Christmas Kidnapping. Cindi Myers

going to find Ian,” he said. “Hold on to that thought.” He turned away. “Try to get some sleep.” All he wanted was to crawl into that bed with her and hold her all night long, but she’d probably misinterpret his actions, think he was taking advantage of her vulnerability. If he was going to help her, she had to trust him, and that meant letting her dictate the pace of their relationship. So, while he wanted to stay, he made himself leave the room and shut the door quietly behind him.

      * * *

      ANDREA DIDN’T KNOW how long she stood where Jack left her, clinging to the memory of his warmth and strength. How long had it been since a man had touched her with such tenderness? She had savored the feeling, even as shame lurked in the background, mocking her for enjoying even a minute while her son was in danger. But she’d needed those few moments in Jack’s arms to pull herself together and to gather her own strength to keep from breaking down. Though the urge to collapse onto the bed and give in to the sobs that pressed at the back of her throat almost overwhelmed her, doing so wouldn’t bring Ian back to her.

      She went into the bathroom and washed her face and brushed her teeth, then returned to the bedroom and contemplated the freshly made bed. No way would she sleep tonight, not with thoughts of her boy, frightened and with strangers, haunting her.

      She went into the living room and found Jack seated on the sofa, a laptop opened on the table in front of him. He had turned off the TV and a cup of coffee steamed at his right hand. He looked up when she moved into the light. “I couldn’t sleep,” she said, and sat beside him.

      “I figure we’re both in for a long night,” he said. “Would you like some coffee? I just made it.”

      “Maybe in a minute.” She nodded to the laptop. “Are you looking for the purse snatcher?”

      “Yes.” He shrank the screen and picked up the coffee cup. “No luck so far, but I’m just getting started.”

      “I don’t mean to keep you from your work.” She sat back and grabbed a small throw pillow to hug across her stomach. “I promise not to look.”

      “I’ll take a break for a few minutes.” He sipped the coffee and neither of them said anything for a long moment. The refrigerator hummed in the small kitchen behind her, and somewhere below, a car door slammed.

      “Why did you call me tonight?” he asked.

      A reasonable question, but one she wasn’t sure she could answer. “I don’t know. I wasn’t even thinking. I guess...you’re an FBI agent. And you knew Ian. Or at least, you met him and talked to him.” She looked at him, the truth of her next words making her a little shaky. “I believed you could save him.” But why would she believe such a thing about a man she scarcely knew? Still, she couldn’t shake the conviction that if anyone could help her, it was Jack. The stubbornness and commitment and need for control that had struck her as negative traits in her office now stood out as exactly the characteristics needed to fight the evil responsible for her son’s disappearance.

      “I’ll do everything I can to get him back to you,” he said.

      She forced herself to stand on shaky legs. “I think I’ll have some of that coffee now.”

      When she returned from the kitchen, he was focused on the computer once more. She moved around the room, then studied the few books on a shelf by the door—an acclaimed biography of Theodore Roosevelt, a guide to Colorado’s Weminuche Wilderness, a few thriller novels and a thick treatise on the history of terrorism. A single photograph graced the shelf by the books: two men, dressed in hiking gear and standing side by side atop a mountain, beaming at the camera. If she had to guess, she would say the man next to Jack in the photo was his friend Gus, the one whose death tormented him.

      “I think I’ve got something,” Jack said.

      She hurried to the sofa, scooting close to him to study the picture on the computer screen. A man looked back at her from a grainy black-and-white photo. “It’s from a surveillance camera,” Jack said. “Not the best quality, but good enough I can recognize him. This is the guy in the restaurant—the one who stole your purse.”

      She leaned forward and squinted at the image. It was of a white man, fairly young, with light brown hair and a sharp nose. But nothing about him looked familiar. She shook her head. “I don’t recognize him. But I wasn’t really paying attention in the restaurant and his back was to me.”

      “That’s all right,” Jack said. “I got a good look at him and this is the guy.” He clicked to the next screen and she read the name there. Anderson.

      “Is that a first or a last name?” she asked.

      “We don’t know.” Jack scanned the few lines of information under the name. “We don’t know a lot, but we suspect he’s connected to a terrorist cell we’ve been tracking here in Colorado.”

      “Terrorists? You think Ian has been kidnapped by terrorists?” The knowledge refused to sink in. What would terrorists want with her little boy? Tears stung her eyes. Where was Ian now? What were they doing to him? If they hurt him...

      Jack gripped her hand, pulling her back from the nightmare of horror she was capable of imagining. “We’re going to find them, and we’re going to get Ian back,” he said.

      She nodded, struggling for control. “Yes.” That belief was the only life preserver she had. “We’re going to get him back.”

      Jack turned to stare at the picture on the computer screen once more, and when he spoke, his voice was colder and harder than she had imagined it could be. “Tomorrow Anderson and his friends will be sorry they ever messed with me.”

Chapter Four

      The call came at 6:13 a.m., forwarded from Andrea’s home phone to Jack’s cell. He sat up on the sofa, where he’d fallen into an exhausted doze sometime after three, and snatched up the phone as the last notes of “What It’s Like” sounded. “Hello?”

      “Agent Prescott. Are you alone?”

      The voice wasn’t familiar, and the echoing quality of it made Jack suspect it was being filtered electronically to disguise it. “Andrea is here with me, but no one else.”

      “Good. Let me talk to Dr. McNeil.”

      Andrea was already standing in the doorway to the bedroom, staring at him with equal parts hope and dread. Jack held the phone out to her. “It’s him. Or somebody with him.”

      She pressed the phone to her ear, clutching it with both hands. “Hello? Is Ian all right? Please let me speak to Ian.”

      “Your son is safe. For now. Do you have the money we asked for?”

      “I’m going to the bank to get it as soon as they open. I don’t keep that kind of cash in the house.”

      “That’s fine. You haven’t told anyone about what happened?”

      “Only Jack. And my babysitter and her husband know, but only because she was there when he was taken. She doesn’t remember much and we made them both swear not to tell.” The words came in a rush, all her anxiety translated to speech. She wanted these men to know she was cooperating with them. She would do anything to see her son safe.

      “Good. I’m going to give you an address. Write this down.”

      “Hold on. I need paper and a pen.” She motioned and Jack thrust a notepad and pen into her hand. She copied down the address the man dictated and read it back to him. “Where is this?” she asked. “It doesn’t sound like Durango.”

      “It isn’t. But I’m sure you can find it. Bring the money to this address by noon today. Agent Prescott can come with you, but no one else. If we even suspect police or FBI or anyone else is around, we’ll slit Ian’s throat and let him bleed to death right in front of you.” He ended the call.

      Andrea