Last Man Standing

The receptionist stared at Cole in openmouthed shock. Call the cops, he mouthed, hoping his insistence was enough reassurance for her to believe he wouldn’t kill her as well.

There were voices in the halls now, as if someone had conducted a fire drill and the evacuated staff and patients were just now returning to the building. Cole stood and hurried toward the front door. But the fallen man near the linen cart caught his attention.

“God, no.” He dashed to Lee’s side and rolled him onto his back. Cole swore, every last vicious, damn-the-universe curse he knew. He smoothed the scraggly hair off the investigator’s forehead, revealing the bullet wound that had taken his life. Lee had taken out the driver, but somewhere in the melee, he’d gone down in the line of duty.

A mist stung the corners of Cole’s eyes. Damn. Damn. Damn. Lee still held his gun in his frozen grip. His badge was peeking out of his front pants pocket. Respect and regret swamped Cole. He didn’t even know if Lee had a family…. This wasn’t right. It wasn’t any damn way to live—or lose—a life.

A stroke of divine fortune had him pushing the shield down into Lee’s pocket and hiding it an instant before he felt the tugging at his sleeve. Paulie.

“We go now, Taylor.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Cole rolled to his feet and followed Paulie out the door. Jericho was already in the back of the limo. Cole climbed in beside him while Paulie got in behind the wheel and floored it.

The painted trees passed by in a blur, as did his conversation with Jericho. Yes, he was all right. Pissed off. Sore. But all right.

Cole had done his job. Followed his instincts. Made his shot. Put his life on the line for the man to whom he’d sworn his loyalty. He couldn’t protect his own mother and nephew, but he’d kept these murderers alive. The gall of it burned in his throat and chest, as Jericho promised a substantial bonus and a thorough check into Kramer and his clinic.

And as they sped down the highway toward the river—with Jericho on the phone to Chad while Cole checked his gun and holstered it—another, even more disturbing realization churned the bile in his throat.

His contact was dead.

He had no connection to the real world now. No backup. No lifeline. Nowhere to go for safety. No one to call for help.

He was on his own.

The surrounding danger and guaranteed death that such a deception could cost him didn’t bother him as much as it should have.

It was the madness that scared him. Knowing just how easy it would be for him to turn now. To forget who he really was. To never find his way back to life and love and the reasons he’d agreed to this assignment in the first place.

He’d killed a man today. He was more Meade than Taylor now.

Chapter Two

Victoria Westin sweated.

Let the upper-crust grande dames like her mother perspire or glow like a lady. When Judeen Westin wanted to improve her appearance, she had something lipoed or lifted or nipped and tucked. When she wasn’t feeling good about herself, she got a new boyfriend.

When Tori wasn’t feeling good about herself, she ran. As she started her last mile, the coolness of the June morning was rapidly dissipating as a canopy of river town humidity set in for the day. But she didn’t mind. The rhythm of her feet hitting the rubberized track drowned out the memory of last night’s phone call with her mother.

“You really should make peace with your grandfather, Victoria.”

“Is something wrong? Is he ill?” That momentary flash of concern that snuck around her hardened defenses should have warned her. If she didn’t care, she couldn’t be hurt. But once her emotions kicked in, she made an easy target. And her mother rarely failed to hit the bull’s-eye.

“No. But he’ll die someday. When your father died unexpectedly, we never had a chance to say goodbye. This isn’t just about your inheritance, but about living with a clean conscience. I know you have your work as a diversion, but I’d hate for you to be all alone and dealing with the rift between you two. You really should plan ahead.”

Father. Inheritance. Alone. Three direct hits.

“Mother, I’m a little busy now. And we’ve covered this ground before. Is there another reason you called?”

Though her mother believed Tori’s work at the Nelson-Atkins art museum was her life, it was her real job as a federal agent that gave her a sense of purpose and accomplishment. But she couldn’t tell her mother that. For a variety of reasons, she’d never been able to tell her mother much of anything. Already stung by the mention of her father’s death in a plane crash twelve years ago, she wasn’t surprised as the conversation continued to spiral downhill.

“Have you thought again about having your breasts augmented, dear? I’ve met the most delicious cosmetic surgeon here in California. He says there’s a procedure that—”

“Mother.”

“I’ve always thought you’d have the most lovely figure if…”

It was the damn if that always stuck with Tori. No matter what she achieved with her life, that if never seemed to completely fade from the back of her mind.

What if her father hadn’t died?

What if her grandfather wasn’t one of the wealthiest men in Kansas City?

What if she’d been born the son her family had always wanted instead of the daughter who never quite measured up?

And so she ran.

Tori worked damn hard to stay in top shape, to replace skin and bones with endurance and muscle, to toughen up the outside in an effort to toughen up the inside, too. Running was her escape. It had been the saving talent that a too tall, too skinny, too smart high school girl could master while other girls got dates and her world fell apart.

Now, as a twenty-seven-year-old woman, it was vital to her job and mental health to exercise regularly. Running was almost as good as coffee ice cream with chocolate sauce. It was almost as rewarding as bringing down the bad guys. After wrapping up her most recent investigation and providing the key evidence to indict a gang of drug smugglers who’d used shipments of paintings to transport cocaine across the country, she should be feeling pretty good about herself.

If…

She sprinted her last lap at her high school alma mater, the Pembroke Hill School, slowed her pace and turned for home.

Maybe if she had a new case to dive into right now, her mother’s biannual chat wouldn’t bother her so much. Maybe if her date the night before hadn’t been such a dead end, her mother’s insinuation that Tori wasn’t as pretty or perfect as she could be might not have a ring of truth. Ken Burford had told her that her greatest asset was her red hair. But she’d read between the lines of his tedious conversation—her greatest asset had always been her grandfather’s bank account.

Tori jogged north, up along Rockhill Road, toward the art museum and her renovated condo. Traffic was getting heavy with Kansas City’s lunchtime rush, and the sun had popped through the clouds to warm the bare skin of her arms and the pavement beneath her feet. She stopped at the red light and jogged in place, pressing two fingers against her pulse and checking the second hand on her sports watch to monitor her heart rate. As cars and pedestrians gathered at the intersection around her, she ignored curious glances and…something else.

One particular look she couldn’t ignore.

Though she couldn’t immediately place the source, Tori felt the thorough, personal scrutiny like a tap on the shoulder. She curled her fingers into fists and slowly dropped them to her side. Someone wasn’t just scanning the crowd, giving a second look to the tall, slender jogger. He was watching her. Intently.

Professional training, which she trusted more than personal intuition, kicked in. The light changed to green, the flow of traffic switched, and Tori jogged out ahead of the slower walkers. She inhaled deeply through her nose and lengthened her stride, her face fixed straight ahead, her eyes scanning the street from curb to curb.

Black car. Four o’clock position. Approaching from the rear. Local plates. She slowed her pace and watched it pass by. Two men. Unknown to her. She paused beneath the shade of a tree as she reached the parklike area of the museum grounds. Unzipping her fanny pack, she pulled out a bottle of water and took a long, quenching drink, using the opportunity to verify her impressions of the vehicle.

She’d seen it parked at the school. The men inside just happened to be leaving at the same time and taking the same route as she? When the teak-skinned driver pulled into the museum parking lot, she was certain they’d been following her.

Amateurs.

Tori replaced the bottle and tucked the wisps of her straight copper hair back into her inch-long ponytail. She jogged in place until the driver and passenger climbed out. Both men wore suits and ties and gloves. Driving gloves she could excuse without alarm. But gloves on the passenger? In another couple of weeks it’d be summer, for crying out loud. He’d better be doctoring a rash inside those things.

She waited a few seconds longer, until Rash-man glanced her way and the two men nodded to each other. Time to go. She cut out across the museum’s thick, green lawn. The detour around the building would add an extra half mile to her run, but she had a feeling she was going to get a thorough workout no matter what route she took.

She grinned as the two men gave chase.

Tori didn’t take chances when it came to her own personal safety, but she wasn’t afraid to confront danger when it ran into her path—or, in this case, ran after her. She doubted they wanted to rob her. She’d allowed them to see the contents of her fanny pack. And a rape in broad daylight wasn’t unheard of, but these guys had had a better chance of nabbing her at the school.