Chapter 1 - THE SOUND BENEATH THE CAR
The stranger seized Evelyn Mercer hard enough to pull her off balance. His leather sleeve brushed her face as he dragged her toward an open SUV door, its engine vibrating through the garage floor.
"Get in. Now," he ordered, tightening his fist around her upper arm. Evelyn twisted away, protecting her seven-month belly with one hand while searching desperately for something solid to grip.
She caught the edge of her silver sedan, but the stranger tore her fingers free. Her shoulder struck the SUV's doorframe, sending a painful jolt through her without touching the child she carried.
The garage was nearly empty. Fluorescent lights flickered above concrete pillars, and the black SUV's red taillights reflected like warning signals across the polished floor. Nobody answered her first scream.
"My husband is coming," Evelyn gasped. The lie came automatically. Adrian was upstairs at a late board meeting, and she had promised she would drive home without waiting for him.
The man leaned closer. Short black hair, trimmed beard, merciless eyes. "Then you'd better hope he stays there." He shoved her sideways, trying to fold her into the waiting back seat.
Evelyn planted a heel against the tire. In her free hand, the strap of her beige handbag slid through trembling fingers. She remembered something her mother once said about surviving panic: make noise.
With the strength she had left, Evelyn kicked the handbag beneath her sedan. It skidded over concrete, struck the metal undercarriage, and produced a sharp, startling crash that rang between the pillars.
The stranger cursed and hauled her toward the SUV again. Evelyn's cardigan snagged on the doorway. She could hear her own uneven breathing, louder than the engine, as her knees touched the rear seat.
Above them, a stairwell door slammed. Adrian Mercer appeared at the landing, charcoal suit jacket open, a phone in his hand. He froze for one heartbeat at the sight of his wife struggling.
Then he ran. His shoes hammered down the steps as Evelyn turned toward the sound, relief breaking through her terror. "Adrian!" she cried, reaching for him across the narrow space.
"Get your hands off her!" Adrian shouted. He caught the man's leather jacket and pulled him away from the door. His only thought was the terrified face of the woman he loved.
The attacker swung first. His fist caught Adrian across the jaw with a crack that echoed through the garage. Adrian staggered, tasting blood, but stayed between the man and Evelyn.
He drove both palms into the attacker's chest. The stranger flew backward against the SUV's side panel, denting the metal with a heavy bang. The open door shook on its hinges.
The attacker lunged again, hatred replacing surprise. Adrian stepped into his path and drew the compact pistol he carried legally for personal protection. He pointed it without firing, his breathing hard but controlled.
"Hands up. Away from my wife." The attacker stopped, palms rising grudgingly. Adrian edged back toward Evelyn, refusing to turn his back on the man for even a second.
Evelyn pushed herself upright, one arm braced against the seat. Adrian caught her free hand, guided her onto the concrete, and drew her behind him. She clutched his jacket as though it were solid ground.
"Are you hurt?" he asked without looking away. Evelyn shook her head, then nodded, unable to separate the ache in her shoulder from the deeper fear of what might have happened.
An electric motor hummed behind the attacker. The SUV's opposite rear window lowered a few inches, exposing a face swallowed by shadow. A man's voice emerged, low and unmistakably frightened.
"You weren't supposed to find us." The words struck Adrian harder than the punch. He knew that voice, although he had not heard it in nine years, not since the harbor fire.
Adrian's attention moved toward the window for a fraction of a second. The attacker used it to dive through the open front door. Tires screamed as the SUV lurched forward, tearing away from them.
Adrian didn't shoot. Evelyn was behind him, other residents could enter the garage, and a desperate gunshot would not bring the fleeing vehicle back. He lowered the weapon and held his wife.
The SUV vanished around the ramp. A torn strip of black leather remained against the damaged doorframe, and a long smear of rubber marked the floor. The engine's roar faded into oppressive quiet.
"Who was that?" Evelyn whispered. Adrian stared at the empty ramp, his face drained of color. He could feel Evelyn shaking through his coat, yet his thoughts were somewhere much farther away.
"I don't know," he answered. It was only half true. He recognized the voice; what he could not explain was how a dead man had spoken from a living vehicle.
He called emergency services, giving the location, the attempted abduction, the SUV's direction, and the woman's pregnancy. His voice sounded steady because he refused to let Evelyn hear it fracture.
Only when he ended the call did he notice the cut at the corner of her cardigan. He touched the fabric carefully. "Tell me where it hurts," he said, searching her eyes.
"My shoulder. My arm." Evelyn swallowed. "He didn't hit my stomach. I kept my hand there." Adrian's expression twisted with relief and anger, both too powerful to fit inside one breath.
He guided her toward a pillar away from the ramp. She sat on a low concrete ledge while he retrieved her handbag from beneath the sedan, where its buckles were scratched and one seam had split.
"I kicked it because I couldn't reach my phone," she explained. "I thought somebody upstairs might hear." Adrian looked toward the stairwell. It was the noise that had pulled him from the meeting.
He had actually returned to the executive floor for forgotten paperwork when the distant crash echoed through the stairwell. Had he taken the elevator, he might have missed it entirely.
A security camera above them showed a tiny red indicator. Adrian remembered approving the building's surveillance upgrades that spring. At least, he thought, the footage would tell them who had taken Evelyn.
But when the nearest guard finally arrived, his face betrayed a different truth. "Sir, the cameras on this level went offline eleven minutes ago," he said, unable to meet Adrian's eyes.
Evelyn looked at her damaged handbag. A thin silver thread had come loose from its lining, exposing a small, unfamiliar stitch near the base. She touched it, then stopped when she heard approaching sirens.
"Adrian," she whispered, "there's something I should have told you yesterday." He knelt beside her immediately, his jaw swelling, his attention returning to the one person who mattered most.
Before Evelyn could continue, Adrian's phone lit up. The caller was Grant Whitcomb, chairman of Mercer Maritime and the man who had stood beside Adrian at his father's funeral nine years earlier.
Adrian had not informed Grant about the attack. He watched the name glow on his screen as the sirens grew louder. Then Evelyn spoke a sentence that chilled him completely.
May you like
"The man who grabbed me said Grant was waiting. And the voice in that window, Adrian—I think you recognized it." She held his gaze, asking him not to hide another truth.
Adrian answered the call without releasing her hand. Grant's voice sounded warmly concerned, almost paternal. "Son," he said, "tell me Evelyn is all right." Adrian had never been so frightened by a familiar voice.
