Chapter 2

Miles forced himself to hang up. God knew he didn't want to. McKenzie's voice was manna to his hungry heart, and she so clearly needed him to stay on the line with her.

But he couldn't risk the off-chance that the Centurion Cohort was listening to his calls—not that he could see how. His cell phone had been issued by the FBI. Uncle Sam had deemed it secure and untraceable. On the other hand, his affection for Jared Jones's daughter had been no secret to the Centurion leader, now deceased. If Centurions thought McKenzie might contact him someday, they'd keep tabs on him for as long as it took to avenge Jared.

Miles should never have given her his phone number. But love couldn't bear separation and, luckily, she'd only called him twice—at least, he'd assumed it was her by the aching silence that had echoed his greeting.

This last call had been from Myrtle Beach. Opening a special app on his cell phone, he was able to pinpoint the exact location of the Hilton Garden Inn where she was hiding.

Miles leapt out of his bed, located in the basement apartment of his mother's home. He'd moved back in after his parents had split because he didn't want his mother living alone in the home he'd grown up in, located a stone's throw away from the nation's capital in Arlington, Virginia. Stripping off his sleep pants on his way to the bathroom, he then jumped into the shower while replaying McKenzie's words in his head.

How could the Cohort have found her in the first place, let alone three times? WITSEC had a flawless record. No one in their protection had ever been targeted—until now. Obviously, something was amiss with the program. Could it be the man who'd been protecting Jared Jones from within the Bureau had access to the U.S. Marshal's database? Was The Architect, as he was called, truly that powerful?

As he toweled off, Miles pondered the fastest way to reach his rescue target. Driving to Myrtle Beach from Northern Virginia would take about nine hours. A commercial flight, with all the hassles of airport security checks, would consume at least five. McKenzie needed him now.

Dang it, he would have to ask his father for help. Drake Ellis was, in many ways, Miles's boss. He was also the section chief of White-Collar Crimes and reported directly to the executive assistant director of the CID. It was bad enough Miles had to answer to a father who'd walked out on his mother two years ago, after twenty-seven years of marriage. Asking his father for a favor was the last thing Miles wanted to do, but Dad had a pilot's license and his own small aircraft, two things Miles desperately needed.

Swallowing his pride, he dialed his father's number and set his cell phone on his dresser in speaker mode while starting to dress.

Drake answered on the first ring. "What's wrong?"

Clearly there had to be a calamity for Miles to call his father—sad, but so true. "I need a favor." He strapped his gun holster to his calf and reached for his jeans.

"What kind of favor?"

"I need you to fly me to Myrtle Beach tonight, right now. It's a matter of life and death." He stepped into his Levi's one leg at a time.

"Whose death?"

"Mine." Considering his life wouldn't be worth living if anything happened to McKenzie, it was only a slight exaggeration. His father heaved a sigh. Miles buttoned his jeans and pulled the zipper up. "Yes or no? I don't have much time."

"Fine. I'll meet you at the airport in half an hour."

Pleasantly surprised, Miles pressed his luck. "Any chance you can make that twenty minutes?"

"I'll try." His father hung up on him.

Stowing his phone in his rear pocket, Miles turned toward his closet to pack a bag. Having no idea what he was up against, he tossed a hodgepodge of clothing into his black duffel, along with a dozen spare magazines for his Glock, just in case.

Then he fetched his shaving kit and toothbrush from the bathroom. For the first time in years, the young man looking back at him didn't look depressed.

"Please God." He spoke the words aloud, even as goose bumps sprouted on his forearms. "Keep her safe until I'm there to protect her."

* * *

Miles had to give the old man credit. He'd filed a flight plan, fueled up, and completed a preflight check by the time Miles joined him in the cockpit of his Beechcraft Bonanza.

Drake eradicated Miles's feelings of goodwill by cutting him an impatient look. "Took you long enough. Let's go."

Like it was Dad's idea to fly to Myrtle Beach at four in the morning.

The clear, crisp weather alleviated a portion of Miles's concerns as the two-seater ascended into the predawn sky and banked south. A full moon and a tail wind blowing out of the north would get them to South Carolina in two hours.

"Are you going to tell me what this is about?"

The impatient question came one hour into the flight. Miles had hoped the audio on the headset he was wearing wasn't working. Apparently, it worked fine. His father had just waited until they were three thousand feet up in the air to interrogate him. Typical.

Miles kept his gaze fixed on the thin veil of moonlit clouds. "Nope."

"Does this have anything to do with your current assignment?"

Miles spent his weekdays down in Freeport, Bahamas, posing as a yacht salesman in an FBI-coordinated effort to curb drug smuggling out of the Caribbean and into the United States. "Nope."

"Did you tell your mother anything?"

Miles whipped his head around. "I left her a note." He fought to keep his resentment from bubbling up, but it boiled over suddenly. "Which is more than you did when you abandoned her."

His father sighed, tiredly. "You have no idea what happened with me and your mother."

"I don't need to know."

Dad went back to fiddling with his instruments. Miles studied him out the side of his eye. Where his father was tall and broad shouldered, Miles had inherited his mother's petite stature along with a baby face that made him ideal for undercover jobs but sometimes kept people from taking him seriously, his father included. Considering his older half-sister was a fearless CIA case officer, Miles often doubted he would ever measure up.

Focusing back on the indigo sky, he marveled at the brilliance of the stars. God created the stars for a purpose, just as He'd created Miles for a purpose. If that was to rescue McKenzie Jones from the remnants of the Centurion Cohort, then so be it. God willing, they could finally be together again.

Please, Lord.I don't like to trouble You with much, but this is important.

An hour and a half later, the two-seater came to a standstill at Myrtle Beach International Airport. The sky was just beginning to lighten. Worry simmered in Miles's stomach. McKenzie had been alone all this time.

As the single-piston engine wound down, he hung up his headset and unbuckled his seat belt. At least her hotel was just a ten-minute drive away.

As he left the cockpit, he tossed over his shoulder, "Thanks for the ride."

He had unlatched the door and was stepping out onto the wing when a large hand clamped down on his shoulder. As fast and strong as Miles was, his father outmatched him in pure muscle. He had no choice but to halt his exodus. "What?"

"That's it? You're going to go off on your own? I thought you were smarter than that."

Considering the trouble Miles might be walking into, he knew he could use his father's help. But Dad could get fired for simply not stopping him, let alone helping him outright.

"I guess I'm not that smart." Wresting free of his father's grip, he leapt to the spongy ground with his duffel bag, then took off at a brisk walk toward the bright lights of the General Aviation Terminal. The humid air smelled of salt water and cypress. At the same time, he placed a call on his cell phone to Hertz Car Rental. His alias, Tom Keane the yacht salesman, would have a vehicle waiting by the time he reached the lot.

Miles figured his father would fly off in disgust shortly. Leaving was what Dad did best, after all.