Chapter 3

McKenzie dozed in fitful spurts, waking periodically with her heart in her throat. Had she dreamed someone was knocking on her motel door, or was it real?

She rolled groggily out of bed and stumbled past her lit bathroom. Wiping a grain of sleep from one eye, she peered through the door's peephole with the other.

The familiar sight of Miles wearing a hoodie made her heart leap with joy. He had dressed like that while posing as a teenager at the Centurion Men's Shelter, the place where she'd volunteered so much time and effort, thinking she was doing a service to her community. Her father, meanwhile, had used the shelter to launder money as well as to recruit and groom the men who would become his followers.

With a dry mouth and fingers that could scarcely unlatch the safety chain, McKenzie hauled the door open. Miles! Her cry of anticipation curtailed abruptly as the light from her bathroom hit the caller's face. Not Miles. She was letting in a total stranger.

She tried slamming the door on him, only the stranger stuck a boot out, keeping the door from closing. Forcing his way inside, he pinned her against the closet with his sturdy frame. A moist cloth came out of nowhere, covering her mouth and nose and stifling her screams.

Caustic fumes scalded McKenzie's airways. She caught her breath and fought her captor's cruel grip, but he was stronger. In her panic, she saw two more strangers slip into the room, one of whom resembled the man on the balcony. Ordering the third man to fetch her belongings, he watched with a smirk as McKenzie's lungs convulsed for air. Cloying vapor seared her throat, and darkness gathered at the edges of her eyes.

How did these men even find her here?

Anguish speared her as the darkness took over. Now she might never get to see Miles again.

* * *

Once inside the elevator at the Hilton Garden Inn, Miles pushed the elevator button for the third floor, then jabbed the Close-Door button until the elevator finally lurched upward. Adrenaline juggernauted through his bloodstream. Anxiety twisted his intestines.

Three years. He had dreamed so often of the moment when he and McKenzie would be reunited; every one of those dreams had been impossibly sweet—not like this. Foreboding robbed him of any real anticipation.

For Centurions to have found her three times, WITSEC had to have been infiltrated by none other than the Architect. Who would keep McKenzie safe if WITSEC couldn't?

I can.

He pictured them running away together to a place like Morocco, where his sister was assigned. Imagine finally marrying McKenzie, getting to watch her graceful interactions with the locals, with their own children! On one hand, it sounded like paradise. On the other, could he bring himself to walk away from his mother like his father had?

The doors parted with a chime on the third floor. This is it.

Drawing a deep breath, he marched onto the landing and turned left toward 314. At the end of the hallway, two men were pushing through the emergency stairwell exit, and one of them was carrying a woman small enough to carry like child.

The unsettling sight broke Miles's stride.

The woman had long auburn hair, not dark brown like McKenzie's, but she could have colored it. He couldn't see enough of her face before they stepped out of sight to be sure it was her, but her scent—a blend of gardenia and honeysuckle—seemed to hang in the air. Given the way her head had lolled on the man's shoulder, she had to be passed out, cold.

They'd gotten to her first!

The realization had him pausing to retrieve his Glock 36 from under his pant leg. Pistol in hand, he knocked on room 314 just to be sure. When silence answered him, he pursued the two men, slipping stealthily through the fire door. Several levels below him he could hear footfalls and low-pitched voices. There were three of them now, not just two.

Silencing his pursuit as much as possible, he flew down the steps after them. But they were already on the ground floor, exiting the building.

As the door clanged shut behind them, Miles bounded recklessly down the remaining stairs. He couldn't let them get away. How would he ever forgive himself?

Reaching the ground floor, he barreled through the exit and found himself by a parking lot gilded by a pewter sky. Less than thirty feet away, the man who'd been carrying McKenzie had just unloaded her into the back of a van and was about to climb in himself.

"Hey!" Miles yelled at him.

The man swiveled to face him, and Miles raised his weapon, stalking the van with determination. "FBI! Put your hands in the air and step away from the vehicle."

The man assessed the immediate area, saw no one else and, with a shout at the driver, jumped into the cargo area, slamming the doors shut behind him. The engine roared and the van peeled away.

Oh no you didn't. Aiming his weapon at the left rear tire, Miles fired. But in the gloom and with the van in motion, he missed, howling with frustration. His rental vehicle was parked near the front of the hotel. His odds of catching up with the van were slim, at best.

But then a second pistol barked, and the van wobbled, though it didn't stop. At a hampered pace, it continued to make its getaway.

Miles edged around the building looking for the other shooter, as well as for his car. Seeing it closer than he thought, he raced toward the dark-blue Taurus without spotting whoever'd helped him. With a rev of the engine, he peeled out of his parking space, having parked tail-end-in.

As he neared the road, a silhouette detached itself from beneath the hotel's raised sign and marched toward him. "Dad!"

Sure enough, it was. His father had followed him here and helped him.

Too grateful to be upset, Miles slowed just long enough to let Drake slip into the passenger seat. Before his father's door slammed shut, he took off again. Even in the dim light, his father's scowl was evident.

"So, I think I know what's going on. You don't have to explain it."

Really? How could his father guess without knowing McKenzie had called him? But, hey, if he didn't want to talk about it, that was fine with Miles. Besides, the less his father knew, the less he might get in trouble for helping him.

Keeping an eye on the dark shape of the van bumping up the four-lane highway a hundred yards ahead of them, Miles tried to think through his fear. Where would Centurions be taking her? Wouldn't their intent be to kill her? Ice cycled through his veins as he tried to close the distance between them.

He glanced at his silent father. Even if Dad had guessed this was about McKenzie, didn't he even want to make sure? "Look, I appreciate you helping me out back there, but it would probably be best for you if I let you out right here. I'm about to step way out of my jurisdiction."

Dad gave an easy shrug. "I don't think so. They're heading toward the highway, by the way."

"I can see that." Gunning through a red light, Miles managed to avoid losing sight of the van completely as it lurched up a ramp off Harrelson Blvd. onto Route 17. As followed it, gratitude sat like a fat pill in Miles's throat—necessary for his health, but hard to swallow. Miles sped up as he spotted the van again.

His father shot him a frown. "No, no. Hang back. Let's keep the element of surprise here."

Miles didn't agree, but he'd always heeded Dad's advice. It was hard to avoid being noticed on the scantily populated six-lane highway, especially with the sun brightening the eastern sky. Hiding behind a semitruck first, then changing lanes to get behind a car, Miles hung back as far as he dared.

As they passed a strip of rubber lying in the road, Dad shook his head. "I can't believe they're driving on a flat tire." A minute later, he added, "Whatever you do, keep the LE out of it."

LE was local law enforcement. The comment told Miles his father had guessed accurately that he was dealing with Centurions. The quasi-religious, civic organization had been around since the late-nineteenth century. Springing up first in Savannah, Cohorts were seeded throughout the south, preaching clean living and closed mouths while collecting pledge money that lined the pockets of the corrupt elite. New pledges were encouraged to seek careers in law enforcement, where they protected their own kind from prosecution.

"Gotcha." With Myrtle Beach just 227 miles from Savannah, there might well be former Centurions staffing both the county and state police. "So, what's the plan?" He wasn't too proud to ask for his father's input.

"Let's just see where they're headed."

"Next exit, apparently."

The van was signaling an imminent exit off the highway. Miles edged his rental into the left lane, making it look like he planned to continue straight. At the last second, he horsed across two lanes of traffic and up the ramp, just in time to see the van turn down a long, tree-lined road. The last of the tire was peeling away, and the rim sparked on asphalt.

Braking at the stop sign, Miles waited for the van to disappear behind a stand of trees before accelerating after it. The sun was now cresting the treetops, turning the leaves incandescent.

When they next glimpsed the van, it was slowing before a brand-new building overlooking an elegant, modestly sized marina. Tall sailboats and several yachts were moored to a wide pier.

Farther inland, boats had been pulled out of the water for maintenance. Miles drove the car slowly past them until his father cautioned, "Better pull over."

Miles complied, nosing the sedan in the shadow of a landed sailboat. "Why is there a marina this far inland?"

"We're next to the Intracoastal Waterway."

"Oh." Miles had to admit Dad knew more than he did about most things. The bottom fell out of his stomach as he realized, "They're trying to take McKenzie out of here by boat." It was the first time he'd mentioned his rescue target, but Dad didn't seem surprised.

As Miles tore off his seat belt and jumped out of the car, his father followed suit, whispering for him to slow down. Desperate to keep McKenzie within view, Miles did not slow down. He wove his way through the large, landed boats, heading straight for the brand-new marina store and restaurant, both closed at this early hour, with his father right behind him. Beyond the dredged inlet, the Intracoastal Waterway was a glimmering ribbon of dark water cutting through a forest.

The van had backed right up to a pier. One of the three kidnappers was carrying a slack McKenzie toward the large, sleek yacht moored at the very end of the L-shaped pier and buttered in morning sunlight. His two companions went to work changing their flat tire.

Concealing himself behind the building, Miles peered around the corner, his hungry gaze fastening onto McKenzie. Even dressed in pink, plaid pajamas with her curls a dark auburn hue, he would never have mistaken the delicate beauty for anyone but his angel. His heart swelled with longing. He had to get her back.

Dad, a good six inches taller than Miles, peered over his head. They both watched a thick-set gentleman with sparse silver hair emerge from the yacht's cabin to welcome his visitors. The man's yellow Bermuda shirt and white slacks screamed of wealth, as did his aristocratic accent that just reached their ears.

"There you are. Bring her aboard."

Recognition rocked Miles back on his heels. "That's Ashton Ravenel!"

Surprisingly, his father hushed him. Once again, he didn't seem surprised. Being well acquainted with the Centurion Cohort, Dad knew as well as Miles did that Ashton had been Jared Jones's close friend and the man McKenzie was supposed to marry. As the public corruptions section chief, Dad had worked hard to pin racketeering charges on Ravenel. It looked like he'd succeeded. Yet, in the end, his evidence had simply vanished, and the man had walked free.

Miles stole another peek around the corner of the building. McKenzie disappeared into the yacht's enormous galley, still carried by the goon.

Pulling back, he met his father's sharp gaze while considering their options.

"What do you want to do?"

Wait, Dad was letting him call the shots? This was a first.

Miles took another look at the setup. The odds weren't particularly good right then, but the men fixing the tire looked like they were planning to leave any minute. "Once the perps take off, we board the boat, unless, of course, it pulls away first."

His father's green eyes narrowed. "Okay."

Miles waited for him to point out all the flaws to his decision. Instead, he produced a Glock from under the tail of his button-up shirt and loaded it with a fresh magazine. Miles quickly followed his example.

The slamming of the van's doors had them peering simultaneously around the building. The flat tire had been replaced with a spare. The two who'd worked on it were back in the van, waiting for their companion to come off the yacht so they could leave.

A pulse throbbed in Miles's temples. How he longed to get on that boat, to pull McKenzie into his arms, and tell her everything would be okay.

At long last, the big man came out of the cabin, still stuffing money into his pocket. He crossed the short gangplank and strode swiftly up the pier toward the van. As he climbed into the back, Miles and Dad retreated to the back of the building to avoid detection as the van tore past them.

At the back of the building, they discovered the best way to approach the pier unseen was to continue around the building toward the water. The hope that Ravenel and McKenzie were the only two on board the yacht was shattered as they emerged to find two young men hoisting the gangplank. Miles groaned as a third man, older and burlier than the boys, appeared in the wheelhouse on the yacht's third level, where he fired the boat's engines.

At motor's throbbing, Miles's heart began to race. "We can't let them leave." He might never see McKenzie again.

"Yeah, but…" His father hadn't removed his gaze from the man piloting the craft. "I bet you that man is armed. And a boat this size probably has an arsenal."

An idea occurred to Miles. "We're not fighting our way on board. Come on, follow my lead." He didn't leave his dad much choice. Darting from behind the building, Miles marched toward the pier with his head up, shoulders back. He could hear his father right behind him.

As they stepped onto the pier, the deckhands took note of their approach, glanced at each other, then up at the wheelhouse. "Hey, Skipper."

The man in the wheelhouse looked toward the boys, then frowned at the interlopers.

"Morning." With a friendly smile, Miles stepped right up to the stern of the Julius Caesar while trying not to roll his eyes at the pompous name. "I hope I'm not late."

The young men stared at him, then looked at each other again. "Late for what?" asked the one with bad acne.

Miles feigned puzzlement. "Didn't Mr. Ravenel tell you? It must have slipped his mind." He took out his wallet and fished out a business card, holding it up. "I'm Tom Keane, with U.S.A. Yacht Sales. Mr. Ravenel asked me to stop by this morning and appraise his boat, and I brought my mechanic with me."

Not waiting for an invitation, Miles leapt aboard to thrust his business card at one of the boys, all the while aware that the skipper had just cut the engines and was making his way down toward them. Miles waved his father over. "Hop aboard, Daniel. Mr. Ravenel's a faithful client of mine."

As his father joined him, the two deckhands turned with relief toward the skipper, who was just coming off the tanning deck. "He says he's here to appraise the boat." The boy passed the business card to the older man.

Miles became the object of the skipper's narrow-eyed appraisal as he looked up from the card. The man's street-tough demeanor warned Miles that they were looking at trouble.

The skipper turned to the deckhands. "Did the boss say anything to you about this?"

They both shook their heads. "But he gets a new boat every year, don't he?"

Miles jumped on the detail. "He does, actually, and he gets them from me. I'm sure it just slipped his mind that I was dropping by. He did say he was busy lately. How about I take a quick look around, then you can fetch Mr. Ravenel when I'm ready to assess the cabin? I brought Daniel my mechanic with me." He jerked his thumb toward his father, who sent the men a nod.

The skipper's hard expression had Miles holding his breath. He didn't exhale until the man said, "What do you need to see first?"

"Well, if you could show my mechanic the engine room, that'd be great. I'll get busy on the upper decks."

"Fine." Skipper jerked his head at Dad. "Follow me."

Given the look his father sent him, Dad wasn't happy getting stuck with the skipper. But, hey, Miles had the two young-'uns to deal with.

Pretending to look around, he waited for his father and Skipper to disappear belowdecks before he pulled a couple hundred-dollar bills from his wallet, walking back to the teens. "Hey, guys. I'll give you each a hundred dollars to walk up to the marina store and wait there until we leave."

The boys looked at the bills in his hand, then looked at each other and shrugged. After taking the money, they jumped off the boat, all the while whispering between themselves and sneaking backward glances.

Miles turned around, his heart pounding with purpose. Now to find McKenzie.