Security Measures. Joanna Wayne

if Janice was telling the truth. When she saw the luggage, she started squealing and wiggling her bottom like crazy.

      “We’re going to New Orleans! You changed you mind and we’re going.” She did a few wild swings of her arm as if she were dancing, then reached across the seat and gave Janice a hug.

      “I’ve got to call Gayle and tell her. She’s going to flip. Or is she in on this?”

      Janice shook her head in exasperation. She’d done this all wrong. They couldn’t possibly go to New Orleans.

      Or could she? Vincent certainly wouldn’t look there. Neither would Tyrone, even if Vincent was right and he was out to get them. They could join Kelly’s group, just another bunch of high school kids touring the famed, historic city. It would give the police time to apprehend Vincent, and they were already tailing Tyrone.

      Did she dare risk it? Or did she tell Kelly this was all a mistake and totally crush her?

      Kelly already had Gayle on the phone and was babbling on and on about the fact that Janice had given in, and that they’d be in New Orleans in a few hours.

      Kelly was ecstatic. Janice felt as if her insides had been coated with acid. But it just might work. Except she wouldn’t do it without Ken’s approval. She’d call him as soon as they got to the airport and she could get just far enough away from Kelly that her daughter couldn’t hear her conversation.

      VINCENT STRETCHED HIS long legs under Kelly’s short desk until his toes bumped against the wall. Everything he’d found pointed to the fact that Byron’s relationship with Kelly had started just before Tyrone’s release from prison, and there was no record of Ringman being a member of any chat group other than the one where he’d linked with Kelly.

      His online profile listed his name as Byron Hasselback, age seventeen. A check with the local high school indicated there was no Byron Hasselback registered. And there were no Hasselbacks listed in the phone book with addresses anywhere near the park where he’d walked with Kelly.

      Might as well go down and share that bit of news with Janice. He closed Kelly’s e-mail and was about to exit the Internet when a message appeared on the screen. Ringman, a member of Kelly’s buddy group, had just signed on to the Internet. A second later, the instant message box appeared with a typed message from Byron.

      Guess you’re still bummed about not going to New Orleans.

      Vincent’s fingers went to the keyboard. For a second, he felt almost guilty about assuming his daughter’s identity, but one thought of Tyrone changed that.

      Real bummed. It’s a drag here. Can we meet and talk?

      Sure. We can meet right now if you promise not to bring that guy with you.

      The offer of a daytime meeting surprised Vincent, but with luck, the park would be just as deserted in the sweltering midday heat as it had been in the dark of night. If this was a trap, he didn’t want to bring innocent people into the mix.

      I can meet now.

      Okay, but don’t let that guy see you leave the house.

      He’s not around.

      Where is he?

      I think he left. Mom didn’t like him.

      Can you make it in twenty minutes?

      Easy.

      Vincent logged out of Kelly’s server and flicked off the monitor. His mind was already going over how he’d handle the meeting with Byron as he unlocked the door and started down the hall to the front of the house.

      The door to Janice’s bedroom was open. He knocked anyway. When she didn’t respond, he peeked inside. The white robe she’d had on that morning was tossed on top of the unmade bed. The sheets were still mussed where she’d slept.

      Something twisted in his gut, and he leaned against the door frame trying to get a handle on his feelings. This crazy desire she ignited didn’t mean anything. It was just that he hadn’t been with a woman in years and years.

      The house was quiet. Too quiet. He stepped into the living room and scanned it for signs of life. The morning newspaper was folded and sitting on the huge ottoman just as he’d left it. A half glass of soda was on the table by the sofa, leftover remnants of ice cubes floating on the top.

      Panic swelled in his chest as he raced to the kitchen, then opened the garage door. The tan SUV was gone. Damn. He kicked a sneaker lying by the door with such force that it knocked over Kelly’s bike and sent a tin watering can clattering across the floor.

      What kind of lunatic would have run off on her own after what he’d told her about Tyrone’s revenge plans? That was a no-brainer. The same kind of nut who’d testify against Tyrone Magilinti in the first place. If Janice thought some play-by-the-rules U.S. Marshal could save her and Kelly, she was living in a dreamworld.

      So where the hell had she taken his daughter? Probably to some so-called safe house the marshal had set up. Or she might have gone to a friend’s house or just hit the road.

      She might have even caught a flight out of town, probably not in her own name. Only airline security was tight these days. Unless the marshal had set her up with some convincing alternate forms of ID, she’d never be able to board. Still, he’d check the airlines just to make sure.

      He walked back to the kitchen and this time he saw the note from Janice propped against the coffeepot. Like hell, she’d be back soon. She’d probably already called the cops and told them where to find him.

      He was amazed they weren’t already beating down the door. There might be a SWAT unit surrounding the house, waiting for him to stick his head out before they started shooting.

      He checked his weapons. One pistol was at his waist, tucked into the holster that fit beneath his loose cotton shirt; another was in his boot holster, along with a hunting knife sharp enough to slice a man’s jugular with a flick of the wrist.

      Vincent raced to the guest room, stuffed his few personal belongings and his spare change of clothes into the blue duffel with his tools and equipment, then went to the front window and studied the landscape.

      There was no sign of police activity, so he walked out, got into his car and drove to the park to meet Byron. It would be a quick visit, but if he was, in fact, working for Tyrone, Vincent wanted to know why and who else who might be on his cousin’s payroll. It always helped to be able to identify the assassins when someone was going down.

      THE PARK was deserted except for a mixed-breed mutt chasing squirrels. Vincent waited in the wooded area a couple of yards off the path. He didn’t want Byron to see him and run off before he got close enough to grab him.

      Byron showed up early—at least, Vincent figured the guy in denim cutoffs with the scraggly hair was Byron. The guy scanned the area, then dropped into a swing and lit a cigarette. He was lanky and moved in a sluggish manner that suggested he had nothing better to do than while away his days meeting pen pals in the park.

      Vincent kept a wary eye out to make sure no one else was around. When he was fairly certain Byron was alone, he stepped onto the path and started breathing as if he’d been jogging.

      “Man, this heat will give you a stroke,” he said, leaning against a tree and holding a hand over his chest.

      “Yeah. It’s hot.” Byron took a long draw on the cigarette and blew out a spiral of smoke as Vincent approached him.

      “It’s too hot for Kelly,” Vincent said, stopping within arm’s reach of Byron. “She said to tell you that.”

      The cigarette slipped from Byron’s fingers. Vincent stepped in front of him and ground it out.

      “You must have the wrong guy,” Byron said. “I don’t know a Kelly.”

      “I think you do.”

      Byron