LITMIR.BIZ

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believe it?”

      CHARLES HANCOCK TYPED in his password—Paladin. It was from an old TV show, where a guy in a black hat rode around the old west righting wrongs.

      He’d loved the show when he was a kid. So he’d appropriated the title. Paladin wasn’t the Lone Ranger. He didn’t always play by the rules. But he got things done.

      The way Cortez had.

      The doctor’s death had been a personal tragedy. But Charles would find the right man to take over the research. Someone with vision. Someone who understood the importance of maintaining stability in the government of the United States—and ultimately the world.

      All the Bio Gens protocols were in the computer. Waiting for the right moment to start the project up again.

      But right now he was into damage control.

      His source at the consortium had confirmed his suspicion that Ridgeway hadn’t been alone when he’d suffered his fatal heart attack. It seemed that he’d been playing Russian roulette with his health. He’d been with a woman, but Ian Wickers was keeping that information inside the building.

      Good. That suited Charles’s purposes perfectly. The fewer people who knew what had really happened, the better.

      He had the woman’s name. Karen Hilliard. He drummed his fingers lightly on the computer keyboard. He hated giving in to conspiracy theory. However, in this case he knew it was justified. When you put Ridgeway’s death together with the murders across the country and then the explosion at Dr. Cortez’s lab you came up with an unfortunate pattern.

      The man who had blown himself up—along with Cortez—had been a rare bird. He’d called himself Billy Carmichael. But that was the name he’d taken after he’d disappeared into thin air.

      Charles knew his real identity from the DNA sample he’d obtained. Billy Carmichael was one of the babies who had been conceived in a petri dish at Bio Gens Labs—then sold to childless couples desperate for children. Couples who bore all the expenses of raising one of Cortez’s little darlings yet didn’t know what a remarkable youngster they sheltered.

      He switched to another database—the children. He didn’t usually go into it unless he had a request from one of his clients.

      Now he plugged in Karen Hilliard’s name. He didn’t find her, but he had a pretty good idea who she was. Three years ago, one of the children—now grown—had gone missing. A young woman named Kate Winthrop.

      Charles’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the computer screen. He had no conclusive proof, but he’d be willing to bet that Kate Winthrop and Karen Hilliard were one and the same.

      She’d been one of Cortez’s more bizarre experiments. He’d brought her into the world just to prove he could do it. Really, she’d been of no real use to anyone.

      And now Charles cursed himself for not getting rid of her when he’d had the chance.

      Switching to e-mail, he sent a message to his Ridgeway Consortium contact. First he wanted a physical description of Karen Hilliard. And her DNA—if he could get it.

      Had she been working with the man who had blown himself up—along with Dr. Cortez? Or was she on a private mission?

      Either way, he needed answers. And if he got the wrong one, he would have to take drastic action.

      BRADY WATCHED GRACE Cunningham glare at him.

      “I’m not telling you a ‘story,'” she said, punching out the words. “And you should believe me because I haven’t jumped out of the car and started running.”

      “How about, you know, I’d catch you and bring you back.”

      “Maybe. Maybe not.” She kept her gaze steady. “Tonight, your brother was in the office next door when he had a heart attack. After he died, Wickers told one of the agents to take the woman to the basement. While they were busy with her and with your brother, I managed to get out of the building.”

      “You’ll pardon me if I’m having a little trouble connecting with this fantasy.”

      She shifted in her seat. She might be spinning him a story, but she was scared of something—and not necessarily of him.

      Then there was the logic of the situation. If she’d really been in the same room with John when he’d died, could she have gotten away?

      He studied her face. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her. Had he seen her at one of the parties that John insisted on dragging him to? The parties where he watched people drinking cocktails and highballs.

      She surprised him by saying, “Your brother spoke very highly of you.”

      He snorted. “My job was taking care of business he didn’t want made public.”

      “Then maybe you can do one last thing for him.”

      “Which is?”

      “Find out what really happened and expose the cover-up.”

      He kept his gaze on her, hoping his posture gave nothing away. On the way to Grace’s apartment, he’d called Wickers, and the guy had blown him off. Maybe Grace Cunningham really was what he’d been praying for—to use a conventional phrase because he hadn’t prayed in years. If she was willing to tell the truth. But he wasn’t going to act too eager.

      He lifted one shoulder. “Maybe it’s better to leave it the way it is.”

      “You want Wickers and his pals to control the situation? When I got home—armed men were only a few minutes behind me. Then you came and rescued me.” She sighed. “Or maybe I’m kidding myself. Maybe you’ve already pushed a secret buzzer on your cell phone, and they’re coming for me now.”

      “Maybe,” he answered and watched her shoulders tighten.

      “One woman’s already disappeared. The woman who was with your brother. Either she’s still in the basement of the Ridgeway Consortium, or they’ve taken her somewhere else. Or she’s already dead.”

      “Dead! I’ve only got your word that she exists.”

      She reached into the large purse that sat on her lap and pulled out an evening bag. “While the guards were busy, I took a big chance and grabbed this.”

      When she laid it on the console next to him, he turned on the overhead light, then opened the bag. Inside was a wallet with a driver’s license belonging to someone named Karen Hilliard. There were also a couple of credit cards, a library card and an auto-club card. He held up the driver’s license. She was an attractive woman with large dark eyes, short cropped blond hair and a challenging look on her face. More John’s type. Just as with Grace Cunningham, he felt as if he knew her—only in this case, the conviction was even stronger.

      “Who is she?”

      “I don’t know much about her.”

      “This could belong to anyone,” he said.

      “Sure. I made the whole thing up—to get myself off the hook.” She dragged in a breath. “There’s got to be a record of her entering the building. Oh, wait—they would have wiped it out.”

      “Maybe we should have a talk with her.”

      “If you can get into the Ridgeway Consortium basement—or wherever they’re holding her now. I could tell Wickers I know about her.”

      “That might shorten your life.”

      “You think your brother’s chief of staff is desperate enough to kill?”

      “If he thinks it’s necessary.”

      Brady knew John had hired Wickers for his expertise, and his ruthlessness. Him and that other guy, Phil Yarborough, who had a background working for a mercenary company that had gotten in trouble in Iraq. Neither man was going to give up anything he thought he could keep private.

      He

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