Smokescreen, page 1
Cover images: Circuit © Edfuentesg, Playing With Fire © Susandaniels, courtesty istockphoto.com
Cover design © 2011 by Covenant Communications, Inc.
Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.
American Fork, Utah
Copyright © 2011 by Traci Hunter Abramson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect
the position of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.
First Printing: January 2011
ISBN 978-1-60861-226-0
Dedication
For Tiffany
Acknowledgements
My sincere appreciation goes to Rebecca Cummings and Samantha Van Walraven for all of your help and insight throughout the editing process. Thank you to Zeda Abramson for sharing your knowledge of the artistic process and for your willingness to entertain my little ones when I most needed quiet time alone with my computer.
Thank you to my family and all of the incredible people at Covenant who have continued to support my writing career.
And, finally, I want to thank Mom, Tiffany, and the smoothie guy for making my trip through Palm Springs truly memorable.
1
Five men. Five targets.
Quinn Lambert visualized the mission once more in his mind, a mission the whole world was watching on the evening news. Once again pirates had commandeered a vessel in the Indian Ocean, only this time the two Americans on board weren’t just a couple of innocent bystanders who happened to get caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. No, these two hostages had been specifically chosen because of the ransom they could command.
Hotel tycoon Monte Eastman and his wife, Georgia, had boarded a friend’s yacht in Sri Lanka for an extended vacation. Four days into their voyage, pirates had intercepted them and had taken control of the vessel. The ransom demands began within hours. If all went as planned, another hour would be all that was needed to end those demands permanently.
Quinn checked his air gauge as he continued to breathe the canned air currently strapped to his back. The submarine that delivered him and his teammates within a mile of the yacht had submerged into the dark water beneath them. Slowly, steadily, Quinn moved toward the surface, constantly checking for his swim buddy and best friend, Tristan Crowther.
As expected, Tristan was a few feet to his right, and just beyond him was the rest of the Saint Squad, the elite five-man unit from SEAL Team Eight. Newly promoted Lieutenant Commander Brent Miller was in the center of the group. Beyond him was Jay Wellman, the newest addition to the squad. On the far side, his dark skin making him almost invisible in the dark water, was Seth Johnson.
They were within ten feet of the surface when they reached the side of the yacht. It was motionless in the water largely due to the fact that two destroyers were currently flanking its position. A standoff was coming, the deadline for the demanded wire transfer looming over them. Twelve hours was all they had left before the pirates would begin killing their hostages, starting with the only woman on board, Georgia Eastman.
Quinn didn’t take the time to consider what this woman’s husband must be going through right now, the panic and helplessness that was certainly consuming him. Instead, Quinn continued forward and watched for the signal.
* * *
She was hiding, whether she wanted to admit it or not. With a large painting in her hands and her supplies weighing down her backpack, Taylor Palmetta would hardly consider herself inconspicuous as she walked down the street in Paris, but she was hiding nonetheless.
An art program in Venice had lured Taylor to Europe shortly after she had graduated from college. At one time she had considered sharing her love of art in the classroom, but she knew now that teaching would never suit her. She needed the freedom to create, to paint what she wanted, when she wanted, and where she wanted. She had spent the past several months completing her studies in Venice and doing exactly that, traveling throughout Europe and stopping to paint whatever caught her attention.
At only twenty-four years old, Taylor had found her freedom, and she was using it to hide. She couldn’t be certain if she had extended her stay in Europe so she wouldn’t have to see Quinn Lambert again or if she was still trying to pretend that he hadn’t really broken her heart.
Their long-distance relationship had been casual for the first six months after she moved to Europe, and now Taylor wished it had stayed that way. Everything had changed when Quinn had come to visit her in Venice. At least she thought everything had changed. Those few days together had been incredible, and Taylor had been convinced that they had moved from casual dating to exclusive, maybe even serious. A month later, only a few short weeks after seeing him again at her sister’s wedding, her illusion crashed against an alternate reality when she found out he was dating someone else.
That tidbit of information had changed everything for her. She supposed she was more embarrassed than anything. She had fallen for Quinn completely and thought he felt the same for her. She had even started imagining a future with him in it. The news that he was still dating around had unraveled her dreams and left her feeling vulnerable.
Instead of moving back to Virginia Beach to be close to her family and Quinn like she had planned, she shifted her focus and energy to her work. Ironically, just as her personal life was falling apart, her professional life was flourishing. She had always dreamed of being a professional artist but had never truly believed it was possible. After an unexpected offer to sign with a New York agent, Taylor’s professional dreams were now reality.
She glanced down at her most recent handiwork, still a little awed by the fact that she had created it. According to her favorite art professor, her gift was in the way she translated light onto the canvas. Her agent, on the other hand, insisted that the detail and realism in her work made it stand out. Regardless of what had prompted her success, Taylor was always amazed by the sense of wonder that rushed through her after she completed a painting.
As she approached her hotel, the doorman spotted her and reached for the door in anticipation of her arrival. Taylor greeted him and uttered her thanks as he opened the door wide for her.
A handful of people were sitting in the reception area of the lobby, but Taylor didn’t pause to wonder if they were coming or going. Instead, she crossed to the elevator and stepped inside. The moment the elevator doors slid closed, reality washed over her again. She was in one of her favorite cities, the weather was stunningly beautiful, and she was doing what she loved. And she was painfully alone.
Another sigh escaped her as she entered the hall and approached her room. She leaned the painting against the wall so she could dig out her key. Then she reached for the door, only to see that it was already cracked open. She stared at the slightly open door and focused on the sign hanging from the doorknob that read Do Not Disturb in three languages.
A rush of images flashed in her mind, beginning with the absolute certainty that she had heard the door latch behind her when she had left her room a few hours earlier. Her heartbeat quickened as she considered why she had put the Do Not Disturb sign on her door. Her paintings. Had someone broken into her room? Surely her limited success couldn’t have warranted someone wanting to steal her work.
Certain that there must be some rational explanation, Taylor took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and took three hurried steps inside. She could see two of her paintings across the room where she had left them to dry. The scent of paint and turpentine still lingered in the room, almost overpowering the newer, more subtle scent. Taylor started to take another step so that she could look past the bathroom into the bedroom area where several more of her paintings were drying, but a sudden thought stopped her. What if someone was still inside her room? Her heartbeat quickened, and she edged back toward the door. Her breathing became shallow even as she assured herself that her sudden fear was irrational.
Her hand was shaking when she backed into the hall and instinctively closed the door behind her. There must be a logical reason why the door was open. Quickly, she picked up the painting she had set down in the hall and moved back to the elevator, relieved when the doors instantly slid open.
Less than two minutes later, she approached the front desk. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I need hotel security to check out my room. I think there’s someone inside.”
The desk clerk, a light-haired man of about thirty, looked at her with disbelief and disdain rather than concern. “Why do you think that, miss?”
“My door was open when I got upstairs,” Taylor explained, her words coming out rapidly. “Something’s not right.”
The man’s eyebrows lifted. “Perhaps you left your door open.”
“I didn’t leave my door open.” Taylor let out a frustrated sigh. Then her eyes narrowed. “Are you going to call security, or do I need to ask the manager to do it?”
The clerk let out a sigh of his own. “Fine. I’ll call security.”
“Thank you.”
He picked up the phone and started speaking rapidly in French. Taylor didn’t understand much of what he said, but she couldn’t miss his condescending tone.
Taylor stood up a little straighter, her annoyance with the desk clerk beginning to help fight away her fears. Then she had the sudden realization that if something like this had happened to Quinn, he wouldn’t have let it shake him up. He would have taken charge of the situation. Annoyed that she was thinking of him again, she tried to steady her nerves as two men from the security office approached.
After ascertaining that they spoke English, she explained the situation to them. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I really think someone was in my room. I would appreciate it if you could check it out for me.”
“Oui, mademoiselle,” the taller of the two men said. His expression was unreadable as he escorted her to the elevator. No one spoke as they rode upstairs, and Taylor began to second-guess herself. Could the maid have ignored the sign on her door and gone inside to clean anyway? Was it possible that perhaps she hadn’t closed the door all the way when she had left that morning?
Already preparing herself for the embarrassment that would surely follow when the security guards discovered that she had indeed overreacted, she set her painting down once more in the hall and handed her key to the shorter guard who had yet to utter a word to her.
She had expected them to draw their weapons or at least announce themselves when they entered her room, but they did neither. Instead, they simply walked inside, leaving her in the hall to wait for them. Seconds ticked by slowly. Then a minute stretched into two. Another minute passed, and finally Taylor edged closer to the door. She glanced inside to see one man examining the balcony door. The taller guard wasn’t anywhere in sight, but Taylor guessed he was around the corner in the bedroom area.
Cautiously, she crossed the threshold and moved into the room. She noticed that one of her paintings on the far end of the room was tipped onto its side and wondered why the guard would have moved it. “Did you find anything?”
The taller guard stepped into her path before she could move all the way into the bedroom. “Mademoiselle, it might be best if you wait in the hall.”
“Why?” Taylor asked. Instinctively, she leaned forward to look past him.
Then she saw it. And smelled it. A pool of dark red on the floor next to the bed, the splatter of blood on the wall.
* * *
Quinn shifted his weapon, his target clearly in sight. The man stood on the aft deck, his AK-47 lifted to ward off any invaders. Little did he know that Quinn and his teammates were already aboard. The timing had been flawless, all five men managing to climb aboard during the last confrontation with one of the nearby destroyers. The staged altercation had been the perfect distraction to give the SEALs the precious few minutes they needed to board the yacht undetected.
Quinn held his position on top of the pilot’s cabin, waiting for his teammates to get into position. Brent and Tristan were even now moving toward the cabin where they believed the hostages were being held below deck. Seth and Jay had been tasked with finding the other men on board, presumably in the dining cabin. That left Quinn with eliminating anyone topside.
As much as he hated killing, Quinn silently wished that more of the pirates would reveal themselves on the open deck. From his position he was well hidden by the darkness, and his skill as a sniper would give him the advantage even if the odds weren’t in his favor. He also knew that the fewer pirates there were with the hostages, the greater the likelihood that everyone would survive the encounter.
As though reading his thoughts, a second man emerged on deck and stepped beside the pirate standing guard. Quinn barely had time to mentally readjust to this second threat when the silence of the night was broken by a burst of gunfire as the other SEALs opened fire on the pirates below deck.
Quinn squeezed the trigger, and his first target dropped lifelessly to the deck. The second had time to turn and take a step forward before Quinn’s second shot rang out and he too fell to the floor.
2
Taylor stood in the hall outside of her hotel room, her body still trembling. Who had been in her room? Were her paintings okay? Whose blood had that been, and where was the injured person now? She reassured herself that maybe the maid had ignored the sign on the door and had somehow gotten injured on the job. Or maybe it had been a maintenance man.
She had tried to push her way back into her room to demand some answers, but the security guards refused to let her past the threshold. Instead, she could only wait helplessly as curiosity and worry combined into a jumble of nerves. Several minutes passed before an older man in a business suit stepped off the elevator and hurried toward her. There was a bead of sweat visible on his brow, and he looked as shaken as she felt.
“Mademoiselle, I am Norris Pelletier, the hotel manager.”
Taylor accepted his outstretched hand automatically but didn’t bother to respond.
“I am so sorry about your inconvenience,” Norris told her nervously. “I want to assure you that nothing like this has ever happened here before. Please allow me to escort you to another room where you will be more comfortable.” He motioned to the elevator. “The police will arrive any minute. I will bring them to you as soon as they have some information to share.”
“Thank you,” Taylor managed and followed him to the elevator. A few minutes later, he unlocked the door to her new room. He held the door open for her and then handed her the passkey.
Norris waited for Taylor to step over the threshold and then motioned to a cart positioned farther inside the room. “I had room service send up some food for you in case you are hungry. If you need anything, just call the front desk. Everything is complementary for the rest of your stay.”
“Thank you,” Taylor managed, even as she felt her legs go weak. “I think I just need to sit down for a bit.”
“Of course, mademoiselle.” Norris bowed slightly. “Please accept my apology once again.”
He stepped into the hallway and pulled the door closed between them.
Taylor let out a jagged breath, flipped the lock, and moved farther into the room. She dropped into the closest chair, not taking the time to appreciate that her new room was actually a suite, complete with a plush living room and a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower.
Instead, she stared blankly at the wall, the image of blood stains vivid in her mind. Again she tried to make sense of the events of the afternoon and who could have possibly been in her room. A horrifying thought flashed into her mind, a new fear that perhaps the police would think that she had somehow been involved or had done something wrong.
Surely whoever had been injured would be found soon. He or she would go to the police. Taylor pressed a hand to her stomach as a wave of nausea washed over her. There had been so much blood, the smell so pungent.
Minutes passed as the same questions repeated over and over in Taylor’s head. Who? Why?
Slowly, Taylor managed to convince herself that whatever had happened in her room couldn’t have had anything to do with her. One of the security guards had asked her who knew where she was staying, but the answer was absolutely simple: no one. She didn’t even know anyone in Paris except for the few art dealers and artists she had met at a showing several months earlier. In fact, it had been at that same show where she had been discovered by her agent, Felicia Davenport.
Taylor cringed inwardly as she thought of what Felicia would say when she found out about the incident. Despite all of Felicia’s support and encouragement over the past few months, Taylor knew that she was a businesswoman first and foremost, and a rather intimidating one at that.
As much as Taylor wanted to get that phone call over with, she didn’t think she could handle dealing with Felicia right now. Undoubtedly, her agent would want to know if Taylor’s artwork had survived the intrusion. Taylor wanted answers to that particular question herself, but she was more concerned with what had taken place inside her room.
Her stomach ached with nerves and the now ever-present sense of invasion. She also couldn’t shake the underlying fear that perhaps whoever had been in her room had intended to hurt her.
