Christmas On The Run. Shirlee McCoy

       TWELVE

       THIRTEEN

       FOURTEEN

       Extract

       Copyright

       ONE

      Feet pounding, lungs heaving, sweat dripping down her temples, Carly Rose Kelley raced along the paved path that led deep into Rock Creek Park. Up ahead, an ancient metal bridge traversed the Little Patuxent River, its solid beams rusted red from years exposed to the elements, its joists gleaming dully in the predawn light. The bridge was a remnant of a railroad that had been defunct for decades—tough, old, used up, but somehow still fighting to survive.

      Exactly like Carly.

      Except she wasn’t old. She’d be thirty-three in five days. And it wasn’t her life she was fighting for. It was Zane’s.

      Zane—gift from God. An unexpected one. She and Josh hadn’t wanted kids. They’d both had too much baggage, they’d traveled more than they were home and they’d had goals that hadn’t included slowing down to care for a child.

      But Zane had come along anyway.

      Carly would do anything for him, but she wouldn’t be blackmailed, she wouldn’t be bullied and she wouldn’t be forced to go against her moral code. She could keep her son safe and still do the right thing. She would keep him safe.

      God, please help me keep him safe.

      She reached the bridge, the old metal shaking under her feet as she pounded across it. She knew they’d be behind her, that in a minute or two or three, she’d hear metal clanging as they crossed the tributary.

      She didn’t look back.

      There’d be nothing to see, just a couple of shadowy figures trailing behind her, making sure she knew she was being watched. All day, every day. All night. It seemed that everywhere she went, they were there. Zane was their bargaining chip: Do what we tell you, or he’ll disappear one day and you’ll never see him again. Maybe not tomorrow or next week or even next year, but one day, he’ll leave the house and he won’t come home.

      She shuddered, the sick dread she’d been feeling for two months welling up.

      Call the police and he dies. Tell anyone, and you’ll never see him again.

      Do what we say, and everything will be fine.

      She didn’t believe the last part, but she’d been cooperating because of the photos of Zane at day camp, at school, at music lessons. They’d been slipped under her door at work, emailed to her, dropped in the mail slot at the beautiful brownstone she’d bought in DC. She’d installed a security camera, but all she’d caught was the image of a person with a hat pulled low over his eyes, walking up her porch steps like he belonged there.

      Yeah. She’d been cooperating, biding her time, trying to come up with a plan that would keep her son safe. After the first phone call, she’d lain in bed every night for nearly three weeks, praying and begging and trying not to cry, because she’d escaped poverty, crime, a heroin-addicted mother and a career-criminal father only to come to another place of danger and insecurity. She’d known that crying wouldn’t help, so she hadn’t shed a tear. She’d focused on solving the problem and escaping the situation. She’d managed it as a teenager. She could manage it now. That was what she’d told herself during the long dark hours before dawn. The way she’d seen things, she’d had only two options to keep her son safe—go to the police and hope for the best, or go into hiding, giving up everything she’d worked so hard for. She’d been leaning toward the latter option, because she’d rather give up everything than risk Zane’s life.

      Then she’d remembered the box that she’d carried from one rental house to the next for the past five years. She hadn’t had any use for the stuff inside, but she’d thought that Zane might want it one day. Her husband Josh’s birth certificate. His adoption decree. An antique pendant he’d grabbed from his mother’s jewelry box before he’d left home for good—or, rather, been kicked out because he’d stolen five thousand dollars from his parents to buy drugs and alcohol. He hadn’t been proud of it, but he’d figured it was his parents’ fault. They could have been more patient, more understanding, more aware of how it felt to be an unwanted tween adopted by a couple who’d never had kids.

      That was what Josh had said.

      Typical of him—he hadn’t taken responsibility for anything.

      By the time he and Carly had met, he’d changed his surname back to what it had been before he was adopted, and he’d put that part of his life behind him. He’d wanted nothing to do with his parents, but he’d idolized his older half brother, Dallas. According to Josh, Dallas had made every effort to fit in with his adoptive family. He’d done well in school, gone to college and joined the military. He’d also turned his back on his own blood. The brothers hadn’t had any contact with each other for years, but Josh had followed Dallas through friends. A year before Josh died, Dallas had left the navy and joined an elite private hostage-rescue team called HEART. An old high school friend had told Josh all about it, and Josh had told Carly. He’d also bragged to anyone willing to listen that Dallas was a hero who traveled all over the world to find the missing and to bring victimized people home to their families.

      Yeah, Josh really had loved his brother.

      Too bad he hadn’t loved Carly. He’d cheated on her, lied to her, taken money from their accounts and used it to buy expensive gifts for other women. Those were things she’d found out after he’d died, and they were things she’d never tell Zane. As far as she was concerned, Josh had been as much of a loser as her parents had been. Just another disappointment in a long list of them, but...

      He’d left that box with everything she’d need to get in touch with someone who might be able to help her.

      Dallas Morgan.

      Decorated war veteran.

      Hostage-rescue negotiator. Sharpshooter. Sniper.

      If she could contact him without setting off an alarm with the people who were manipulating her, she just might be able to stop them.

      Please, God, please, she prayed silently as she raced along the path, the antique pendant, Josh’s birth certificate and a handwritten note sealed in a plastic bag and zipped into the small pocket of her running pants. The path veered to the right, and she followed it, catching glimpses of Christmas lights through the trees. This time of year, everything seemed to glow. Houses, stores and streetlights were all decorated for the season.

      The beauty of those things always made Carly long for the kind of family she could go home to. The kind of family that exchanged gifts and baked cookies, that sang Christmas carols and attended Christmas Eve service together. This year, more than ever, she wanted that. Not the family she’d grown up with. A family that would stand beside her. One that would be just as determined and desperate to keep Zane safe as she was.

      Up ahead, the path was dark, curving through thick tree growth. Dallas’s place was five miles away. If she cut through the woods, she’d get there more quickly and avoid some of the dark stretches, but that would make the people following her suspicious.

      She was a creature of habit. She couldn’t deny it. She’d grown up in chaos; now she liked order, predictability and routine. She left for work at the same time every day. She picked Zane up at school at the same time every afternoon. She went to church every Sunday, grocery shopping every Monday,