Baby Battalion. Cassie Miles

way you boys stormed into the warehouse. You’ve been trained. I can tell.”

      Disgusted, Nolan looked away. This marshmallow knew nothing about the military, except that he could make money selling guns. Coltrane’s gentle approach was trying his patience.

      “There was a guy in Iraq you might have known,” Coltrane said. “Wes Bradley.”

      “Sure. He was one of my contacts.”

      “When was the last time you saw him?”

      “Maybe six months ago,” Jessop said. “Why? Are you looking for him? Is he the guy you’re after?”

      “Could be,” Coltrane said.

      Wes Bradley had been one of their primary suspects for the attacks on Governor Lockhart until they discovered that he’d been dead for over two years. Someone else was using his identity.

      After Bart’s abduction, they tested blood that supposedly belonged to Bradley and found a DNA match in the military database for Victor Bellows, Bart’s son. But there was a problem with this identification. Victor had been stationed in Iraq and had been MIA for four years.

      “I’ll talk,” Jessop said. “What do you want to know about Bradley?”

      “Describe him.”

      “Over six feet, thinning brown hair. Not a bad looking guy but he has those crazy eyes. Know what I mean? Those pale blue eyes that seem to stare right through you.”

      Coltrane produced a high school photo of Victor Bellows. “Is this Wes Bradley?”

      Jessop nodded. “He’s older now, but that’s him.”

      It was confirmation. Victor Bellows—Bart’s only son—was involved in his father’s abduction. Either Victor was the kidnapper or he knew who was holding his father.

      “I’ve got another question,” Coltrane said. “Do you know Bart Bellows?”

      “I’ve heard the name.” Jessop’s manner shifted. He was edgy, not eager to talk about Bart. “He’s a billionaire, right?”

      “Don’t play dumb with me,” Coltrane said. “We’re not here to enforce the law. But if you don’t cooperate, we’ll tell the CIA and Homeland Security about the weapons you’re holding in this warehouse.”

      “If I talk, what do I get?”

      Coltrane glanced over his shoulder at Nolan. “What can we offer?”

      Nolan took out his cell phone. He had Omar Harris on speed dial. “As soon as I make this call, the CIA closes in. They’ll confiscate your weapons, but that shouldn’t be a problem for a patriot like you. These guns won’t end up in the hands of insurgents or thugs. All I can give you is fifteen minutes head start before I make the call.”

      Jessop’s eyes darted. “That’s not much.”

      “Take it or leave it.”

      His mouth quivered. “There’s something big going down. It has to do with a case Bellows investigated in Afghanistan. It’s going to happen soon.”

      “When?” Coltrane demanded.

      “The next couple of weeks. Washington, D.C., is the location.”

      Nolan felt a dark chill. Tess and his son lived in Arlington, too close to the threat. He held up his phone. “I need more. That’s too vague.”

      “What do you mean?” Jessop wriggled, trying to free himself from the restraints.

      “Something?” Nolan scoffed. “Something is happening in Washington? That’s about as useful as telling me that Santa Claus is coming to town. If that’s all you’ve got, I’m calling the law.”

      “Don’t, please don’t,” Jessop begged. “I have a name. Just listen to me. The name is Greenaway.”

      A blade of ice sliced into Nolan’s chest. Greenaway was the man who destroyed his life. Five years ago, Greenaway had threatened Tess and his unborn child. If he resurfaced, she was in imminent danger.

      He had to find out more, had to stop Greenaway.

      From the corner of his eye, Nolan saw the woman in the red dress moving. Too slowly, he turned toward her.

      A gunshot exploded.

      Blood spread across Jessop’s chest. He fell to his side in the dirt.

      The woman dropped her gun. Where the hell had she been hiding that weapon? Her dress was so damn tight that she could barely walk. She raised her hands. “You can arrest me. I don’t care what happens.”

      Nolan hadn’t expected this, hadn’t been prepared. “Why?”

      “Jessop killed my mother. The bastard deserves to die.”

      But not yet. Not when Jessop had information Nolan needed.

      The possibility that Greenaway was involved changed the focus of Nolan’s search for Bart. He needed to be in Washington, D.C., as soon as possible, and he had to make certain that Tess was safe.

      THE OFFICE FOR Donovan Event Planning was a small storefront near Ballston Common Mall in Arlington. After dropping Joey off at day care, Tess arrived at a few minutes after ten in the morning. She hung her burgundy coat and the jacket of her black pantsuit in the closet and went to the sleek Plexiglas front desk where she sat and closed her eyes for a two-minute meditation.

      Getting herself and her son ready in the morning took a lot of energy. Though Joey liked playing with the other kids at his day care, she always felt a twinge of guilt about leaving him. It had never been her intention to be a single mother.

      She inhaled through her nostrils and exhaled through her mouth. In her mind, she pictured a blue horizon above a still body of water. Clouds blew in, and the sky and sea faded to the white of a blank slate. A fresh start.

      With her eyes refreshed, she rose from the desk and looked with pride at her clean line, modern office. The pale blue walls were hung with clear-framed photos of events, awards and a couple of personal pictures. The chairs at either end of the long white leather sofa were royal purple and lime green.

      She enjoyed meeting with clients in this area where she wowed them with old-fashioned scrapbooks of prior events and a brand-new digital presentation that outlined her capabilities.

      Behind a half-wall partition at the back of the office was the casual break room with a fridge, a counter and a little round table. There was also a play area for Joey, file cabinets and a scheduling board. Tess went to the coffee maker and got the first pot of the day started.

      She heard the front door open and peeked around the partition. Her sense of serenity took an immediate hit when she confronted a muscular man with thick, curly black hair. Pierre LeBrune was the head chef for the catering company she was using for the Lockhart Christmas Eve event. Though he didn’t have an accent and probably wasn’t really from France, he dressed in splendid European style from his silk necktie to his flashy platinum Patek Philippe wristwatch.

      She didn’t dare offer him her less-than-perfect coffee. “Good morning, Chef.”

      “We have a problem, Mrs. Donovan.”

      It wasn’t the first. Pierre had popped up at her office a half-dozen times over the past three months to nitpick. The company he owned with two partners was one of the top-notch caterers in Washington, D.C., and it was the first time she’d worked with them.

      Usually Tess used the catering service she’d founded, but the Smithsonian insisted she choose from a list of caterers they had worked with before. Though inconvenient for her, she understood that all the cooks and servers needed security clearance to work after hours in the National Museum of American History, where so many patriotic artifacts were on display.

      She gestured to the sofa. “Would you like to sit?”

      He