Claimed by the Secret Agent

Grant pursed his lips and stifled any further questions. Mercier had a wife, a gorgeous woman with a medical degree and a mesmerizing French accent. What? Was he crazy?

“Not personally,” the boss said with a roll of his eyes. “I had requested her transfer to us. Beauclair has a photographic memory and is a wizard with languages. The consul General sent us her file and suggested she was being underused where she was. She’ll be a valuable asset to COMPASS.”

True. All his fellow agents had their special little gifts. His particular gig was psychometry. He might get a sense of what the young woman had been feeling or thinking if he could hold something she had owned, but that sense wouldn’t help him find her if she hadn’t known where she was going when she’d been taken. “Does she have a locator implant?”

Mercier nodded and nudged a folder across the desk. “Here are her coordinates. The jet’s waiting, and there will be a car available as soon as you land. Get her out and keep it as quiet as possible.”

“And after the extraction?” Grant asked as he lifted the folder and glanced at the photo of the agent. Who smiled that way for an I.D. badge photo? And who ever looked that good in one? He knew how deceiving appearances could be. If she’d made it through CIA training, she was no lightweight, either in smarts or capability. She was twenty-eight and looked eighteen. On purpose, he’d bet.

“First, get her to safety. Then I want you to go after this guy before he snatches somebody else. We should have been called in on this sooner. Beauclair is victim number five. We think he’s using the ransoms to help fund his jihad. Or maybe this is his jihad. Find out if he’s working alone or in concert with some group.”

All the U.S. embassies and consulates were made aware of the kidnappings three weeks ago, since the perp had been skipping all over the globe. If his victim was ransomed, he’d dump her, tied up naked and helpless, in a public park where she would soon be found alive after the money was delivered. The last vic had been tortured and killed when the ransom was denied. “So this one can’t be ransomed.”

“Not officially. You know U.S. policy about dealing with terrorists. And her family doesn’t have the money or any assets to convert.”

The only dead victim had made a point—don’t pay, don’t get them back alive.

Mercier stood and offered his hand. “Report every twenty-four hours or we’ll come looking for you.”

“I know the drill,” Grant replied. He had completed two assignments for COMPASS during the year he’d been with the team and hadn’t needed any help. After six years in the navy, running missions of all descriptions and feeling responsible for every one of his team every hour of the day, Grant reveled in working alone.

This antiterrorist organization was a tightly knit group, but each member was trusted to handle an assignment the way he or she saw fit. Backup was available for the asking, and rescue, if required, was speedy. They didn’t partner up unless the mission called for it.

Mercier motioned him out. He didn’t say goodbye or good luck. That was one of his peculiarities. He must figure encouragement wasn’t needed. Or maybe he feared he would jinx things.

Grant dismissed the thought and began to think ahead about Agent Marie Beauclair of the wide blue eyes and dimples and how best to rescue her.

He welcomed the chance, as he always did, but this one felt almost personal. Finding her couldn’t make up for his inability to save Betty Schonrock when he was thirteen. Nothing could do that. He’d always carry the guilt. But he’d do this in memory of Betty and maybe it would help a little.

Chapter 1

Germany—July 15

Marie Beauclair focused on the narrow field of vision beneath the blindfold. Not a big room, low ceiling, high, narrow window. The air was cave cold, not the result of air-conditioning. It chilled her all over.

The first thing she’d realized when she’d come to was that she was nearly naked. Her wrists and ankles were tied with cord, and she lay on a cot that smelled musty. Her next stage of awareness was absolute fury. She was mad as hell at the jerk who had done this and almost as mad at herself for letting him. How had it happened?

She couldn’t remember a thing after coming home from work on Monday, changing out of her work clothes, pulling on a tank top and going to the fridge for a glass of orange juice. Nothing else, not even falling as she passed out. Drugged, of course, with something really fast acting. Then she dimly recalled someone lifting her head, urging her to drink more. How long had she been here, and how many times had she drank the stuff?

Her head wasn’t clear even now, but she was conscious and thinking. Deep breathing helped shake off the lethargy. She flexed her muscles and stretched her neck as best she could to work out the kinks. Her stomach rumbled, and her mouth felt as dry as dust.

Marie listened to the rising voice in the next room, a one-sided conversation in accented Dutch, obviously a phone call. She recorded the content, storing each word as she tried to work her wrists out of the cord that bound her.

Essentially he was discussing where he should dump her if the ransom wasn’t paid. And it wouldn’t be; Marie knew that much. This had to be the Embassy Kidnapper, and his demand was exorbitant.

She couldn’t lie here and wait for a rescue that might not happen.

When the voice stopped, so did she, knowing it was imperative that she remain motionless except for slow, even breathing and feign unconsciousness. If he knew she was awake, he’d have to deal with her. She was pretty sure who had grabbed her and what the end result would be.

The door creaked open and she sensed him approach. He poked her sharply in the ribs. She didn’t react. He checked her bonds, grunted with satisfaction, then paused as he turned to leave, as if he were thinking about what to do next.

Through the crack in the blindfold, Marie caught a good view of his profile—dark complexion, black hair and full lips. She glimpsed a raised scar on the back of his wrist when he raked a hand through his hair. He looked Middle Eastern, but the accent she had heard didn’t bear that out.

He paced for a moment, then cursed under his breath and left the room. She heard the door click shut and a dead bolt turn, then his footsteps. Another door slammed shut. She listened for further sounds from the next room and heard nothing.

Here was her chance, and it might be the only one she got. Furiously, she worked the cords, curling her thumbs into her palms until one hand slipped free, and then she tore at the cords that bound her ankles.

He had locked the door. No point in bothering with that. She headed straight for the window. It wasn’t barred, only painted black. And painted shut, Marie discovered when she stood on a chair to open it. Quickly, she jumped down, picked up the chair and used it to break the panes.

Great. She couldn’t go through that jagged opening with so much skin exposed. After a quick glance around the room, she grabbed the only fabric she could find, the moth-eaten blanket that had covered the cot.

She padded her hand with the threadbare wool and broke out all the glass she could, then draped the ragged thing over the bottom of the window frame. It took her nearly five minutes, by her reckoning, to squeeze her body through the opening and jump down into the dark alley. Shards cut her feet when she landed, but there was no help for that.

She snatched up the old blanket and wrapped it around her. Then she ran like hell, still weaving from the aftereffects of the drug in her system.

She had no clue where she was, but anywhere was better than back there.

Her feet were bleeding and leaving a trail, but she ran on, ignoring the pain of the cuts. Desperation fueled her, but she didn’t let herself panic. She needed a clear head, time to think, to find out where she was and to plan.

It was either dusk or predawn; she couldn’t tell. Nearly dark, whatever the time. Warehouses. Old ones. Probably no dwellings nearby. Cobblestones. Old town. Had to have a center. She needed people. Crowds.

The end of the long alley lay just ahead. She sucked in a deep breath and slowed her pace. Suddenly a hand clapped over her mouth and a strong arm clamped her waist, yanking her backward into a hard body.

She went limp, hands behind her, and when the hold on her relaxed, she struck. Her fingers dug into his most vulnerable part, twisting as hard as she could.

He let go and she took off, seeking the faint light of the street, praying there would be help there.

But he snatched her again, this time by her upper arms, and dragged her back. “Dammit! Don’t fight me! I’m here to help!”

It took a few seconds for his words to register. His lack of accent. His Americaness. “Thank God,” she muttered, and collapsed.

“Wake up, Beauclair!” She heard the command before her eyes opened and groaned her assent. He had her sitting on his lap against the wall of the alley and was tapping her face with his hand.

She reached up, batted it away and struggled to get up. “Who sent you?”

He stood, lifting her with him as he did. “Later. Right now, we should get out of here before he realizes you’re gone.”

“Aren’t you armed?” she demanded, reaching for the blanket that had slipped away. Modesty was not her primary concern at the moment, but she was cold.

“Yeah, but I need to get you safely situated before I go after him.” He put his palm on her waist.

She knocked his hand away. “Like hell. I want a piece of that—”

“Whoa, tiger!” She heard his chuckle. “Serve him right if I did turn you loose on him. You nearly killed me.”

“Sorry. Sneak up on a girl, expect that.”

“Makes me wonder how he grabbed you in the first place.”