Sun Storm (The Gathering Storm Book 1) Read online

  It had been four hundred and two days since he’d handled a weapon, which meant three hundred and fifty sleepless nights, and fifty-two nights where he’d used the age-old remedy of straight Scotch whiskey to cure his insomnia. The metallic feel and weight of the Glock, the vibration when he’d fired at the ceiling, had been so familiar, like an old friend, and he hated it. He didn’t want to be knowledgeable about weapons, didn’t like the fact his instincts were still sharp and lethal.

  He inhaled and then exhaled, releasing the bad memories. He didn’t do guns and death anymore. That was all in the past. Although, at this moment, he wouldn’t mind a shot of Scotch. That path was tempting, but he knew it led down a dark road.

  The last time his sister, Sinclair, had visited, she’d warned him to get his act together or she’d kick his butt. He smiled at the idea of her trying to beat him. She was tall, lean, and well trained in hand-to-hand combat. He knew how good she was because he’d taught her himself, but her role as a linguist with Child Seekers International did not involve any direct conflict, whereas he was a master sergeant with the Special Forces. There were some things you couldn’t unlearn, just as there were some memories you couldn’t forget.

  Granite City Square was cleaner and less run-down than when he and Sinclair had lived here. They’d spent three long years living on the street, avoiding cops, begging for spare change, and sleeping in doorways. They’d met another homeless kid, Tim, about a year after they’d arrived, and Michael about eighteen months after that. They’d called themselves the Granite City Crew. The four of them had guarded and protected each other. They had shared their recourses. Although life on the street for Michael was more of an experiment than a necessity. It had always been a puzzle to David why a genius from a good home would spend one night sleeping rough, let alone six months. It wasn’t a surprise when they woke up one day to find him gone. They hadn’t seen him again until basic training at Fort Leonard Wood.

  Pretty LED lights twinkled in the leafless trees. They really had done a good job on the downtown cleanup. David suspected that Marshall Portman was the driving force behind the rejuvenation. There was a fountain in the center of the square, which was surrounded by a small garden. It was probably pretty in the summer when the flowers and shrubs bloomed.

  David knew firsthand that Marshall was a man of solid principles. Despite being born rich, with the proverbial silver spoon, the millionaire businessman had started a charity that took street kids in and helped them reenter society.

  One of the best days of David’s life was when he, Sinclair, and Tim had been offered a place in Marshall House. The staff had been smart enough not to try and separate them. They had given them a room, squeezed in three beds, and allowed them time to acclimatize. For the first time in years, they were fed, clothed, and had a bed to sleep in. They even had books to read. He smiled remembering how much he’d enjoyed that first book, a spy thriller by Ken Follett.

  Marshall had been a regular visitor. He had taken a special interest in the three of them and had encouraged them to join the army and serve their country, but in retrospect, joining the military might have been a mistake.

  David entered the ornate, white stone building that housed the PDE headquarters. He nodded to the kid on security, flashing the company ID he had received only the afternoon before, and carried on walking, as if he were a PDE executive. Ninety-nine percent of the time if you acted like you belonged, no one stopped you.

  He stepped into the elevator, hit the button for the fifth floor, and allowed his mind to wander back to Marie in her pink thermal underwear. His body warmed as desire flooded his veins. Those long johns along with the unkempt hair were a turn-on. They made her both innocent and sexy at the same time.

  He shook away visions of her when his cell phone vibrated. He looked at the display. It was Finn again. This was the fourth time he’d called. He ignored the call and slipped the phone back in his pocket. He wasn’t avoiding his friend, but he wanted to talk to Portman first and tell him how everything had gone to shit in the last twelve hours. David owed him that much. Once Portman knew the kind of tactics Harper and the Paxton brothers employed, he would put a stop to it.

  It was by pure chance he had bumped into Marshall a month ago at the VA hospital in Granite City. His former mentor had been attending a program for homeless veterans. They’d chatted, and David had enjoyed reminiscing about his time at Marshall House. Inevitably, the talk turned to the present. Once Marshall learned David needed money to build a cabin and start a beekeeping business, he had gone out of his way to find David a job.

  Unfortunately, the bad luck that had followed him for over a year continued to haunt him. He hadn’t completed his first day before it had gone to hell. Their brief had been to retrieve a stolen prototype. It was supposed to have been stolen by some lowlife thug who was going to auction it to the highest bidder. The minute he set eyes on Marie, he knew he was in trouble. It was weird how Pretty Boy and the Chimps took it all in their stride. It never occurred to them their information was wrong.

  He stepped out of the elevator into an overwhelming onslaught of orange and brown, making him feel as if he’d walked into a seventies sitcom. The decor was probably the work of one of those interior designers who thought butt-ugly meant chic.

  There was no receptionist on duty yet, which wasn’t a surprise considering it was not yet eight in the morning.

  “I want him dead. Do you hear me?” There was no mistaking Marshall’s distinctive upper-class New England accent or the urgency in his voice. A rush of adrenaline surged through David as he dashed to the door of Portman’s office.

  “You were supposed to shoot him as soon as you got to the cabin. Before he suspected—”

  David stopped. The old fashioned oak door wasn’t open, but it wasn’t completely closed either. The latch hadn’t caught, leaving the door ajar.

  There was something about Marshall’s tone. David could picture him clenching his teeth while he talked. The president of Public Domain Energy wasn’t in danger—he was angry.

  David held his breath as he listened.

  “You said he was burned out—he had no fight left in him.” The effect of Pretty Boy Brad’s combative tone was lessened by his nasal wheeze.

  “He’s a hot-shot Special Forces screw-up. Do you really think he would stand there and let you—?”

  “You said he was broken after that incident where he shot his own man. According to your intel, putting a bullet in him should have been easy.”

  They were talking about him. David dug his fingers into his palms to establish he was awake and this wasn’t some awful nightmare. A cold vice tightened around his chest, making it difficult to breathe.

  “There were three of you and one of him. How did he get the better of you? You were supposed to kill him, the woman, and make it look like a murder-suicide,” Portman spat.

  “I couldn’t very well shoot him in the back, could I?”

  “Yes, damn it, you should’ve shot him as he walked across the threshold. I own the Granite City-Elkhead County police, for God’s sake.”

  “You should have told me that. I thought we needed to make it look as if he was part of the attack. You know, get his fingerprints on her belongings and stuff like that. I put up with that bastard talking his face off when I could’ve just shot him.”

  “You idiot. How could you not know? Half the cops in the department went through Marshall House.”

  There was silence.

  David wanted to turn and run, but his feet wouldn’t move. His friend and mentor, the man who had saved him from the streets, had also set him up and planned his death.

  Leather creaked as Marshall sat in his chair. “Okay, enough with the blame. Let’s move onto damage control. Where’s Dr. Wilson now?”

  “Not sure.”

  Fuck, they were going after Marie.

  “Have you talked to the tech department about tracking her phone, or are you trying to do it yourself?” Marshal
l’s chair creaked again. David pictured him sitting behind his expensive antique desk with his large beaked nose and steel-gray hair.

  “Tech department.”

  “Then I’ll look into getting better people. There are hackers on the dark web who can track her through street cams and that sort of thing.”

  “Tracking Quinn won’t be difficult. I have men stationed at his house. As soon as he returns home I’ll have him.” Brad sniffed. His nasal passage was probably blocked with blood from where David had punched him.

  A ringing cell phone sounded in the office.

  “Hello,” Marshall answered the phone. He listened for a minute and then said, “Thank you. Keep me up-to-date.”

  There was a dull thunk, which David assumed was the phone slamming on the desk.

  “That was one of my contacts in the Granite City PD. He’s just informed me that she went to the FBI.”

  “Do you own the FBI, too?”

  “No, I do not,” Portman bit out the words.

  “Damn it.”

  David breathed a sigh of relief. At least he knew he could still trust Finn.

  “This isn’t an FBI matter. As soon as the case is passed to the police, I’ll have my people bury it,” Marshall announced.

  “We burned the cabin so there’s no evidence left.”

  “Did you destroy the panel?”

  “We couldn’t find it. Do you think she has it hidden?”

  “Maybe. I think she needs to become an eccentric scientist who, when her research fails, commits suicide.”

  “What about Quinn?”

  “You and the Paxtons concentrate on the woman—”

  “I want Quinn. I owe him for breaking my nose.” Pretty Boy sniffed again.

  “Go to medical on the ground floor and get them to look at it. Send the Paxtons after Dr. Wilson. Before they kill her, make sure they destroy her solar panel. Then we’ll deal with Quinn.”

  “Yes, sir.” Heavy footsteps stomped toward the door.

  David backed away. Son of a bitch. It was a lot to take in. Marshall Portman, David’s mentor and friend, wanted him dead. The job offer was a setup. They had planned to murder Marie and blame him.

  He needed to get out of town and hide. He had to find Marie and warn her. Marshall owned the police, so Finn and the FBI were his only hope. He had to tell Callaghan what he’d just heard.

  He glanced back at the office door. Harper was backing out as he talked to Marshall. A bright red exit sign caught his eye. The stairs. He crashed through the door to the stairwell and hurled himself down the steps.

  Chapter Six

  Marie tugged the collar of her coat over her mouth as she tried not to slip on the ice-covered sidewalk. The wind blowing through the city square made it too cold to talk to her police escort.

  The downtown was pretty. Small lights covered buildings and trees, twinkling in the dim early morning light. They gave the impression of a fairy grotto rather than the heart of a city. A fountain sat dormant in the center of the square, the surrounding pond frozen. A sign in front read, Skate responsibly. A space surrounding the makeshift ice rink was complete with tables and chairs. Snow had been plowed into huge piles at the edge of the park. Another billboard said, Play at your own risk. Marie couldn’t imagine anyone skating, sitting outside, or playing in a pile of snow; it was simply too cold.

  Surrounding the large square was a coffee shop, the police station, the city hall and law courts, and the classical architecture of the PDE building. The only gaudy business in the city center was Big Sky News. A two-story cement and glass building boasted a large neon sign that read, Montana’s only independent news station.

  They reached the street that traversed the south end of the square and waited for the light to change. Images rose unbidden of the moment in the cabin when a gun had been pointed at her head. A fine sheen of sweat dampened her body. She shut her eyes, squeezing them tight, to drive back the nightmare.

  “Are you okay?” Officer Calder, the young, serious policemen who’d accompanied her from the station, touched her arm.

  She opened her eyes and inhaled a deep, calming breath. She could break down once she was home in Seattle, but not here, not now. “I’m fine. Thanks again for walking with me. I’m sure you have more important things to do.”

  “No, as long as I drop you off at the airport by nine, we’re good.” He was wearing a uniform-issued navy blue parka and high quality rubber-soled winter boots. The cold didn’t seem to bother him.

  “I don’t think that’ll be a problem. Mr. Portman isn’t expecting me so I’ll probably just leave a message at reception, but I can’t afford to come back to Montana so I have to do this now.”

  The light changed. They crossed the street, and then started up the massive ornate stone steps of the PDE building.

  Trying to secure funding now was definitely in poor taste. The professor hadn’t even been dead a day, and here she was looking for a sponsor, another way to keep her work alive. But as it stood, the Department of Energy would not fund her work without Hargreaves recommendation.

  Perhaps if she stretched her budget, she might be able to continue for another two months. After that she would be forced to shelve her project and give up on her aspirations of creating a cheap source of electricity and receiving scholarly recognition for her work. She didn’t want to let go of her dream, especially when she was so close to proving her theories and publishing her findings. Her solar panel was viable, unique, and might even revolutionize the way people harvested electrical energy. If only she could get it in front of the right people.

  She reached for the ornate wood-framed glass door. Suddenly, a man charged through the entrance, heading toward her. He was tall with shaggy, sandy hair and wore a crumpled green and beige jacket. As he neared, she saw the scar that ran through his beard.

  “David? Is that you? What are you doing here?”

  His face was deathly pale. “Marie,” he gasped and then glanced behind him. “You’re coming with me.” He grabbed her hand.

  “What are you doing?” She tried to yank her arm from his clasp.

  The policeman grabbed her other arm as he reached for the gun at his waist. David released her. With one hand, he gripped the weapon in place and with the other he shoved the officer—hard. The cop let go of her as he flailed, teetering on the edge of the top step, and then he lost his balance and fell backward, rolling down the steps.

  David clutched her elbow and dragged her in his wake. She tugged back, forcing him to slow, but she couldn’t make him stop. He was too strong. Her feet slipped on the icy sidewalk as she slid along.

  He turned. His intense gaze flickered over her body and then to the building behind her. He gave a hard jerk that propelled her forward and quickened his pace. “They want to kill you.”

  “What? No—”

  “Yes.” He sped up.

  “You must have that wr—”

  “I heard Portman give the order. I’ll explain later.” They stopped at a rusted, black truck. “Get in.” He opened the door.

  “But he offered to sponsor—”

  “Who? Marshall?” He grabbed her around the waist and tried to hoist her into the vehicle. “Get in.”

  Marie pushed against him. This was madness. He must’ve gone insane. She’d read about soldiers who came back damaged, who imagined they were still in the thick of the fighting. She twisted, trying to jab him with her elbows. “Stop shoving me.”

  The sound of a balloon popping caught her attention. She stopped fighting. Gun raised, Handsome stood at the entrance to the office-building.

  “Shit.” David rammed her into the vehicle. Another pop sounded, followed by a small, flat ding.

  She tumbled in, head first, diving for cover.

  A firm hand shoved her butt, propelling her upside-down into the passenger seat.

  More loud pops sounded.

  Marie righted herself in time to see Handsome, his face bloody, raising his gun for another s
hot. Beside him, the young police officer also had his gun raised.

  David didn’t bother to back out of the parking space. Instead he drove over the short cement divider that separated the parking lot from the sidewalk. With a hand on her shoulder, he forced her down in the seat as he stepped on the gas. They plowed through a snowdrift and swerved onto the road.

  Chapter Seven

  “Was that the same man from the cabin?” Marie inhaled a shuddering breath as she eased herself up and onto the seat. Thank God she was sitting down because her legs were as floppy as a pair of nylons.

  “Yes.” David kept his eyes on the road.

  “What happened to his face?” She was numb. Her mind was a complete blank, unable to focus on anything except Handsome with his battered nose.

  “I broke it.” His voice was impassive, as if he’d taken no pleasure in the act. “Actually, you were there when it happened.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t remember that. She craned her neck to see through the rear window. “Are they following us?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  All she could picture was that awful face and the gun. The interior of the truck felt cramped and tight, as if it were closing in on her. She cranked on the handle to roll down the window. Frozen air blasted in.

  “Are you hurt?” He concentrated on the road, steering the beat-up truck in and out of traffic, zipping from lane to lane.

  “I’m fine.” She slotted the seatbelt into its receptacle while gulping in large, calming lungfuls of frigid air. “Why are they shooting at us?”

  “Portman wants your solar panel destroyed and us dead.” He slanted his gaze in her direction and then turned his attention back to the traffic.

  “But he said he wanted to sponsor my work—”