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He might be the luckiest guy on the planet.
Creed Marshall stood at the entrance of Gelato Artigianale, the sounds of the wharf in his ears—the listing of sailboats at anchor, music from a nearby club, electronic hip-hop pulsing into the night. Under the star-strewn sky, the lights of Geneva rippled along the water of the massive lake in colors of red, orange, and purple, adding a techno mystique to the evening.
Yeah, he wasn’t in Kansas anymore, as the saying went. Or, more accurately, Minnesota.
He checked his watch, a graduation gift three years ago from his adopted father, Garrett Marshall.
Where was she?
They should have stayed at the club, like he’d suggested. Had a good mind to return there, but frankly, the dance floor writhed with bodies. And she’d said she wanted gelato, just a couple blocks away at this place by the lake.
He saw romance, and he’d gobbled up the idea like…
Like he might be a lucky guy. The kind of guy who’d saved—sorta saved, because they hadn’t been in any real danger—a pretty girl on a wind-roughened gondola.
Her name was Imani. Cool name. Cool girl. Hazel eyes, dark hair, tanned. American. And judging by the giggle and the way she’d held onto him today, even in fear—yeah, she liked him too.
Or he’d thought so.
And what was it that his brother Fraser always said—you make your own luck?
So he’d taken a chance and, to his surprise, landed a yes when he asked said pretty girl out to go dancing with his friends from the international cross-country competition. A competition he didn’t exactly win but hadn’t lost either.
He’d counted it as a win because his parents got on a plane and flew to Europe to watch him. That was cool too.
“Can I help you, sir?” A waitress, her accent French, approached him. He’d been standing at a table as if he was holding it.
“No. Sorry.”
“Are you waiting for someone?”
Yes. Sort of. “No.” He moved away and checked his watch again.
He should have been more insistent when he offered to walk her over, but she said she’d meet him here.
Sure. Whatever the woman wanted.
Maybe she’d had trouble ditching her friend. Or cousin or whoever she was. Pippa. Uptight. Unfriendly, even. But Pippa had come with her tonight to the bar, so maybe she wasn’t that stuffy.
He checked his watch again.
Along the boardwalk, sailboats swayed in the scant wind, and farther out the massive water jet sprayed its plume, casting the faintest mist into the air.
She wasn’t coming.
And he didn’t really feel like going back to the club. Not when he’d made a big deal of leaving his friends for…
Apparently, he wasn’t as lucky as he thought. Hoped.
Oh, didn’t matter. He was leaving for Minnesota in the morning.
He started down the boardwalk, heading for his hotel, across the street from the Jardin Anglais, not far from the club. People walked hand in hand through puddles of lamplight, the scent of autumn in the air.
He turned and cut down a narrow street bordered on both sides by ancient, tall buildings—clean, as was all of Geneva, and quaint. He’d spent much of yesterday walking around Old Town. Had seen the St. Pierre Cathedral. Stopped at a place to grab a pizza—
A scream cut through the night. Nearby, a flock of pigeons scattered.
He stilled.
Silly. Probably it was a car screeching.
But in his soul, he couldn’t shake the fear that— “Imani?”
Except, if she’d screamed, maybe she was scared. After all, she was in a foreign country, alone—
Oh, he should have gone with her—
He crossed the street again and entered the park. Here, the trees gathered the wind, the chill of the night. He tucked his coat around him and headed toward the fountain, still in the distance.
Lights flickered through the trees, the city on the other bank of the river.
And that’s when he saw movement. A girl running through the park.
She was being chased. Not closely, but some hundred feet behind her, a man followed, also running.
Probably the victim wasn’t Imani. But whoever it was, she was in trouble.
He took off, cutting through the pathways, his eyes adjusted to the dark, and kept his eyes on the chase.
He emerged ten feet behind the woman, pivoted, and put on speed.
He caught up to her fast, and then, just as she reached the edge of the park, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her off her feet and into the brush.
She whirled and struck him hard in the chest, but he grabbed her hand. “I’m trying to help you.”
Imani.
He stilled, his eyes wide, and she, too, just looked at him.
What—
Then his instincts took over—instincts from days way gone by, the kind he had really forgotten but had learned back when he’d lived in inner-city Minneapolis.
Back when his brother was doing bad things.
“Get down,” he said, and pulled her to himself, secreting her behind a tree.
She leaned against him, breathing hard.
The feet ran by, then slowed.
No.
He grabbed her hand and yanked her behind him and took off.
She was running in heels. Twice, he nearly pulled her over.
A glance behind him revealed nothing, but it wouldn't be long before—
Suddenly, she gave him a hard tug, changing directions. What—
Oh no—no—
Yes. Because before he could stop them, and with what seemed all her strength, she launched them both out and into the dark, frigid waters of Lake Geneva.
The cold sucked him down, pinned him, shucked out his breath, and if not for her hand in his, gripping it, he might have let go and panic-kicked to the surface.
He wasn’t a great swimmer.
But she pulled him up, and by the time he surfaced, she had grabbed onto his jacket and was swimming hard for the dock.
Clearly not to climb out of the freezing cold, because she pulled him under the decking, holding on to a pylon in the darkness.
He could barely make out her face, so close to his in the night.
“What’s happening here?” he whispered. “Who is chasing you?”
“Shh.” Her teeth rattled, and her hair had sprung up, frizzy around her face.
“Why are you running?”
She looked at him then. “I guess because when a guy has his throat slit right in front of you, you don’t stop to ask why.”
Oh.
A light shone along the edge of the lake front, and she shrank back into the shadows.
“You think that’s him?”
“Mm-hmm,” she said, and he pulled her to himself, holding on to the pylon with the other hand. Then he moved them back, deeper into the pitch.
But he waited, watching as the man studied the water. A Caucasian man wearing a short coat, in his forties, maybe, although frankly, Creed couldn’t get a decent look.
But what he did know was that right now, right here, he just might be a hero.
And that felt a lot like luck.
Chapter 1
Fraser couldn’t escape the carnage.
No, the dream—he knew it was a dream, for the screams, his own groans, the taste of blood in his teeth played out just as he remembered.
So rather, it was memories that stalked Fraser Marshall, chased him down, kept him twisting in his sheets.
The kind of memories that left him sweaty, raw, and shaken.
But not tonight.
Tonight, as Fraser woke, a rough, jerky yank to consciousness, his heart slamming against his rib cage, he caught his breath and listened.
Someone was out there.
They’d followed him.
He blinked, just to clear his brain from the raw, feral scents of the Nigerian savanna, the acrid smell of wood fires, and the sharp, raucous arguing between Boko Haram terrorists.
Nope, he wasn’t tied up, his broken arm festering, aching, his gut tight with hunger, reliving his mistakes and desperately fighting to survive, to escape with the people he was supposed to protect.
Instead, he was back in his childhood bedroom in Minnesota. With the hockey posters of his favorite Blue Ox players, the inspirational poster about not giving up—written in Latin, featuring a man holding up a massive rock—the few track trophies that cluttered his dresser. Alive and breathing.
Mostly.
He barely fit into the bed, his feet hanging off the end, and the tiny frame groaned as he sat up, the covers falling to his waist. Holding his breath, he listened.
Hard to hear breathing or even a scuff of sound over the thunder of his heart, so Fraser took a deep breath, told himself to calm down, and pushed himself to his feet.
The wooden floor creaked, and he stilled.
Wind sent leaves skittering across the roof, into the gutters. The porch swing whined.
He looked out the window, and his second-story view revealed nothing amiss in the yard, the vineyard spent of its harvest, the leaves drying, barren.
Sheesh, what did he think? That Abu Hassiff would send one of his thugs—or even track Fraser himself—across an ocean to finish the job? Fraser shook himself out of the thought and back into reality.
The nightmare was over. Time to wake up and move on.
Maybe the itchy feeling in his gut, the hyperawareness of every sound, was simply his father’s words, uttered when he left with the rest of the family for Europe, rising to haunt his oldest son. You’re in charge, Fraser. Please don’t let anything happen to the wine.
Like all one hundred and fifty barrels of the wine, both the aging La Crescent Gold, and the deep red Marquette Crimson might get up and sneak away. But after the tornado a few years back that had damaged their fields, Dad had practically hand-nurtured the vines back to life. This year might be award-winning.
And his father had left Fraser in charge.
He’d missed most of the harvest during his hospitalization and recuperation, not to mention a recent op in Florida that Ham had called him in for. But now, with all the grapes picked, squeezed, put through the primary fermenter, then into barrels—aka, the big work done—it was a waiting game.
Which felt a little like being put in charge of watching paint dry.
But maybe that was his life now. His hand wasn’t getting better after all. And after his missed shots and a near catastrophic accident on the op, it was clear he had some time on the bench ahead.
Fraser blew out a breath and reached for a T-shirt. Pulling it on, he headed downstairs.
Shadows gathered in the empty bedrooms down the hallway of the old farmhouse, and admittedly, the place seemed a little haunted, filled with voices from his childhood, memories of wrestling with his brothers, or long discussions with his father when he was figuring out if he wanted to be a SEAL.
Yes, ghosts lived here, ghosts of the boy who’d wanted to be the best, to serve his country, to save his buddies, even the world.
Ghosts that lurked even in the daytime, when he’d put all the other nightmares to rest.
He avoided the third step on the way down, just in case there might be a terrorist waiting in the living room, but of course it was empty, save for his parents’ new sectional, the overflowing bookcase, the cold hearth.
He flicked on the light in the kitchen area and headed over to the fridge.
Two a.m. on the oven clock. Yeah, that felt about right for his early-morning wander around the house. For him to try and lose himself in a Jack Reacher book, give up, and turn on old reruns of Law and Order until he fell asleep in the recliner.
Usually, by four a.m. he slept like the dead.
And lately, had been letting himself sleep in to seven. Maybe eight.
It wasn’t like his cell phone was suddenly going to buzz with a callout text.
He pulled a glass down from the cupboard and filled it with water. Leaned a hip against the sink as he looked out the massive picture window to the patio and, beyond, the barn.
Shook his right hand, a habit he’d picked up over the past month, as if trying to wake it up. He watched himself make a fist, and the act felt disembodied.
He could move his hand. He just couldn’t feel it.
Which worked oh so well for a man whose job description called for being able to shoot accurately.
He stared at himself in the window—the too-long scruff, unruly dark-blond hair, a pair of pajama pants, a T-shirt, the scars from the surgery still angry and raw on his arm. Yeah, no wonder his parents suggested he stay home from their trek over to Switzerland to watch Creed’s international competition.
He probably shouldn’t leave the house.
He finished his water, was setting the glass in the sink when a light flashed against the pane.
He stilled, then crouched, a reflex rather than clear thought. But there it went again—light flashing in the barn, aka winery, that housed the barrels.
Hello.
Maybe his father wasn’t kidding about the need for secrecy in his recipe.
He reached up and, with his left hand, found a knife from the block.
Except, maybe that was overkill. And besides, what was he going to do—kill someone for sneaking a sip of wine? He put the knife back.
But he hustled through the door and secreted himself behind a post on the patio, waiting. The late-October wind snaked under his T-shirt, and the scent of rain hinted the air.
Overhead, clouds obscured the stars, but his eyes had adjusted to the thick shadows of the barn, the gazebo where they held events, and the various equipment parked near the machinery shed.
The light flickered again, this time against the glass sliding doors of their tasting room.
Where their premier wine, some bottles up to a decade old, sat in a display case. Some of those bottles sold for up to $750.
He edged out, crossed the darkened yard, then eased open the massive door that housed the barrels, up on tidy racks, placed by a forklift.
Slid inside and hid near a rack. The smell of oak, the yeasty redolence of aging wine permeated the air. The cement floor of the building echoed sound, and now he thought he heard—a giggle?
What?
He was scooting out toward the tasting room when, just like that, the forklift roared to life in the darkness.
Headlights flicked on, and he held up a hand, the light blinding as it saturated the room. Dots formed in his eyes, and he blinked them away, finding cover behind one of the aluminum primary fermenters.
The forklift began to move—jerky, then in a circle around the room.
Was someone stealing a barrel?
Crazy. But not on his watch.
He moved behind the lift, his eyes still trying to adjust in the light. With the driver’s back to Fraser, he couldn’t make him out.
Didn’t matter.
Three steps, and Fraser launched himself onto the forklift, grabbed the driver by the shoulder and ripped him away from the driver’s seat.
They fell off, rolled, and Fraser came up first, pouncing on the driver’s back. A man.
“Stop! Please—”
No, a kid, given the tenor and fear that rocked his voice.
“Don’t hurt him!”
A girl’s voice—probably to go along with the giggle—and then light poured over the both of them as she jumped off the forklift and came running toward them.
Fraser looked down at where he’d shoved his arm against the boy’s neck, pinning him, his other hand reeled back in a submission hold.
“I was just showing her around!” The kid writhed beneath him.
“You’re hurting him!” The girl came up, and Fraser had to give her props, because she leaped on Fraser’s back, hitting him.
Aw—
He let go of the kid, turned and grabbed the girl’s arm. “Stop.”
She jerked her wrist from his grip, but that was no surprise, given his flimsy hold. Dark hair, fiery blue eyes, she glared at him. “Who are you?”
“Who am—I own this place.”
The kid had rolled over, kicking himself away from Fraser. “No, you don’t. This is the Marshall place—”
“Sheesh, kid.” Fraser stood up. “I’m Fraser Marshall.”
The kid—Fraser put him at about nineteen, maybe, wiry and cocky and wearing a University of MN T-shirt—backed up, hands up. “Whoa—sorry, man. I didn’t know you were back.”
“Clearly, but who are you?”
“I’m Neil. I work here on the weekends—”
The sound of splintering wood fractured his words.
Fraser spun and took off for the forklift, now rammed into one of the tall barrel stacks, wheels turning as it chewed into the wood.
The barrels shook under the onslaught.
He leaped into the cab, reaching for the steering wheel and the gear shift. Slamming his foot on the brake, he then jerked the forklift into reverse, turned the wheel with his good hand to yank the machine from the shelving, then hit the gas.
The lift jerked forward, hard, and the shelving splintered. As Fraser—and Neil—yelled, the barrels cascaded into themselves, bouncing, then rolling onto the floor, five hundred pounds each of lethal bowling ball.
“Look out!” Fraser’s voice, but Neil reacted and grabbed his girlfriend and pulled her away, behind a sturdy fermenter.
The barrels rolled out, some slamming against the wall, a few rolling toward the door.
Two split upon impact, the barrels possibly old, but wine spurted out, saturating the floor.
Fraser turned off the motor. One of the barrels landed on the forklift, pinning it. He’d been saved from being crushed by the roll bars.
Neil flicked on the barn light. Came out, wide-eyed. “Someone is going to die.”
Fraser glanced at him, his mouth tight. But the kid was right.
Wine, his father’s precious Marquette Crimson recipe, flooded the floor a deep red.
A regular crime scene.
He climbed off the forklift, shaking his stupid, prickly, useless hand.
“You okay, dude?” Neil came out from behind the fermenter, holding the hand of his girlfriend.
“Am I—are you kidding me?” Fraser hadn’t a clue where or how to start cleaning this up. He shook his head. “What are you doing here?”
Neil made a face. “Sorry. I wanted to show Daisy what we did.”
“This is very cool—” Daisy said.
“Get out. Get. Out!”
Neil held up a hand, then headed for the door. But there, he turned. “I’m driving her home. Then I’ll be back to help clean this up. The boss is going to be hot.”
Fraser just stared at him as wine puddled like blood around his bare feet.
