking to a couple of SFPD homicide inspectors.

  A fifteen-year veteran of the FBI, David Granger was a solidly

  built man of forty. Just under six feet in height, he had the muscular

  build of a weight lifter and a long-standing affection for Italian suits.

  He saw her as she approached and smiled.

  • 13 •

  aJ Quinn

  “Sara. Thanks for getting here so quickly.”

  “Well, it turns out the airport wasn’t that far away,” Sara

  responded dryly, even as her lips curved slightly upward. There was

  no denying they had a lot of history between them, and regardless of

  the circumstances, it felt good to see him again. Even so, there was

  no need to give everything away.

  As David offered an apologetic shrug, Sara became aware of his

  scrutiny. Beyond her attir
e, he was undoubtedly noting the physical

  changes that were evident since he had last seen her. She knew she

  looked different. Her pale blond hair was longer, falling just past

  her collar, and she had managed to regain most of the weight she

  had lost while working on the last investigation they had worked

  together—the Pelham case. But more noteworthy, she knew she had

  finally shed the haunted look that had seemed permanently etched

  on her face during those last few months. Instead, her eyes were

  now clear, and she looked and felt relaxed and healthy.

  Just thinking about the Pelham case, even all these months later,

  still made her shudder. But not because of the particularly heinous

  nature of Pelham’s string of rapes and murders.

  Instead, it was the reminder of how much she detested

  politics. She’d underestimated the politics attached to the Pelham

  investigation. Specifically, the political pressure that had been

  brought to bear when one of the victims turned out to be the sixteen-

  year-old daughter of a well-connected judge.

  Politics had never been Sara’s forte. But politics and

  circumstantial evidence had resulted in a rush to judgment at the

  local level and led to the arrest of an innocent man. And in the time

  it took Sara to convince anyone they had the wrong man, Hugh

  Marshall had been brutally attacked by a gang of inmates at Rikers,

  while Richard Pelham had remained free to commit two more

  murders before ultimately being caught.

  The overwhelming sense of failure had left a bitter aftertaste

  and ended her career.

  Clearly aware the two SFPD inspectors were standing back

  watching them with apparent interest, David’s mouth quirked into

  a wry grin. He quickly introduced Carlos Sanchez and Rick Wilson

  • 14 •

  Hostage Moon

  and then added, “C’mon, let’s get started. Why don’t you take a look

  around first? See what your Spidey senses pick up.”

  Sara nodded wordlessly. For the next few minutes, David,

  Sanchez, and Wilson stood back and waited, observing while Sara

  seemed to communicate with the victim’s home, wondering what it

  would tell her.

  She remained motionless in the middle of the room for a

  minute, her arms wrapped around her midriff. She felt nothing and

  could see no visible signs that the space had been disturbed in any

  way. It did not seem likely that the killer had come up here. But the