Double Danger

PROLOGUE

Escanaba, Michigan

Something was wrong , very wrong. Travis Nickels knew it the moment he stepped into the mudroom of his house. Darkness and warm, stale air greeted him. His wife Caroline always left a kitchen light on and liked to sleep in a cold environment, snuggled under a down blanket, even on a warm summer night like this. The AC wasn’t running. The kitchen was dark, the only light the digital display on the stove: 1:37.

He toed off his wet shoes and crept to the kitchen door, his senses alert. He squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds and then opened them to help his vision adjust to the darkness. Better. The only sound was the faint drip on the tile floor of rainwater off his jacket.

He eased the backpack and his computer case onto the floor. Silence engulfed him. His stockinged feet made no sound as he crossed the kitchen and leaned against the wall beside the doorway.

He started to whisper his wife’s name but held back and listened. Caroline had not answered his earlier phone call or text. Maybe she’d gone out with friends. She hated to be alone when he traveled. He was supposed to be on a plane to Detroit and from there, ostensibly, to Shanghai. In reality, he was headed to a classified location in South Korea.

His flight was cancelled after a series of heavy thunderstorms rolled across the Upper Peninsula spawning a tornado that damaged an airport hangar and uprooted a few trees in town. His neighborhood along Little Bay de Noc was spared.

A rustling sound from the living room froze him against the wall, his senses hyper-alert. Was it just the creaks and groans of an old house? Or the wind scratching a branch against a window? Imagination? No. A strange smell. A current of air where none should be.

Travis tiptoed to the living room doorway. Streetlights cast a dim glow through the windows. Caroline was on the couch. Shadows made odd splotches all over her. Her head rested on a throw pillow, arms akimbo. A metallic odor wafted to him.

Caro – he choked and gagged.

Caroline, his beautiful wife, lay on the couch, her eyes staring into eternity. The shadows weren’t shadows. Her blond hair was matted with blood. Blood everywhere, on her clothes, the couch, the rug, the wall ....

The analytical part of his mind, the part that screamed to survive, kicked in, but he could not run. He touched one of her wrists. Warm, no pulse, blood ran down one arm and dripped onto the rug.

Her throat was cut. Her face bloodless. He wanted to look away but could not.

Loss hit him in the gut. Adrenaline flooded his system, sped his heart until it hammered in his ears. Who would do this? Why?

He reached for the phone in his jacket pocket.

A floorboard creaked behind him.

Christ. His gun was in his backpack.

Muscular arms grabbed him, pinning his arms to his sides. A blur of a face in his peripheral vision. He kicked backward, connected with a shin. A knife flashed. Pain sliced through the left side of his chest, and he went down, didn’t feel himself hit the floor.

Travis came to, one cheek pressed to the cold ceramic tile of the kitchen floor in a puddle of blood. The acrid odor of burning wood stung his nostrils. Thick smoke snaked under the closed basement door, and flames flickered around its edges.

He tried to rise, pushed to his elbows and knees. His chest burned. His breathing was labored, wheezy. He sank back to the floor where the smoke was thinner, sucked in a shallow breath. The rotten egg smell of propane hit him. Next to him, a portable propane tank from the backyard grill was tipped on its side, the valve broken off. Gas hissed.

Footsteps came toward him. A booted foot crunched into his ribs, and his mind went dark. Voices penetrated the darkness.

What about him? A man’s tenor voice.

Leave him. Another man, his baritone voice emotionless. If he doesn’t bleed out, the fire’ll get him. We gotta go. Now. The footsteps receded.

Sometime later Travis struggled to awareness. The smoke was thicker. Hard to get a breath. He fought against the cough but couldn’t hold it in. Sharp teeth gnawed into his chest and shoulder. Blood bubbled into his mouth, and he spit it out. Bright red on the white tile. His chest gurgled, but he got enough of a breath to smell propane – stronger.

Propane sank. When it spread to the flames, it would explode. The basement door was already charring.

He had to move. Get out. God, Caroline. She didn‘t deserve this. It was his fault. He had brought the bastards to his home. He had to get out and get the men who did this.

Travis rolled over and kicked the propane tank toward the living room, away from him, away from the flames. Maybe it would buy a few seconds.

He pushed himself up on one elbow. Christ, it hurt. He sank again to the floor. He pressed his left arm against the wound in his chest, and using his right arm, hitched himself toward the mudroom. Pain grated in his chest. His hand slipped in the blood, and he hit the floor, holding back a scream.

Get out, he thought. His only chance. He dragged himself a few more inches.

His hand fell on a cell phone. His. It was bloody, and the screen was cracked, but the light came on, enough to show the door to the mudroom. He fought the pain, twisted and stuck the phone in his back jeans pocket. Felt his handkerchief and covered his mouth and nose with it. It helped filter out some smoke. Helped him hold in the cough. An inch at a time, he pulled himself forward, through the mudroom door and then kicked it shut behind him.

Ignoring the burning in his chest, he sucked in a breath and directed what energy remained into one last effort. He hauled himself to his knees and opened the back door. A great whump of sound propelled him outside. He landed hard, gasping for breath. Felt wet grass beneath his cheek, a weight on his back. The mudroom door. Handkerchief still clutched in his hand. The air smelled sweet.

His ears rang, sound muffled. Agony flared in his chest. A deep breath was impossible. He crawled, leaving the door behind, away from the house, away from the fire. Had to stop, hard to breathe. He coughed again. Blood spattered the grass beneath his face.

What was the point of going on? Caroline was dead.

He rolled onto his back and gazed up at the dark sky. The back of the house had blown out, and the blaze filled the night with red flames.

This was it. This was how he would die. Not halfway around the world hacking computer systems and helping strangers defect. He would bleed out in his backyard, drowning in his own blood.

Cold seeped into his bones, like a northern Michigan winter. Crisp snow falling on pines. Snowball fights with Caroline ....

Hands grasped his shoulders and legs, pulled him away from the house. A hot poker shot through his chest, and he fought against the darkness.

Voices. Gotcha, man ... we’re here to help. You’re pretty lucky. We were out because of the storm, so we got here quick.

Travis forced his eyes open. Faces floated above him. Several people wearing dark blue shirts. Paramedics.

Where the hell’s the blood coming from? A deep, gruff voice.

The sound of cloth being cut. His jacket and shirt.

Jesus. Gruff voice. He’s been stabbed.

A hand on his forehead. Another voice. Stay with us, Travis. Someone who knew him. We’ll get you in the ambulance.

Travis tried to shake his head, wasn’t sure it moved.

No, he said. Barely any sound. Blood filled his mouth. Someone leaned close to him, wiped his face and mouth.

We’re putting you on a gurney, Travis. Hang in there.

Caroline, Travis said, reaching toward his house.

What? One of the paramedics held an IV bag above Travis. Where is she?

Inside. Out of the corner of his eye Travis caught sight of the firefighters converging on the back of the house, hoses blasting water, as the gruff-voiced paramedic raced to tell them there was someone inside. Travis couldn’t say what he knew: Caroline was dead. He couldn’t bring the thought forward into words.

Hands lifted him. A great weight on his chest: a paramedic pressing on his wound.

Travis grunted. Hurts.

I know, buddy, said the paramedic, a woman. We got to stop this bleeding. They’re sending a chopper from Marquette.

No, Travis said, his voice barely a whisper. No. He tried to sit up, but hands held him down, and he had no strength to resist. Call Will Stevens. Deputy Stevens. Get him here.

He’s coming. A new voice, clipped and brusque. Travis saw the uniform – state trooper. I texted him. He’s on his way.

The paramedic at his side glared at the trooper. There’s no time.

Travis gritted his teeth. Got to talk to Will. Then I’ll go. He turned his head. Despite the firefighters’ work, flames engulfed his house.

Someone jostled the gurney. Travis groaned and tried to maintain his grip on consciousness. A sharp sting in his arm.

Got a line in, someone said. A face close to his. This should help the pain. Can’t give you much, but it should help. He shot something into the IV.

Dizziness washed over Travis. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth, and the pain receded a bit. The coldness in his limbs crept toward his center.

Okay? A disembodied voice.

Travis tried to nod. Yeah, he finally managed.

You’re going to feel a lot of pressure on the side of your chest, the paramedic said. It’ll help you breathe.

Strong hands held Travis’ wrists and ankles. A hot poker stabbed his side.

Shit. Did he say that out loud, or only think it? He inhaled an easier breath.

Better? the paramedic said.

Yeah. Travis voice was stronger.

He looked toward the house. Smoke-diffused flames silhouetted a knot of shadows – firefighters. A clump of smoldering debris landed on the lawn, and someone stomped it out.

Where’s Will?

A hand touched Travis’ bare shoulder. Here, he said.

Travis flinched and groaned. Will. He reached up and pulled off the oxygen mask. Forced himself to remain in the moment long enough to talk to his friend.

Hey, said the paramedic. You need that to breathe.

Travis shook his head. A minute.

Is he ... burned? Will said.

No, said the paramedic. Smoke inhalation. Maybe some broken ribs. He got out somehow before the fire got going. He’s lost a lot of blood, and he’s not stable.

His wife? Will said.

The paramedic shook his head slightly and nodded to the house.

Will bent on one knee next to the gurney. What the hell happened, Trav?

Talk, Travis said. Private.

Will turned to the people who hovered nearby. Can you  all back off?

The paramedic holding the IV bag frowned and set the bag on Travis’ chest. One minute, she said. If he nods off, he goes in the bus.

Will nodded as everybody moved a few feet away without taking their eyes off Travis.

Trav?

Travis opened his eyes, raised his right hand and tried to grab Will’s T-shirt, but there was no strength in his fingers. Will’s sheriff’s deputy badge was pinned to his shirt. Odd, Will not being in uniform.

Will took his hand. You were supposed to be on a plane.

Canceled, he said. Caroline. She’s ... she’s ... You have to – He coughed, gritted his teeth and fought to stay awake.

You got to let them take you, buddy, Will said.

In the house. Waiting.

Who?

Don’t know. Travis tried to swallow, but grief had parched his throat. Caroline. So much blood. Get them.

Travis, Will said. Later, we’ll get them. Right now, you need medical attention. Tears filled Will’s eyes. Let them put you in the ambulance."

Call ... Agency ... phone in pocket .... Had Will heard him above the insane crackling of the fire and the shouts of the firefighters? They’ll help. Travis faded. Wasn’t sure he had spoken aloud. Call.

All right, Will said. He slipped the phone into his pocket.

Travis squeezed Will’s hand and pulled him closer. Now.

I promise.

Travis’s thoughts fragmented. Alas ... he started, but he could not remember the rest of it.

Alas, Escanaba. Will said.

Yeah. I’m in deep shit, Will. Travis tried to hold onto his friend’s hand. Tell them, he said. The contact is Big Bad Wolf. BBW –

Okay, buddy, Will said. I got it. Can they take you now?

Okay, yeah.

The paramedics moved in, fitted the oxygen mask back on. The gurney lurched forward. Travis lost Will’s hand.

The house collapsed with a roar. A fountain of sparks billowed upward, taking Caroline far away from him into the darkness of the night sky. Travis closed his eyes and fell into silence where there were no dreams, no fear, and no pain.

CHAPTER 1

Flint, Michigan

Three Years Later

Alyssa Mallory hated driving Aunt Ellen’s twelve-year-old Suburban. The SUV was as big as a truck and drove like one. Stick shift and all.

She was late. More traffic than usual and a flagger in a construction zone. Despite its age and flaws, the old SUV’s clock still worked. Six twenty. Class started in ten minutes. She was going to be late. She hated being late for anything.

To add to her woes, she had put off taking the last class for her professional teaching certificate, so she was stuck. If she wanted to keep her teaching job, she had to take the class. It was the only one available that would save her career. Integrating Computers into Early Childhood Education. It had sounded interesting when she signed up for it in March. Incorporating technology into her kindergarten class sounded like fun.

She didn’t have a clue how she would get through it. Her aunt Ellen, the woman who was the only mother Alyssa remembered, had died a week ago, just at the end of the school year. Alyssa’s eyes filled with tears. She swallowed her grief. She had to if she were going to stay in teaching. She was five years into what she hoped was her life’s vocation.

The evening was off to a bumpy start.

She down shifted, grinding the gears, and turned the SUV into a parking lot at the University of Michigan – Flint campus.

She headed for the front of the lot, hoping to get lucky. Two rows from the building entrance, she saw it: her space. Between a red Mustang and a silver SUV of some sort, the space beckoned her. Perhaps it was a little narrow, but she thought she could get into it. Other latecomers searched for spaces at the far end of the lot, but there were few empty spots anywhere.

Alyssa turned down the row, unbuckled her seat belt, ready to dash for the building once she parked.

She depressed the clutch and braked for a group of students, willing them to walk faster. A blue sports car moved toward her. Just as she turned toward the space, the driver of the blue car cut in front of her and zipped into it. If Alyssa hadn’t braked, they would have collided.

A man opened his door and stepped from his car. Alyssa lowered her window and leaned out.

Hey, she called to the other driver. That was my space.

The man closed his door and turned toward her, slinging a messenger bag over his neck.

You can’t park here, he said, sounding like he was entitled to the space. He brushed a strand of dark hair off his forehead. He wore dark glasses and had a short beard.

Why not? Alyssa said. I was here first. And besides, I’m late.

So am I, he said. You can’t park there without a faculty permit. He smiled, but it seemed sarcastic, more like a smirk.

He pulled off his sunglasses and flashed dark eyes. Alyssa caught her breath. He was a hunk of a man with sexy eyes. Maybe he thought his eyes would sway her.

Oh. Alyssa tried to match his sarcasm. I suppose you think you should park here instead of me. She could finesse any man in traffic. She wasn’t about to give up her spot.

You’ll get towed. The man pointed toward the pole at the front of the space.

Alyssa followed his gesture. A sign designated the space Faculty Parking ‒ Permit Required.

She jammed the shift into reverse and backed a few feet, then pulled forward. Alyssa caught a glimpse of him in the rearview mirror. He turned and looked at her as she drove away, then hurried toward the building.

Alyssa tried the next row. Success. Halfway down the row a car backed out and drove away. She was next in line for the empty space.

Alyssa blew back a strand of hair. Good grief. She’d forgotten to take the elastic band from her hair. She probably looked like a kid to the man in the blue car. Just another coed who would moon over his looks and throw herself at him to get help.

She yanked the band out and shook out her shoulder length hair. Now she looked more like a grownup.

Alyssa pulled into the parking space and slammed the gear shift into first. She set the brake and locked the SUV, then all but sprinted to the classroom building. If she encountered the man with the fancy sports car, she wouldn’t look at him. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. If she ever got her hands on his neck, she would wring it. He had no business being so...right...and, dammit, good looking.

Inside the building a clock read six thirty-two. She was definitely late. She fumbled the zipper on her purse open and stowed her keys as she hurried down the hall. Finally, at the far end, she found Room 138.

The soft buzz of conversation drifted through the open door. Men and women of various ages occupied chairs in front of four long rows of computer screens. Every gaze focused on her as she slipped into the classroom, trying to be silent. A middle-aged, round-faced man with a fringe of gray hair stood at the front of the class holding a clipboard and a few file folders. His bald head shone under the fluorescent lights.

He looked up at her. You are?

Mallory, she said. Alyssa Mallory. I ... I’m sorry I’m late. She looked around for a seat.

Hmmm, he said, marking a sheet on the clipboard. Just don’t make a habit of it. He smiled at her.

Alyssa realized he was teasing. His smile was merry and melted away the stress she felt about being late. She smiled back.

But, he said, his gaze including the entire class, I was just saying, I do start on time after the first class. If you’re late .... He shrugged and motioned Alyssa to a single empty chair in the front row of computers. Sit there, please. He handed her a file folder of papers.

Alyssa took the folder, made her way to the chair and sat. She glanced at the folder. Dr. Edward Harbison it said at the top of the first paper. At least she was in the right class.

The professor moved about the room as he spoke. Alyssa had to turn in her seat to follow him. Now, folks, the first page is the syllabus. On the second page, he droned, you’ll see my grading system.

Alyssa glanced around her. At the end of her row a tall, dark-haired man stood with his back to her. He leaned over a young woman who giggled at something he said. Then the man turned toward her. Alyssa recognized the beard and the strong profile. The guy from the parking lot. What luck. He was in her class. And she had made a scene over nothing. Embarrassment heated her cheeks. She ducked her head, not wanting anybody to see her discomfiture.

The man straightened and faced the instructor. Dr. Harbison was saying, ‒ and I’d like you to meet my assistant, Dr. Nick Trammel.

Worse than in the class. Alyssa glanced around, hoping she hadn’t groaned out loud. Nobody was staring at her.

Although he’s assisting with this class, Dr. Harbison said, he’s a visiting professor, and he’s in charge of the computer lab. Ask Nick for help whenever you need it.

Not on your life, Alyssa thought.

Dr. Trammel grinned and waved. Alyssa imagined herself sitting in his fancy car, snuggling into his shoulder. God, where was that coming from?

Professor Harbison held up one pudgy hand. Nick, he said, anything you’d like to add?

Nick shook his head. No, Ed, not really. He turned to the class. Lab hours are posted on the door. Just remember that Windows 10 is very friendly. You really can’t implode into another universe just by hitting the wrong button. His gaze scanned the class, resting on no one ‒ until Alyssa. He paused an instant, eyebrows raised slightly, then turned to the next student in the row.

Older than she was, Alyssa thought. Lines around the eyes. Maybe thirty-five or so. Tightness at the mouth. His smile never touched his eyes. Probably insincere. Married? She couldn’t see his ring finger. Married or single, she thought, all the women in this class will sign up for his lab. Except her. She could figure out the computer by herself, thank you, with a little direction from the class. She didn’t need someone to tell her what she could read in the directions.

Dr. Harbison had finished his introductory remarks. Now we’ll make sure all systems are up and running before we proceed. Just move the mouse, and the monitor will turn on.

She moved the mouse a bit, but nothing happened. She moved it again. Nothing.

Hello. Alyssa startled at the voice next to her ear. Nick Trammel. Sorry if I scared you, he said. His voice was deep and more resonant than she had noticed in the parking lot.

No, no. That’s all right, she said. I should have been paying attention.

He reached across her and pressed the On/Off button on the monitor. Sometimes they need a nudge.

Her screen came to life and displayed the initial Windows screen.

He leaned closer to her and rested his right hand on the table. Diamonds set in yellow gold sparkled on his ring finger. It looked like a wedding band. She wondered why he would wear it on his right hand. Divorced? Alyssa stared at it. She caught a whiff of his aftershave: masculine and outdoorsy. Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart thumped. Maybe she was getting the flu or something.

The screen morphed to a blue background and the U of M logo.

Dr. Trammel pointed to the sign-in. Enter your student ID and the password found on the first sheet in the folder, and you’re in. He straightened and smiled at her. It looked forced.

He moved on to the next student.

During the next hour, Alyssa tried to pay attention to the professor’s directions about how to set up a word processing program for children, but her mind wandered. Nick Trammel’s voice surrounded her. It was a low rumble from the corner of the room, then a patient drone from the back, then an encouraging murmur from the row behind her. It sliced into her consciousness with the swiftness and unexpectedness of a paper cut. She could not ignore it. The more she concentrated on Dr. Harbison, the less she followed.

At a few minutes after eight, Dr. Harbison called for attention. Okay, folks. Normally we go for two hours with a ten-minute break in the middle. Tonight, because it’s the first class, I thought we’d do away with the break and leave early. It’s been my experience that you get more out of it if you go home, read your material and go through the tutorials. Pretend to be a little kid and write a story. Come back Thursday armed with some hands-on experience.

Alyssa logged out of her student account, collected her papers and was preparing to leave, when she heard Nick Trammel’s voice again. Ms. Mallory?

Alyssa didn’t want to face him. She had embarrassed herself royally. But Ellen had taught her well. Manners decreed that one couldn’t ignore a friendly