Copyright © 2013 Karen Rose Hafer
The right of Karen Rose Hafer to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2013
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
Epub conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire
eISBN: 978 0 7553 8994 0
Cover photographs: © Silas Manhood (figure); Shutterstock (background)
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Also By Karen Rose
Praise
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
If you can't get enough of Karen Rose . . .
About the Author
Karen Rose was born in Maryland and was introduced to suspense and horror at the tender age of eight when she accidentally read Poe’s The Pit and the Pendulum.
After marrying her childhood sweetheart, Karen worked as a chemical engineer (she holds two patents) and a teacher, before taking up a full-time writing career when the characters in her head refused to be silenced. Now Karen is more than happy to share space in her head with her characters and her writing has been rewarded with a series of bestsellers in the UK, the US and beyond.
Karen lives in sunny Florida with her husband and their two children.
One of the following two facts about Karen is true:
1. Karen found a diamond ring in a sewer while working for the Washington DC sanitation commission, one of the many part-time jobs she held to put herself through college. It put a shine on the . . . well, on the stuff you flush.
2. Karen once viewed the comet Hale-Bopp at 30,000 feet from the cockpit of a 737.
Find out which one is true at Karen's website www.karen-rose.co.uk
By Karen Rose and available from Headline
Don’t Tell
Have You Seen Her?
I’m Watching You
Nothing to Fear
You Can’t Hide
Count to Ten
Die For Me
Scream For Me
Kill For Me
I Can See You
Silent Scream
You Belong To Me
No One Left To Tell
Did You Miss Me?
Watch Your Back
Novellas available in ebook only
Broken Silence
Dirty Secrets
Praise for Karen Rose
‘Fast and furious’ Sun
‘Rose delivers the kind of high-wire suspense that keeps you riveted to the edge of your seat’ Lisa Gardner
‘Rose juggles a large cast, a huge body count and a complex plot with terrifying ease’ Publishers Weekly
‘[Karen Rose’s] glossy blend of romance and crime is completely compelling . . . another enjoyable and page-turning novel from the queen of romantic suspense’ Crime and Publishing
‘Blistering, high-octane suspense that never lets up . . . Don’t miss it!’ Karen Robards
‘Gripping, chilling and utterly compelling, Karen Rose is a classy storyteller’ Lancashire Evening Post
‘A high-octane thrill ride that kept me on the edge of my seat and up far too late at night!’ Lisa Jackson
‘Don’t miss this perfectly pitched chill-fest with a human edge from a rising star in the thriller market’ The Scottish Daily Record
‘A pulse pounding tale that has it all’ Cosmopolitan
To my dear friend, Mandy, rescuer of horses.
And cats, dogs, goats, chickens, and cows. LOL.
Thank you for enriching my life.
And, as always, to Martin, my own hero. I love you.
Acknowledgements
To Marc Conterato, for all things medical.
To Sonie Lasker, for answering all my mad texts in the middle of the night. Hooyah!
To Terri and Kay, for helping me through the rough spots.
As always, all mistakes are my own.
Prologue
Eight years earlier, Baltimore, Maryland, Thursday, March 15, 5.45 P.M.
I can’t. I can’t do this.
The words thundered in John Hudson’s mind, drowning out the beep of the cash register at the front of the convenience store. The customer at the counter paid for her purchases, then left, oblivious to the fact that the guy standing in front of the motor oil was a cold-blooded killer.
But I’m not a killer. Not yet.
But you will be. In less than five minutes, you will be. Desperation grabbed his throat, churned his gut. Made his heart beat too hard and too fast. I can’t. God help me, I cannot do this.
You have to. The small print on the back of the bottle of motor oil he pretended to study blurred as his eyes filled with hot tears. He knew what he had to do.
John put the bottle back on the shelf, his hand trembling. He closed his eyes, felt the burn as the tears streaked down his wind-chapped cheeks. He swiped a knuckle under his eyes, the wool of his gloves scraping his skin. Blindly he chose another bottle, conscious of the seconds ticking by. Conscious of the risk, of the cost if he followed through. And if he did not.
The text had come that morning. There had been no words. None had been needed. The photo attached had been more than sufficient.
Sam. My boy.
His son was no longer a boy. John knew that. At twenty-two, his son was a man. But John also knew he’d lost the best years of his son’s life because he couldn’t recall much from that time. He’d spent them snorting and shooting up, filling his body with what he couldn’t live without. Even now, standing here, he was high. Just enough to be borderline functional, but not enough to dull the horror of what he was about to do.
His addiction had nearly killed him too many times to count. It had pushed him to beat his wife in a frenzied rage, nearly killing her. Now it was killing Sam.
His son had pulled himself out of the neighborhood, kept himself clean. Straight. Sam had a future. Or he would, if John did what he was supposed to do.
God. How can I? His hand
trembling, John flipped his phone open to the photo that had been texted to him that day – his son bound, unconscious, a thin line of blood trickling from his mouth. Tied to a chair, his head lolling to the side. A gloved hand holding a gun to his head.
How can I? How can I not?
The assignment had originally come via text yesterday morning from a number John had hoped he’d never see. He’d made a desperate deal with the devil and payment had come due. His target had been identified, the time and place specified.
The target came to this store every evening on his way home from work. John just had to show up. Do the job. Make it look unplanned. Wrong place, wrong time.
But he hadn’t been able to do it yesterday. Hadn’t been able to force himself to walk inside the store. Hadn’t been able to force himself to pull the trigger.
So the ante had been upped, the second text sent, this time with the photo. And Sam was the pawn. Son. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
John heard the quiet beep of the door as it opened. Please don’t let it be him. Please don’t let him stop here today. Please.
But if it’s not him, you can’t kill him. And then Sam will die.
‘Hey, Paul.’ The greeting had come from the cashier, a fifty-something African-American woman who greeted several of her customers by name. ‘What’s shakin’ in the hallowed halls?’
John’s heart sank. It’s him. Make your move.
‘Same old, same old,’ Paul replied, a weariness to his voice that somehow made John’s task seem even worse. ‘Cops put them in jail, we do our best to throw away the key. Most of the time they’re back on the street so fast, the door doesn’t even hit them in the ass.’
‘Damn defense attorneys,’ the cashier muttered. ‘Same old, same old on the numbers, too?’
‘My mother is a creature of habit,’ Paul said, his chuckle now rueful.
‘You’re a good boy to pick up her lotto tickets every day, Paul.’
‘It makes her happy,’ he said simply. ‘She doesn’t ask for much.’
Just do it! Before he makes you like him even more.
He edged to the end of the aisle, closer to the cash register. Pretending to scratch his head, he reached up under his Orioles baseball cap to yank down the ski mask he’d hidden under it to cover his face. It could be worse. The three of them were the only ones in the store. If he had to dispose of a lot of witnesses . . . That would be much worse.
‘That’ll be ten bucks,’ the cashier said. ‘How’s your wife, Paul? Pregnancy going okay?’
His wife is pregnant. Don’t do this. For the love of God, do not do this.
Ignoring the screaming in his head, John wheeled around, drawing his gun.
‘Everybody freeze,’ John growled. ‘Hands where I can see them.’
The cashier froze and John’s target paled, his hands lifted, palms out. ‘Give him what he wants, Lilah,’ Paul said quietly. ‘Nothing in this store is worth your life.’
‘What do you want?’ the cashier whispered.
Not this. I don’t want this.
Do it. Or Sam will die. Of this John had no doubt. The photo he’d been sent flashed into his mind. The gloved hand holding the gun to his son’s head had killed before. He would kill Sam.
Do. It.
Hand shaking, John pointed the gun at Paul’s chest and pulled the trigger. Lilah screamed as the man went down. John caught a movement from the corner of his eye. Lilah had retrieved a gun from below the counter. Clenching his jaw, John pulled the trigger a second time and Lilah crumpled to the counter, blood pooling around the hole he had just put in her head.
It’s done. Nausea churned in his gut. Get out of here before you throw up.
He took a step toward the door when he froze, stunned. Paul was struggling to his knees. There was no blood on the man’s white shirt. Holes, but no blood. Understanding dawned. The man wore a vest.
What the fucking hell? John lifted his gun, aiming at the man’s forehead.
The shrill beep of the door opening had him glancing to the left.
‘Daddy!’
Oh hell. A little boy. The devil had never said anything about a kid.
Fucking hell. Now what? What do I do now?
What happened next, happened fast. Too fast. Paul lunged toward John, grabbing for the gun. They fought, and John tried to pry the man’s hand away.
I need a clear shot. Just one clear shot. He’d aimed at his target’s arm, just to shake him loose, when the little boy charged, fists balled, screaming, ‘Daddy!’
John fired and Paul cried out in pain. And the child went silent.
Horrified, John and Paul looked to the boy who lay on the floor in a bloody heap. The bullet had gone through Paul’s arm and into the boy. Into his chest. The child wasn’t breathing.
No. He’ll die. I’ve killed a little boy. Oh my God. No. No. ‘No,’ he gritted out.
Paul collapsed to the floor, shielding the boy with his own body. ‘Get away from him,’ he snarled. He checked the boy’s pulse, tried to stop the bleeding, his hands shaking and desperate. ‘Paulie,’ he shouted. ‘Paulie, it’s Daddy. I’m here. I’m gonna take care of you. You’re gonna be okay. Just . . . keep listening to me, son. Listen to my voice. You’re gonna be okay.’
John had taken a step forward before he realized it. To help. To save the boy.
Grief and rage had Paul lunging to his knees once again, reaching to knock John’s gun from his hand, still shielding his son with his body. ‘You sonofabitch. Get away from my son.’
Sam. John had to finish it, or both of their sons would die for nothing. Willing his hand to be steady, he lifted the gun, aimed at Paul’s head. And pulled the trigger. The man dropped to the floor, covering his son’s body with his own.
‘I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry.’ Staggering outside, John made it to his car, managed to get the key in the ignition. And tore out of the parking lot. As he did so, he could already hear sirens.
He needed to get away. Needed to report in, to get Sam back. Then . . . he didn’t care. If the cops caught him . . . he didn’t care. He just had to get Sam to safety. He pulled off the main road, took the back roads that he knew so well. He was on autopilot.
He was . . . numb. I killed that woman. I killed that man. I killed that little boy.
I killed a child. I. Killed. A child.
His throat closed. He couldn’t breathe. He’d saved his own son. And killed someone else’s. Sam would not approve. Sam would hate him more than ever. His son had strict notions of good and bad. Right and wrong. Sam would not have let his father kill to save his life.
So he can never know. I’ll never tell him.
He reached the meeting place, where Sam was to be delivered to him. John got out of the car and fell to his hands and knees, retching. He hung there, drawing one breath after another. None felt clean. None felt right. None felt . . . enough. He was choking to death. He was breathing but his lungs couldn’t get enough air.
I killed a child. An innocent child. I need to pay for that. But first, get Sam back. Then . . .
‘I’ll turn myself in,’ he whispered hoarsely. But even as he said the words in his mind he knew he would not. He’d been to prison twice already. He couldn’t go back there. He knew he would carry the shameful secret of what he’d just done to his grave.
He pushed himself to his feet, stumbled back to his car. Slid behind the wheel. With shaking hands, sent a text.
It’s done. I want my son back. Alive. Now. Or I’ll blow the whistle on you so fast your head will spin. He hit send, then pocketed his phone and leaned back, closing his eyes.
A few seconds later he heard the familiar buzz. A phone, receiving a text. But he hadn’t felt anything in his pocket. He’d started to sit up straighter when he heard an even more familiar sound. The click of a trigger being pulled.
He looked up. Saw the face in the mirror. The devil himself. The man with whom he’d made a deal a year ago.
I should have taken the drug
conviction. I should have gone to jail.
It would have been his third offense. Three strikes. He would have been separated from Sam for years. Now it looks like I will be anyway. Forever.
Because the devil himself held a gun to the base of John’s skull. He was too tired to fight.
‘I did what you said,’ John whispered. ‘I did all that you said.’
‘I know. I appreciate it.’
‘What about my son?’
‘He’ll be released. He won’t remember anything about his ordeal.’
‘Good.’ Thank you was on the tip of his tongue, but he held it back. There were no thanks to be given. A woman, a man, and a child were dead. He never would have pulled the trigger if the devil hadn’t pushed him.
The devil made me do it. He laughed out loud, the sound hysterical to his own ears. The last thing he saw was the devil in his rearview mirror, shaking his head.
Chapter One
Baltimore, Maryland, Friday, March 14, 10.30 P.M., eight years later
The knock on his office door had Todd Robinette glaring at the dark wood panels. He didn’t ask who it was. He knew exactly who was there and why. When Robinette summoned, his staff came running. Fast. On any other day, for any other job, their dedication satisfied him. But not today. And certainly not on this job.
Go away, he wanted to snarl. I need to do this myself. Because if you wanted something done right . . . But he knew that wasn’t the reason. His employees were the best. They’d go in, do the job, and get out. No mess. No fuss. No nasty clues for bitch cops to find. No worries.
So don’t lie, asshole. At least not to yourself. He let out a slow breath. Fine. I want to be doing this myself. I want some mess. I want some fuss. I want the bitch cop to beg me for mercy.
That was the unvarnished truth. He wanted to see her dead, but that wasn’t enough. For eight long years he’d wanted to see her suffer. Because what she’d cost him warranted a hell of a lot more than the simple ending of her life.
I could do it. I deserve to do it. Nobody will know. Nobody will suspect.