Triggered Response

  Walking with Bray toward the pier made her feel as if she was about to go before a firing squad.

  She was too tired to come up with some story to appease him. If he asked for the truth, she had nothing else left to give him.

  Why did she care so much what he thought of her? Because she didn’t want him to run away. She needed an ally. She needed Bray.

  As if he’d read her mind, he put his arm around her. She tried not to tremble, but life as she’d created it for them was about to fall apart. She wished with all her heart there was some way to put off the inevitable.

  Her wish was granted as the earth began to rumble under her feet and an earsplitting explosion blew her world to bits.

  PATRICIA ROSEMOOR

  TRIGGERED RESPONSE

  Triggered Response proved to be the most challenging book I’ve ever written.

  It followed a year of tragedy—I lost four people dear to me in less than a year.

  I dedicate this book to them.

  In loving memory of my husband, Edward Majeski, November 7, 1937–October 18, 2005, and of my father, Walter Pinianski, October 17, 1917–February 10, 2005.

  Also in loving memory of my aunt Jeannette Voelker, d. October 31, 2004, and of my uncle Ray Fucci, d. August 2005.

  I want to thank everyone who helped keep me sane and got me through 2005.

  Linda Sweeney, Ruth Glick, Ann Voss Peterson, Sherrill Bodine, Cheryl Jefferson, Rosemary Paulas, Jude Mandell, Cathy Andorka, Arlene Erlbach, Elaine Sima, Judy Veramendi, Michael A. Black, Julie Barrett, Denise Zaza, Tashya Wilson, Birgit Davis-Todd, Jennifer Jackson, Marc Paoletti, Marcus Sakey, Rob and Beth Flumignan, Julia Borcherts, Frank Crist, Dana Litoff, Darwyn Jones, Megan Campbell, Andre Frieden, Sharon Doering, Tina Hickman, Florence Majeski, Scott and Alan Majeski; and numerous other people for big and small kindnesses that kept me going.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Patricia Rosemoor has always had a fascination with dangerous love. In addition to her more than forty books for Harlequin Intrigue, she also writes for Harlequin Blaze and Silhouette Bombshell, bringing a different mix of thrills and chills and romance to each line.

  She’s won a Golden Heart Award from Romance Writers of America and Reviewers Choice and Career Achievement awards from Romantic Times BOOKreviews. She teaches writing popular fiction and suspense-thriller writing in the Fiction Writing Department of Columbia College Chicago. Check out her Web site: www.PatriciaRosemoor.com. You can contact Patricia either via e-mail at [email protected], or through the publisher at Patricia Rosemoor, c/o Harlequin Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

  Books by Patricia Rosemoor

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  665—COWBOY PROTECTOR *

  684—GYPSY MAGIC

  “Andrei”

  703—FAKE I.D. WIFE **

  707—VIP PROTECTOR**

  745—BOYS IN BLUE

  “Zachary”

  785—VELVET ROPES**

  791—ON THE LIST**

  858—GHOST HORSE

  881—RED CARPET

  CHRISTMAS**

  924—SLATER HOUSE

  958—TRIGGERED RESPONSE

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Brayden “Bray” Sloane—The security chief disappeared after a chemical explosion and hasn’t been seen since. Does his vanishing act mean he’s in trouble? Or is he to blame?

  Claire Fanshaw—The computer expert is so desperate to find her friend that she convinces Bray Sloane that they’re married, hoping that he’ll remember something to help her.

  Mac Ellroy—Did the lab tech orchestrate his own disappearance or did someone else, who wanted to keep him quiet?

  Dr. Martin Kelso—The acting director of Cranesbrook Associates, Kelso is well connected, but with good or with evil?

  Dr. Nelson Ulrich—The research director cares only about his work. To what lengths is he willing to go to protect it?

  Hank Riddell—The research fellow seems to have all the answers and be in all the wrong places at all the right times.

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Three weeks before the accident

  The light in the lab’s storeroom was on.

  Mac Ellroy was inside, checking the vials. Why the hell was the lab tech in here after hours? And what did he think he was doing messing with the chemicals?

  “Find what you’re looking for?”

  Mac spun around, guilt all over his pretty face. His spiked hair seemed to stand on end as he choked, “I— I was just checking on things.”

  “Doing inventory?”

  “R-right.”

  Mac was obviously lying. He was pretty much an open book. Not an ounce of subterfuge in him. None that was convincing, anyway.

  “So where’s your list?”

  The lab tech looked around as if he really had one. “I, um, must have put it down somewhere…. Maybe it’s out here.”

  Mac left the storeroom for the lab proper. One of the monkeys started chattering and a couple of the control rats skittered around their cages. Seeming oblivious to the familiar noises, Mac went from table to table as if he really might have put something down on one of them.

  “Or maybe you’re just snooping. Do you have a problem with your work?”

  Mac stopped in front of the window. On the other side of the glass, moonlight shone down on the peaceful lake surrounded by small boulders and natural grasses. Framed as he was, not moving, not saying anything, the lab assistant looked like part of a still-life painting.

  Then his square jaw tightened and the fine skin around his dark eyes pulled in little lines. “Don’t you have a problem with it? Doesn’t developing Project Cypress bother you? How do you sleep at night?”

  “It’s necessary work. We live in an unstable world.”

  “But this—”

  “Is simply another tool to accomplish what’s necessary. Obviously you don’t agree.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You’d be more comfortable being taken off this particular experiment, then.”

  Mac nodded. “I would rather work on something else.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  “Really? Good. Good.” Mac breathed a sigh of relief. “But first you need to know that some of the chemicals are missing.”

  “Missing?” So he really had been taking inventory?

  “I noticed one of the vials seemed a bit short. That’s why I came back to the lab, to check the rest. Someone has tampered with the chemicals. You have a problem here.”

  “I know I do.” He realized what he had to do wasn’t pretty. “Why don’t you show me?”

  Eager now to share his findings, Mac turned toward the storeroom to lead the way. His mistake.

  The fire extinguisher was on the wall, right there, right outside the storeroom door.

  Mac never saw it coming.

  Chapter One

  Twelve days after the accident

  His brain was on fire again.

  He did his damnedest to stop from being sent to his private hell, but as always he was dragged kicking and screaming back into the raging inferno.

  TH
E CRAGS OF HADES surround him, blazing hotter than the sun gone nova. The desert air is so intense that it blisters his skin. His mouth so dry that he can’t swallow. Can hardly breathe.

  He glances through dark glasses at the two men behind him. Both look like him—camouflage pants and armless T-shirts, heavy boots and helmets, carrying holstered pistols and K-bar knives and submachine guns. The mission went off as planned. They found the camp in the maze of caves and will use the GPS system to guide in the Afghani guerillas who’ll route the enemy from their cover.

  And then the American helicopters will take over.

  Still, he has to be vigilant. The enemy could be anywhere…waiting…. He senses danger like bugs crawling over him. One misstep and they’re dead men.

  Circling, he moves back against rock until their carefully sheltered Humvee comes into sight. Peering around between them and the vehicle, he sees no indication that the enemy is anywhere within shooting distance. Al Qaeda snipers could be positioned anywhere up in those rocks above them.

  Sweat trickles down his spine as he signals the other men. Though they’re all equipped with radios and headsets, he figures better to keep from making a sound. He indicates they should get back to the truck. He’ll cover them and bring up the rear.

  He raises his MP-5, ready to trigger the submachine gun at the slightest movement, at the smallest hint of light reflected off an enemy’s weapon.

  The seasoned guy goes first.

  Trigger-finger tense, he turns this way and that, vigilant as his buddy goes for the driver’s door. He signals the other one, the youngest kid in their unit. His dark skin is ashen, but if he’s afraid, that’s the only sign.

  Running for the vehicle, the kid takes a fatal step, explodes like a child’s piñata. Instead of candy and toys, his body bursts into bits of flesh and bone.

  And blood. Pink mist.

  Covered with the kid’s life force, he loses it and runs to the Humvee. His gorge in his throat, he throws himself into the passenger seat, his driver buddy’s tortured-sounding curses ringing in his ears. The vehicle takes off, throwing him hard back against the seat.

  Something inside him finally breaks. An inner explo sion inside his head. He can’t breathe. Even closing his eyes can’t erase the image of another senseless death heaped on dozens of others he’s seen.

  His brain is on fire.

  Burning. Melting.

  But he has to be okay. Has to. People are counting on him. His Special Ops unit…the ones who aren’t dead yet. The government that sent him here. The people back home.

  He has to be okay. Has to.

  He forces back the flames.

  Only to have a second flash of sound open his eyes.

  An explosion throws a wall of heat at him. Amid rubble and smoke, a white lab-coated body lies there at his feet. Not the kid. Not in the mountainous desert. Not all those years ago. Somehow he traverses through space and time. A different place, a different explosion, a different victim…

  “NO! Not again!”

  Flying up out of the nightmare, he realized he’d been asleep in the bunk in the Baltimore homeless shelter where he’d been placed. He began to shake. His brain was on fire. Burning again as it had night after night after night. He fought back and pushed the images away as he always did because he had to be okay. Had to.

  Whoever he was.

  SECURITY EXPERT SOUGHT For Questioning.

  The headline glared up at Claire Fanshaw as she picked up the Baltimore Sun on the way to her office on the opposite corridor from the Cranesbrook Asso ciates laboratories. A quick glance at the text of the article made her frown and slow her step.

  “So, think he’s responsible?” asked a woman from accounting.

  “What?” Claire stopped and gave the bespectacled brunette a questioning look.

  “Brayden Sloane. For the explosion.”

  “It’s not my place to be pointing fingers. Does everyone around here think he’s guilty?”

  “He did go missing on the day of the accident. If he’s innocent, then why hasn’t he shown up since?”

  “I don’t know.” Claire frowned as she thought about it again. “Maybe something happened to him.”

  “Not only do the authorities want to question Sloane about the lab explosion but about his niece, Zoe. Just a baby. She disappeared yesterday. Kidnapped, poor little thing. He must have had something to do with that, too.”

  Thinking the attractive young woman was telling the sad tale with too much relish, Claire murmured, “Time will tell, I guess,” and moved on.

  She tucked the newspaper under her arm and headed for her office, situated in the wing opposite the one that held the labs. In charge of computer services, she’d agreed to take the job for her own personal reasons. And now this article amplified her growing suspicions.

  She and Brayden Sloane might not be friends—she’d wanted full access to Cranesbrook’s computer system, including high-security files, and he’d argued that she was overstepping her bounds—but she didn’t believe he was a villain. He’d seemed a straight arrow, the kind of guy who was zipped up a little too tight, but honest. And he wasn’t the first man connected with Cranesbrook to have disappeared.

  A reminder of her purpose here.

  A couple of men in lab coats came out of Dr. Nelson Ulrich’s office, one of them saying, “So the cops finally released the lab. About time.”

  “Not that it’s usable after the accident. It’ll take weeks to clean it up and get it working again.”

  “Project Cypress has already been moved to one of the new labs. It’ll be up and running by Monday. I imagine it’ll stay there.”

  Claire lingered, wanting to know more about Project Cypress, but apparently her very presence buttoned lips. The men, silent now, passed her as they made their way back to their labs.

  She glanced at the office suite of the late Sid Edmonston, the former head of the company. The broken glass door had been removed so that it stood open, the blood-stained carpet was covered with a plastic runner.

  Shuddering at the reminder of violence, she entered her own office, small but well-furnished with a heavy cherrywood desk, credenza and bookshelves that glowed a deep red against the neutral walls and carpeting. She’d hung a few framed art museum posters and had set a crystal vase with a bouquet of fall flowers on the credenza. Anything to surround herself with color.

  Sliding behind her desk, Claire stared at the computer that mocked her. How irritating that she’d been working here for nearly a month and was no closer to prying open company secrets than when she’d been hired.

  She’d spent years as a transient student, going from university to university, from program to program, finishing none. The one constant for her had been computers. They’d fascinated her, maybe because they were so honest—computers didn’t lie—and she’d become an expert without ever getting a degree. Not that her employers were aware of that fact. Impressed with her computer skills, none of them had actually checked her academic credentials. She’d always seen that they’d gotten their money’s worth in hiring her.

  So she had reason to be frustrated.

  Obviously whatever had been going on in Lab 7 hadn’t been reported via normal channels. She’d checked report after report, everything she’d been able to get to. Nothing. Cranesbrook dealt with government contracts that required different levels of security clearances. This project was off limits to all but the head of the company and the scientists working on it.

  When security chief Brayden Sloane had denied her access, Claire had programmed a key logger to help her crack the password. She’d installed the tiny program on the computers of personnel connected to Project Cypress—Dr. Nelson Ulrich, Director of Research, Hank Riddell, the research fellow and Wes Vanderhoven, the head lab assistant. To that short list, she’d added Dr. Martin Kelso, Director of Operations and Acting President of Cranesbrook until the corporation’s board chose a replacement for the late Sid Edmonston.

  The logg
er sat on the keyboard driver and recorded every key struck by the person at the computer. It could break down which keys were struck in small-time increments. Unfortunately finding the password this way hadn’t worked.

  Claire finally realized that Cranesbrook was obviously using some kind of physical key to enter the code, which meant it was a very, very long sequence. Since she didn’t know the nature of the key—a physical object rather than program—there was no way for her to intercept the password. More than likely, the object was some kind of flash drive rather than a disk. Or better yet, an SD or Secure Digital chip—the kind found in digital cameras, cell phones or other tech devices. An SD could be downloaded through a slot in the front of the computer’s CPU. All of the Cranesbrook computers had this feature, so that would make sense.

  Too bad she had no way of finding the physical key that would be her “Open Sesame.”

  Claire suspected whatever had been going on in Lab 7 was military hush-hush, some kind of new bio or chemical weapon that called for a special government encryption. So she’d gone for the brute-force attack. Multiplying large prime numbers fifty digits long or better and trying out the results one at a time to see if she could unlock the encryption was incredibly time-consuming.

  So far, no go.

  If she were a Blackhat, she would enlist every hacker she knew, but she wasn’t out to break government security. She simply wanted to find a credible reason for her friend having disappeared from sight.

  But what if the reason wasn’t credible? She needed to get to the truth of the matter. What if foul play and a cover-up had been involved?

  What then?

  Would she really be able to expose the people re sponsible and bring them and their damn project to their knees?

  Thinking that far ahead scared Claire. Even though she didn’t always tell the truth, she was basically a good person with an ability that gave her more power than sometimes made her comfortable. She was only doing this because something had happened to her best friend, Mac Ellroy.