A Father's Sacrifice

Time was running out for Ben.

“So why’d you call NSA?”

“I told them that if they want their damn supersoldier technology, they’ll find me the best computer expert in the country. They promised me someone within forty-eight hours.”

SPECIAL AGENT Natasha Rudolph wiped her palms down her slacks as the doors slid shut, locking her in an elevator that was about to take her underground. Mitch Decker, Special Agent in Charge, had warned her this assignment would be difficult.

However, he hadn’t mentioned that the computer lab where she’d be working was twelve feet belowground on a secluded estate in the Hamptons. She closed her eyes as the elevator started downward.

“Agent Rudolph?”

She opened her eyes to find the military type who’d met her at the front door eyeing her hands. She realized she was clenching her fists.

“Yes? Mintz, isn’t it?” She deliberately relaxed her fingers. “I’m fine. Looking forward to getting started. It’s been a long day.” She bit her lip. She sounded like a babbling idiot. She set her jaw and silently commanded her heart to stop fluttering and her hands to stay serenely at her sides.

Alfred Mintz frowned at her as the elevator doors slid silently open.

She wiped her palms again, and stepped out into a brightly lit hall. It looked as if all the walls were made of glass. Natasha swallowed nervously. Not very substantial. She resisted the urge to glance up at the ceiling. How did these walls hold up the tons of dirt and steel above their heads?

Ignoring the burning sensation on her scalp that signaled rising panic, she concentrated on staying calm.

Mintz started down the hall, leaving her to catch up. “You may not get to meet Dr. Stryker tonight. If he’s in the virtual surgery lab, we won’t disturb him.”

They passed empty offices, furnished cubicles with computer workstations, and a door labeled Restroom And Showers that thankfully was not walled with glass.

“I thought he was anxious for me to get started reinforcing the firewall,” she said.

Just past the restroom was a longer, solid glass wall. She saw a dim glow through the glass, although the glare of the brighter hall lights kept her from seeing inside the room clearly. She had the impression of chrome and steel.

Mintz stopped at the door. He nodded, his gaze on something or someone beyond the glass.

Natasha shaded her eyes and squinted. The room was an exercise room—a very well-equipped exercise room.

And as she watched, a very well-equipped man stepped off a treadmill and grabbed a towel.

A few seconds later, the man stepped through the glass door and walked toward her with loose-limbed grace. He wore a gray T-shirt and gray exercise pants. The T-shirt was dark with sweat, and hugged the planes of his chest and shoulders. Its tail hung loose, hinting at a flat, ridged belly. The pants fit snugly over his lean hips and long legs.

His biceps flexed as he toweled his face and hair, then slung the towel around his neck.

Natasha gaped at him. Who was he? Not Stryker, surely. This guy did not look like a famous neurosurgeon. Maybe he was the young bioengineer she’d been told was building the interface implant—Jerry Campbell.

Mintz stepped aside as he approached.

When Natasha pulled her gaze away from his sweaty, sexy body and met his gaze, the lines around his red-rimmed blue eyes and the exhaustion on his face came into focus.

This was no kid. But, who—

His sharp blue eyes burned into hers.

“Dylan Stryker, this is Special Agent Natasha Rudolph,” Mintz said.

“Ah, yes. NSA said you’d be here by this evening,” Stryker said wryly, lifting one brow.

It was him. “Well, NSA and the FBI tend to respond more favorably to requests than demands.”

“I don’t have time to wait for the bureaucracy to process a request.”

His gaze flickered down her body and back up. Then he held out his hand. “So you’re the best hacker-buster in the known universe.”

She stared at the elegantly long, blunt-tipped fingers and neatly trimmed nails. His hands were the only thing about him that fit the information she’d been given. They looked like surgeon’s hands.

The only recent photos of him were long-range, grainy tabloid shots. From them she’d gotten the impression of a thin, hatchet-faced, obsessed scientist.

Boy was she wrong!

“Hacker-buster?” She shook her head. “No. Computer expert.” Her voice was steadier than her insides.

This was Dylan Stryker. Her head spun as lurid headlines filled her vision.

HORROR IN THE HAMPTONS.

Mad Doctor Hides Hideously

Maimed Son In Airless

Underground Dungeon.

It was typical tabloid fare and it made her shudder each time she thought about it, made her dread meeting Stryker’s child, whom Decker had told her was paralyzed. How could anyone keep a child in this place? Underground dungeon—underground lab. Close enough.

“Dr. Stryker.” She took his extended hand, and his intensity hit her like the back draft from a fire. Shock and awareness skittered along her spine. His grasp was firm and brief, leaving her palm feeling singed by his touch.

“So, Agent Rudolph, are you really the best?” His voice held a challenge.

“Yes, I am,” she said without hesitation.

His straight mouth tilted slightly at one corner. “Good. Perfect.”

He nodded, dislodging a trickle of sweat that slid down over his temple and down his jawbone.

He glanced at his watch, used the towel on his damp hair again, then turned to Mintz. “Get her settled and put her to work. What about equipment?”

“Brought it with her. Where do you want her?”

“In the office across from the virtual surgery lab.” He pointed farther down the hall. Then he looked at her. “How much equipment do you have?”

“I’d rather have an office upstairs—” Natasha started, but Mintz was listing her equipment for Stryker. Neither one of them paid any attention to her.

“Is there anything else you need, Agent Rudolph?”