Family Of His Own. Catherine Lanigan

the Author

       Dedication

       CHAPTER ONE

       CHAPTER TWO

       CHAPTER THREE

       CHAPTER FOUR

       CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       CHAPTER TWELVE

       CHAPTER THIRTEEN

       CHAPTER FOURTEEN

       CHAPTER FIFTEEN

       CHAPTER SIXTEEN

       CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

       CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

       CHAPTER NINETEEN

       CHAPTER TWENTY

       CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

       CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

       CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

       CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

       CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

       CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

       CHAPTER THIRTY

       Extract

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      THE SOUND OF gunshots cracked through snow-dusted tree branches and split the brittle December air. A flock of honking Canada geese veered away from the blasts, their wings thudding amid the rippling echoes.

      Scott Abbott reloaded his GLOCK, aimed and fired at the paper target in the shape of a person a hundred yards from the plexiglass-protected shooting stand. His shots were all over the place. Only one came close to the heart. Still, he was vastly improved over last month when he stood here in the icy rain shooting through pea-soup fog. Night-vision gear wouldn’t have helped. Scott needed more practice if he wanted to be as good as his friends.

      “Good thing my life doesn’t depend on your skills,” Trent Davis, Indian Lake Police Detective, teased as he pulled on a pair of military-issue, noise-canceling earphones and aimed his Smith & Wesson M&P45 and easily squeezed off six shots dead into the target’s heart area.

      Scott grimaced at his best friend, Luke Bosworth, whose cool gaze was devoid of mirth. Luke had been a navy SEAL. His new semiautomatic 1911 Colt .45 plowed the target with eight shots, the paper flying off like escaping butterflies.

      Scott blew on his freezing hands. “My aim is off. The cold.” He shrugged.

      “Yeah, tell it to the judge.” Trent laughed and reloaded.

      Scott pulled the sheepskin collar of his scarred leather bomber jacket around his neck. “How do you do it? I’m freezing and you’re not even wearing your parka.”

      Trent rammed a new magazine into his gun and without taking his eyes from the target said, “This isn’t a game for me. Never was. Never will be. That’s not a paper man to me. That’s the man who nearly killed my fiancée.” Trent aimed and fired his gun.

      Scott, who claimed a byline at the Indian Lake Herald newspaper, knew every last detail and then some about Trent’s brilliant and dangerous plot to bring down the leader of the Le Grande drug ring in Indian Lake only a few short weeks ago.

      Trent had headed up the Indian Lake PD’s drug task force for nearly two years, resulting in many arrests, but it was the capture of Brad Kramer, AKA Raoul Le Grande, that brought national attention to their small Indiana town—and to Trent. He’d denied all interview requests, though, except Scott’s. Trent had many reasons to avoid the press. Accuracy was one. Trent had trusted only Scott to report sensitive details about the intricate sting he’d set up to catch Le Grande. Cate Sullivan, Le Grande’s ex-wife, had been at the center of the plan. Scott had met Cate when Luke hired her to sell his home after his first wife died of cancer. Cate was a private woman and had kept her personal life quiet. When Scott learned that Cate had been living in disguise in Indian Lake for the past six years, Scott was as surprised as everyone else.

      Le Grande hadn’t only wanted to use Indian Lake as a way station for trafficking drugs from Chicago up to Detroit and eventually to Toronto. The drug lord had wanted his ex-wife and six-year-old son, Danny, back.

      Trent had convinced Cate to act as bait to smoke Le Grande out. The plan was well orchestrated, yet even Trent had not calculated the extent