Frozen Memories. Cassie Miles

Spence held up his cell phone. “Call me when they’re in custody.”

      Ramirez exchanged numbers with him. “Tell me about the NSA agent. How did she get grabbed?”

      “This is the first time Agent Thorne has been in the field.”

      “Inexperienced,” Ramirez said with a disgusted shake of his head. “Am I right? The chick is a typical rookie.”

      “Don’t say chick.” Spence retrieved his phone. “And there’s nothing typical about her.”

      “Sorry, man.” Ramirez raised both hands, placating. “I’ll call when we’ve got these guys.”

      Spence took off at a jog, heading into the forest in the direction he had already tracked. It wasn’t her fault that she was missing. It was his. He shouldn’t have left her alone, not even for a minute. If his brain had been working, he would have refused to be her partner in the first place. This assignment wasn’t the type of thing she was accustomed to handling.

      Angelica worked in the Cyber Security branch of NSA. She’d been there for three years and had a reputation as an outstanding hacker. Though she usually stayed behind her desk, she was chosen for this assignment because her dad was a retired general in the air force who lived in the area. People around here knew her family, and the gates of the North American Aerospace Defense Command, or NORAD, complex were more likely to open for somebody familiar and friendly. As soon as they’d arrived, she’d proved useful in cutting through military red tape. He wasn’t sure if that was due to her high-ranking contacts or her dynamite body.

      He saw her footprints in the snow. Branches had been broken on the pine trees. She’d come this way. He dug into his pocket for his GPS device. The blip from her implanted tracker was loud and clear. She was close, less than a mile away. He dared to hope that she’d be all right as he moved quickly through the trees.

      She’d charmed him six months ago, on the first day they’d met at Quantico, where she’d come to do a consultation. If he’d been a movie producer looking for a woman to play the part of a secret agent, Angelica would have been number one on his list. She was five feet nine inches tall with long, slender legs and classic curves. Her black hair fell straight and sleek to her shoulders. And she was stylish in high-heeled boots, tailored clothes and expert makeup that showed off her mysterious green eyes. One thing was for damn sure, Angelica didn’t look at all like a computer geek—which was exactly what she was, an NSA expert called in to advise on an FBI hack.

      To say that he and Angelica got along well together would be an understatement. From their first kiss, he’d known that she was special. They’d started dating after that first case was closed, which shouldn’t have been a dating-in-the-workplace problem because he never expected to work with her again.

      Behind his back, he heard the sounds of the SWAT team assault on the cabin. His shoulders tensed as he listened for gunfire. First, there had been three loud explosions from flash bangs. Then there were loud shouts. He counted gunshots. One. Two. A spray from an automatic, two more, then there was silence. The whole thing had taken less than five minutes, a good sign. Quick operations were usually successful.

      He hoped that his and Angelica’s mission would also be swift and effective. They were investigating an attempted hack at the supposedly impregnable NORAD complex. With Angelica’s technical expertise and his experience in undercover ops, their collaboration should have gone smoothly, except that she’d been abducted within twelve hours of their arrival.

      At a clearing in the forest, he paused. Obvious tracks went straight across the middle. The fact that she hadn’t taken time to disguise her route told him that she must be desperate. He charged across the snow and up the hill on the opposite side.

      Spencer saw the lights of a cabin beside a church, an obvious safe haven against the storm. The wind had erased most of her tracks, but he still saw indentations as he rushed toward the two-story cabin. The lights were less than ten yards away. He could smell the smoke that rose from the chimney.

      The gentle strains of a violin wafted through the air as he pulled off his glove and rapped on the door. There was no answer. He hammered more loudly and shouted, “Open up. FBI.”

      The door opened, just a crack, and a voice commanded, “Step back.”

      When Spence saw the barrel of a rifle, he decided to cooperate. An elderly, bearded man came out onto the wide, covered porch and pulled the door closed. There was a Santa Claus thing going on with the white beard and the red suspenders, but this old guy wasn’t jolly and smiling. He aimed his Remington at Spence’s chest. Bad Santa.

      “I’ll need some ID,” the man growled.

      Spence reached inside his parka pocket and took out his badge. “I’m looking for someone.”

      “What for?”

      “She might be in danger.”

      “I’m going to let you inside. But if you make one false move, you’ll be sorry.”

      As soon as the door opened, Spence saw her. With perfect posture, she perched on a wooden chair, wearing flannel jammies and playing a violin.

      He called out, “Angelica.”

      Abruptly, she lowered the bow and stared at him.

      An elderly lady, who seemed to be the mate of the man who opened the door, chuckled. “Angelica is a perfect name for you, dear. You play like an angel.”

      “A snow angel,” her husband said.

      Unable to keep his distance, Spence strode across the room toward her. He needed to gather her in his arms, to stroke her hair and whisper reassurances that he would never leave her unprotected again.

      “Stay back.” She stood and faced him. “How do you know my name?”

      * * *

      ANGELICA, MY NAME is Angelica. She thrust and parried with her violin bow, fighting to keep the guy in the huge parka away from her. Angelica! The word echoed inside her skull, and she liked the sound. It felt right. She remembered a rowboat with that name written in fanciful letters across the stern. And so, Angelica, what are you going to do now?

      “He claims to be with the FBI,” Clarence said.

      “We’ll see about that.” Her first priority was to deal with Parka Guy. “Give your rifle and backpack to Pastor Clarence.”

      He spread his hands. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

      She touched the tip of her bow to the center of his chest. The slender, fiberglass stick looked ridiculously delicate and flimsy against his girth and strength. His shoulders were as wide as the Frankenstein monster. He could snap that bow in half and use the horsehair strings as a garrote if he felt like it. For that matter, he could snap her in half, too. If she had any sense at all, she’d be shaking in her socks.

      More forcefully, she said, “The rifle. Do it.”

      In a few swift moves, he unfastened the rifle. He also removed the backpack, which he held toward her. When she didn’t take it, he growled and dropped the pack on the floor next to his gloves.

      He unzipped the front of his parka and flipped back the fur-lined hood. His complexion was ruddy from being out in the snow, and he had a tiny scar on his chin that she somehow knew he’d gotten in a barroom brawl. Everything else about him was perfection. Square jaw, wide mouth, high cheekbones and the most intense, ice-blue eyes she’d ever seen. His gaze was mesmerizing and predatory like a wolf.

      “Now,” he said as he thumped his very solid chest. “You recognize me now, right?”

      Though there was something familiar about his towering height, the pattern of stubble on his chin and the blond streaks in his hair, she couldn’t say for sure that she knew him. And she really wanted to. It’d be a shame to beat this handsome man to death with her violin bow.

      “On your knees,” she snapped. “Hands behind your head.”