Unbound Hope: Pleasant Hearts & Elliot-Kings Christian Suspense, #2

PROLOGUE

A shadow-faced man clad in a wrinkled, jet-black soft leather jacket, sunk into a chair and shoved a flight ticket into his blue jean’s pocket with a sweat-clammed hand. He tapped the other on his knee and ground his coffee-stained teeth. His mint-green eyes fastened on the beige wall clock at the Detroit Metro Airport North Terminal waiting lounge where it slowly dinged another hour. Very slowly.

Why was it just seven a.m.? He’d been here for hours. Waiting outside until the counter opened had felt the longest. But so was arriving at three a.m. to the target’s house and finding he’d taken off for a trip—possibly never to return to the States. He’d only needed to remotely tap into his cable network provider subscription, long enough to access his PC and e-mail to find out what flight he’d be traveling with.

As it seemed, he’d barely made it to the airport in time to grab one of the tickets left, and he paid top cash for it. But no sacrifice was too great for his brother. None. And by the time Flight Number 2994 left the tarmac, he’d show the man what he had done by taking his brother from him prematurely. No way would that man leave the plane alive. No. Way. He slid back into the seat, shut his eyes, and confidently rehearsed his strategy. Either the man would go the same way he’d sent his brother, or he’d take everyone on Flight 2994 down with him.

In Cleveland, one hundred and sixty miles from Detroit, a woman with black hair, a cat tattoo on her shoulder, and a darkened healed scar running down her pale neck exited the Milsbury State Penitentiary. She shielded her eyes from the July sun and smiled as the double wrought-iron gate shut behind her.

Finally, she was free. She breathed in the fresh air, different from the stale breath she’d endured for twenty-four years. Tucking a small purse underneath her armpit, she waved a hand to hail a passing taxi, which dragged to a slow stop. Of course, she had no more than the thirty bucks in cash—little more than the zero she’d entered with. But she knew where to get some more, and then she could begin her reason for behaving so well to get an early release. She would find the girl who had escaped, given her the neck scar, and sent her to prison two decades ago for kidnapping. She could’ve served less time had she not been a bit rough with the girl. But it wasn’t her fault. The girl made her do it.

Her hands and jaw clenched. She sucked in a sharp breath, exhaled, and as it flew past the taxi, she observed the cityscape with a hunger pang, but not for food. Revenge burned within her. Revenge that twenty-four years didn’t quench. Her frown deepened with determination. She would find Lillian. And she would finish the job.

1

A bloodcurdling scream pierced the quiet night. But the eight-year-old girl didn’t recognize the shouting voice as her own. Not with the puffs of rough air and garlic-stained breath pouring into her face for the second time that night. As she sucked in her breath and held, she scrunched her face tightly and hoped the person would move away. Her sobs became a soft whisper, and she curled up inside as a hand pushed hair off her face. Precious Lillian.

Courage wrapped in innocence pushed this child’s lips open and forced three words out. I’m not Lillian!

Erica Heart jumped from sleep like a wounded lioness and gripped her comforter with desperate hands, panting. Her sweet-chocolate-brown eyes darted across the bedroom of her loft apartment in downtown Detroit, the cityscape beyond still blanketed by a starless night. That was a dream. Even though the experience hadn’t been.

Relief eased through her as the purring standing fan—a holdover from her college days—sent a chill down the back of her dampened pajamas despite the July heat outside. Without checking, she knew she’d forgotten to move the fan aside from the middle of her bedroom, to the far end before falling into bed exhausted. Even now as it whipped the curtains gently at the end of each half-spin, she wasn’t sure she had the right frame of mind to add a to-do to her never-get-done list.

She wiped sweat off her forehead with her elbow. Why tonight? This dream hadn’t rehashed in full in four years. Or... she’d usually woken up before it progressed beyond the foul-breath stage. It felt so real, so vivid...like when it actually happened twenty-eight years ago. The heightened nervous beat of her heart slammed her ribs as she panted. Evidently, this was one scar time couldn’t wipe off her soul, and she still felt like it happened now.

But she couldn’t talk about it, nor think about it, further. God saves me from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. The keeper of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps. I have made the Lord my refuge, even the Most High my habitation, she mumbled the Scriptures until her mind latched on to their truth in faith, taking deep breaths until her heart slowed its quick thump to a regular rhythm.

Erica shrugged on the mauve, knee-length silk night coat she’d tossed on the spare pillow on her queen-sized bed last night and swung her feet downward, feeling for her slippers on the green carpet with her toes. She stopped when her head spun. Then she shut her eyes. Gripping the edge of her bed, she bowed and inhaled. She needed a minute to gather her scrambled nerves. Some moments later, when strength returned to her limbs and her focus sharpened, she shuffled to the kitchen, flicked the light switch on, and searched for a cup in the top cupboards. Warm chamomile tea would soothe her scrambled nerves—hopefully.

A tingle had her rubbing her neck to ease the tense muscles while she waited for the stainless-steel teakettle to heat up. Then she bent over to let blood flow to her upper body. Aches radiating over her lower back proved the little sleep she’d gotten was insufficient. When the teapot chimed, she poured its contents into the china cup and, with the tea being mildly warm, drank it in three gulps. After setting the teacup into the kitchen sink and turning out the lights, she dragged her achy feet back to the bedroom.

Yielding her slippers to the plush carpet, she switched on the light and found comfort in its flooding brilliance as she crossed to stand at her curtainless window. She hugged her night coat tighter as shadows emerged in the view below. The security guards—Mr. Flashlight and Ms. Radio—patrolled the grounds as they always did at three a.m. sharp.

She liked them and deemed their timeliness admirable. Having competent people watch over her at night, especially when she wasn’t in the air, gave her confidence. Her bright bedroom lights while others slept at this wee hour must’ve drawn their gaze. They met hers, and she waved with a small smile. They returned her wave and smile—the lady holding a radio, while the man gripped his flashlight as usual—then kept on walking. Though Rushing Properties was an average housing complex, the management offered topnotch service and all-night security.

The pair knew her only because she’d run into them one night as she returned home from serving on an overseas flight at predawn, worn and tired. Her luggage wheels, damaged during the flight, had clinked noisily on the sidewalk. With the loud rattle obscuring their approach, she’d rammed into them as she turned the sharp corner to the building’s entrance, gasping in shock.

When their hands flew to their weapons, she was lucky they didn’t shoot first then ask questions later. As soon as the lady lifted her radio and the man flashed waves of light into her face, she’d blinked, let her luggage drop, and then raised two hands—like she’d almost done with Marshal Jim Denison a year ago during the search for her missing brother-in-law, Michael.

Except this time, they’d simply requested her ID and not pointed a safety-free weapon in her face the way Jim had. She’d explained her job as an air hostess caused her night roaming and showed her ID before they allowed her into the building. But she didn’t mind their thorough check. Considering her past, safety stood paramount to her—one of the reasons she preferred living here, despite the rent’s higher than average cost.

Feeling calmer, she drew in a deep breath. She flipped off the lights, returned to bed, and hoped sleep would be possible before dawn. It took reciting those Scriptures again as well as more deep breathing before sleep overtook her.

Erica groaned awake at the noisy alarm jarring her ears while wishing she could hit snooze one more time. She pressed her elbow into the bed and peered at the glowing green digits. Six a.m. She shoved hair off her face as a reminder buzzed the next minute. She stared at the phone. The nightmare clouded her memory of her agenda for the day. An ache growing from her shoulder moved up her neck, and she massaged it, glancing at the alarm yet snoozing loudly on her phone. Flight 2994 with new recruits pinged a reminder. She grimaced. What was today again?

Oh! Today, she was flying with their newest crew members to their wrap-up congratulatory flight, first to DC. Then to their final destination, Fort Worth, where an evening party awaited. She jumped off the bed and hurried to the shower. Estimating the longer time and crushing traffic during rush hour, she barely had an hour to reach the airport. And to make the flight.

Being a veteran air hostess with The American Airlines had its perks. Like the fully paid luxury suite in a five-star hotel for their overnight stay in Fort Worth. She prayed for a smooth flight. But no telling how things might go with these inexperienced attendants. None of her colleagues was enthusiastic about this part of the job, usually labeling new recruits as spoiled, overgrown babies unwilling to work hard. But she’d taken on the task gladly and seriously, with the faith that the next generation needed training to excel.

Half an hour later, with her bags packed, she mumbled a quick prayer for divine protection as she typically did before every flight. But her nerves remained knotted tight when she peeled back the curtain of her apartment in downtown Detroit to check on the weather—the fastest way to see that it wasn’t raining. The sunless, but clear July skies yielded a smile to her lips. Sweet summertime equaled one luxury. No umbrella. Then she remembered the urgent call she’d made to the marshal’s office for this flight and bit her lower lip.

He’ll be waiting.

Was she ready to see him again—even after one year? Approaching the door and sensing the tension curling around her heart, she wished she’d had an out from the trip, but knew she didn’t. Not if she wanted to make sure her boss didn’t bite her ears off.

Feeling backed into a corner, she accepted that the long-buried secret resurrecting in her dreams wasn’t the only thing haunting her. No. It was the unsettling prospect of seeing the tough-nut, all-business, but strikingly handsome—and Christian—US Air Marshal Jim Denison. Jim, her traveling companion for this trip, was a man she’d quarreled with most often during their interaction one year ago, a man who had been impossible to ignore.

That was one of her big qualms as she exited her apartment, tugged at her crisp blue shirt worn over black pants, locked the doors, and approached the elevators to convey her from the second floor to the lobby. Something told her this was going to be a flight to remember. She pressed a hand to ease the tightness that gripped her belly when she recalled the dream again—more appropriately, the memory.

Erica let out a loud breath and forced herself to think of something else. Just a dream. It’s in the past. Calm down. No need to panic. Everything is all right. But the studded hole in her nose—an injury sustained from a broken nail when she’d rushed to escape her captor via a cabin window—was all too real. She grazed a subconscious finger over the peridot stud in it and shivered.

Then the elevator chimed.

US Air Marshal Jim Denison glanced at his Citizen Quartz watch for the umpteenth time and tried not to utter a bad word as the taxi crawled along the crowded I-75 highway during morning rush hour. The driver should’ve taken I-94, exited at junction 198, and then followed the signposts ushering them into Dingell Drive, shaving significant time from their trip. Instead, being an inner-city taxi driver, not an airport taxi service, he’d followed the GPS. Who still does that? he muttered.

He shook his head and leaned back, determined not to get frustrated this early in the morning. He hadn’t even finished his morning prayers, but instead, he’d cut it short to rush to the airport a bit earlier. He’d thought that with Erica Heart’s on-flight duty, he would gain sufficient time to arrive, and perhaps to grab a cup of coffee with her, before boarding.

Once aboard, he’d be in official capacity and fraternal interaction with her could be frowned upon. But with this taxi inching along, he’d be lucky to reach the airport in time to board. What else could he do while seeing the airport tower ahead and yet remaining so far from it, than to twiddle his thumbs and wait? He wasn’t feeling calm enough to finish praying either.

Then he realized—he’d forgotten to check on Mr. Corey, his seventy-four-year-old neighbor with Alzheimer’s. Picking up his phone, he dialed. The man answered on the fourth ring, and Jim exhaled. Good morning, Mr. Corey. Are you all right? I forgot to rap on your door before leaving. I’m rushing to the airport now for work. He chided himself for forgetting. Remember you have an appointment at the hospital. You said it was a colonoscopy, right?

Sometimes, being someone’s neighbor for more than a decade meant you pretty much knew their daily routine, especially when they treated you like a son. He listened to the man rehearse what he would say to the doctor. Yes, sir. You did great remembering all your meds. I filled out the paperwork for you, and I faxed them over, so they should have no problem seeing you once you arrive. I’ll see you when I return.

One more thank you from the man, and they ended the call.

He sat back and eyed the bag holding the four books he’d packed. Since this wasn’t a leisure flight, he hoped he might read them rather than getting some shut-eye.

Plus, books gave him sufficient camouflage to peruse the passengers undetected during flights as part of his job. Although he typically scanned rows ahead as he boarded to be aware of his environment.

This time, with the little sleep he’d gotten—thanks to a rough night and a late-night call from his dad, who was forever backpacking in Europe—he thought the added support of the books might help sharpen his mind.

Finally, the taxi rolled in behind a long line of cars entering Detroit Metro Airport and came to a stop at the entrance. Exiting, he walked around to get his duty bag from the trunk. Dressed casually in slacks, he appeared like any other traveler—minus the registered gun hidden beneath the fold at the leg of his pants and the cuffs tucked into the belt under his loose shirt.

Slipping on his sunglasses after settling with the taxi driver, he made his way through the anxious traveling crowd into the airport where more than a little unease over meeting Erica Heart again sent his heart rate spiking.

"H ello, April?" But a recorded voicemail answered Erica as she sank into the airport waiting lounge seat, stretching her tired feet forward. She’d hoped April, her immediate younger sister, would answer. Especially after the inconclusive chat they’d had last night about some issues April faced at the Maryland State Crime Lab—when she said a case was proving tougher than she’d anticipated. April’s current supervisory role, thanks to a promotion six months ago, made every case her ultimate responsibility, though she was pretty much hands on anyway.

They’d postponed the remainder of their conversation due to Erica’s flight