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Book Three in the Saints & Spies series
Molly rolled over in bed, turning away from the clock on her nightstand, pounding her pillow to refluff it. She should be sleeping, not staring at the minutes ticking past.
In eighteen hours, they would be married. Her heart quickened at the thought. She drew a deep breath to clear the nerves — but it was more than nerves. A lead weight filled the pit of her stomach as it had every night for the last fortnight. She kicked off her sheets and got up to pace her bedroom.
She stopped at her closet door and the white garment bag hanging there. Her fidgeting fingers moved to the zipper, but she pulled her hand back. Her gown would look the same as when she’d checked it the last four nights. Nothing in there would soothe this nagging foreboding.
Molly sighed and wheeled away, clasping her hands to keep from fiddling with anything else. Everything would be all right tomorrow. Perfect, even. Wouldn’t it?
The tension still tugged at her middle. Her fingers returned to the garment bag zipper of their own accord. Her gown was perfectly fine, from the ruched bodice to the beaded filigree at the waist to the flowing skirt. Molly took care not to snag the glossy satin as she zipped the garment bag back up.
All that had done nothing for the worry. She couldn’t drive herself mad like this. She had to ring Zachary. He’d understand. Wouldn’t he?
Molly marched over to her nightstand where her mobile phone and her engagement ring waited. Zachary would tell her how silly she was being, remind her how much he loved her, promise not to let anything ruin their wedding. She tapped the icon to ring Zachary, but a knock at the door stopped her before the call even rang.
At the mere possibility it was him, Molly broke into a grin. She ended the call, tossed the phone on her bed and practically jogged to her front door. She’d hoped to save him from her most comfortable, tatty, lose-their-drawstring-every-fortnight yoga pants until after their honeymoon. At the moment, though, she didn’t care.
She did, however, check the peephole. The stout blond man standing in the corridor was Zachary’s exact opposite. But . . . she recognized this man. From —
Miles Hennessy? Molly jerked back from the peephole. Why would a member of her old parish appear on her doorstep in the middle of the night, the night before her wedding?
And not just any member of the parish. One of their resident mobsters. The only one who’d somehow escaped the battery of arrests eighteen months ago when Zachary and a penitent mobster brought the rest of Doyle Murphy’s crew to justice.
But Miles didn’t know her fiancé was behind that. Not even the prosecutors knew Zachary had gone undercover as a priest. The man’s own parents didn’t know he was a covert FBI agent. Sure, the judge had declared a mistrial and Doyle was free while they waited for a second shot, but Doyle couldn’t have tracked Zachary down.
“Please, I know you’re there, Molly,” Hennessy called through the door.
She held her breath.
“I need your help.”
Though he couldn’t see her, Molly turned a skeptical eye on the door.
“Please, just look.”
Molly dared to peek out again. Hennessy held a men’s wristwatch up to the peephole glass. A nice watch, silver band, pearly background to the digital face.
Her heart tripped. Just like the early wedding present she’d given Zachary yesterday.
Hennessy flipped the watch over to show her the back. From here, she could only tell it had an inscription.
Her hand hit the doorknob, but Molly hesitated, suddenly very aware that her gun and her badge were safely locked away.
Hennessy examined the watch’s inscription. “Gray go dee yo?”
He gave up, but Molly’s mind filled in the Irish inscription, even after Hennessy’s butchering: Grá go deo.
Zachary’s watch. Only that afternoon, she’d sat on the couch behind her, bouncing with nerves. She’d searched for weeks to find a gift for Zachary, and settled on a wristwatch. She’d never known him to wear a watch, and for a long moment as he tore off the wrapping paper, she’d been sure he’d hate it.
At the sight of the watch, his azure eyes lit up. When she explained the inscription meant “love forever,” he’d kissed her until she was dizzy.
Then he’d strapped on the watch and figured out how to program a countdown clock. “Twenty-five hours,” he’d murmured, pulling her close again. For a moment, she’d almost let herself believe everything would be perfect.
Eighteen hours left on that timer now. He couldn’t be in danger. Sure, she’d worried something would go wrong, but Zachary, kidnapped? She tried, but couldn’t swallow.
“I don’t know what this means,” Hennessy finished, “but I’m hoping you do.”
She turned to run to her room and fetch her gun, but Hennessy’s voice through the door cut her off.
“Sorry, I just . . . I thought you would be the one to help your fiancé.” His voice faded on the last syllables. A quick check of the peephole showed no one.
“Wait.” Molly flung the door open. Hennessy stopped in the hallway and whirled back to her.
“What do you mean, help my fiancé?” she demanded. “How did you get that?”
Hennessy opened his mouth as if to answer, but cut himself off with a wave. “I have to get back. Doyle’s lost his mind, and if he thinks for a minute that I — do you know what he’d do to me?” He pivoted and headed down the corridor again.
If she’d doubted Doyle was involved, she didn’t have to anymore. If Zachary could be in trouble, she had to act. Molly marched after Miles. “Doyle’s lost his mind?”
Miles glanced over his shoulder. “Doyle has him.”
Gooseflesh covered her arms. Doyle Murphy, accused mobster and murderer, had Zachary? She needed to ring the Bureau.
But as she turned back into her apartment, fingers closed on her wrist.
“You do want to help him, don’t you?” Hennessy whispered urgently.
“I’m callin’ this in.”
“If you’re going to help him, we’ve gotta go. We can call from the car, use my phone.”
Molly flinched. It was one thing for Miles to try to be decent for once, but Doyle Murphy’s henchman wanted to contact the FBI? That didn’t feel right. “Have you gone mad?”
“Try straight. Now Doyle’s trying to drag me back in.” Hennessy’s shoulders fell, the image of defeat. “Kidnapping a Fed? This is way too much, even for him.”
Kidnapping? Molly’s mind reeled, but she scrutinized Hennessy. Could he be telling the truth? He certainly seemed skittish enough.
Could this change be why he hadn’t gone to jail with the rest of them? “If that’s the case, tell me where he is.”
“I don’t know. Doyle didn’t exactly drop a pin. He’s got him in a warehouse or something. That’s why I came to you.”
She mentally shook off the panic threatening to take over her mind. Zachary needed her, and she would be there for him. “Right, we’ll call it in.”
Miles tugged on her wrist. “Please, from the car. We gotta get moving.”
“Then I’ll drive.”
“I can’t navigate you there at night. I can barely make it myself.”
Molly’s pulse climbed as a mental debate raged. Zachary was in danger. They had to call it in; she knew it. But Miles released her and strode down the hallway without her. “I gotta go. If I’m not back before he gets suspicious, it’ll be my neck instead of Saint’s.”
The best lead — the best chance she might have of helping Zachary — was walking away.
She took only a second to lock her door handle before she chased after him. “Give me your mobile.”
Hennessy patted his pockets, then groaned. “Seriously? Must be in the car. Come on.”
Waiting for the elevator, Molly asked for Zachary’s watch. Hennessy it handed over, and Molly examined it. Definitely his.
The ride down was filled with heavy, cottony silence while Molly’s memory dredged up the most harrowing moments of her life: Zachary bludgeoned and bloodied at the hands of terrorists. Zachary passing out when they thought the coast was clear. Zachary lying in a hospital bed, unconscious.
Molly watched the display count down the floors, rubbing her thumb over the watch’s inscription. Whatever Doyle Murphy had planned could be a thousand times worse. He had shot and tortured delivery men for being late. He’d ordered hits on nuns, if the old parish rumors were true. What would he do to the FBI agent who’d finally caught him?
Once they reached the underground car park, emotion finally subsided enough for reason to rear its head. “Wait, Miles,” Molly said.
“Evening, Molly.” A voice carried from behind her, bouncing off the concrete walls.
She turned at the sound. Mr. Petrowski stood by his boxy Ford. What could her kindly old neighbor be doing out after eleven?
Mr. Petrowski looked from Molly to Hennessy and back again. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” Hennessy insisted, a hard glint in his green eyes. “Tell him, Molly.”
The alarm at the back of her mind sounded a warning chime. She watched Hennessy a minute longer. And then she saw it: a rectangle of light glowing through his pants pocket.
A phone. One he’d had all along. Molly backed up a few steps, trying to get between Hennessy and Mr. Petrowski. “Call 9-1-1,” she said to Mr. Petrowski. “Your man here says my fiancé’s been kidnapped by Doyle Murphy.”
For an agonizing second, only Molly’s heartbeat echoed in the underground. Then Mr. Petrowski shuffled as fast as he could for the elevator.
Molly turned to run after him, but before she made it three steps, a thunderclap reverberated through the garage. Mr. Petrowski tumbled to the ground. He’d hardly made it two meters from his car. She stopped short, glancing back at Hennessy.
He held a gun. With a suppressor.
Energy charged through her. Statistics said it was only luck he’d hit Mr. Petrowski. She could make it. His life depended on her.
But her hesitation had already cost her. As she reached Mr. Petrowski, something hard plowed into her back and Molly vaulted forward.
Was she hit?
In eleven hours, they’d be married — but right now, they were only going for a run. Zach exited the freeway, a mix of anxiety and adrenaline humming through his system. He ran through his mental checklist again: they’d have enough time for a short run before he’d have to turn around and head home to shower. Then there was the brunch, cleanup, prep time — though for him that only meant getting dressed — and then the real crunch set in. At least they’d start with the ceremony first, the important part, before the photos and reception.
All right, marrying Molly was worth enduring ten photo sessions and receptions. Still, his mom was sure to be on his case all day to make sure he was on time. At a red light, Zach reached for the glove box to retrieve the watch Molly had given him yesterday.
It wasn’t there.
What? He was sure he’d put it there last night before the temple.
The light changed. On automatic, Zach made the left onto Molly’s street.
And then he saw the squad cars in front of her building. His lungs froze. That couldn’t mean —
It could be a traffic stop. It could be the building next door. It could be anyone.
Anyone who required three sets of flashing lights.
Zach lowered the radio’s volume, another news report on the heat wave, to concentrate on parking. He’d missed Molly’s call last night thanks to his dad and his dreaded pre-wedding lecture. Molly hadn’t left a message. She hadn’t responded to his text before he left this morning.
No, couldn’t be related. She was probably asleep. Or hadn’t seen her messages.
He pulled behind one of the squad cars and grabbed his phone. Molly’s number rang to voicemail. Zach pocketed his cell, got his badge from the glove box and sprinted to the nearest uniformed officer.
“You’ll have to move along, sir,” the cop said automatically.
“My fiancée lives here.” Zach held out his badge. “Please.”
The officer looked back toward the ramp down into the parking garage beneath Molly’s building. “There’s been a murder.”
The last word hit like a punch to the gut. “Who?”
“I dunno. Heard the guy who called it in couldn’t ID the body.”
“I know some people in the building. Maybe I can help.”
The officer checked the garage entrance again. “Let me ask.” He radioed the officer in charge and explained. With the supervising officer’s permission, the uni pointed Zach to the sign-in sheet. Once his presence was logged, Zach started down the ramp. Each step tightened the invisible grip on his chest. He reached the bottom level at a sprint.
He’d come here for an early morning run, but this wasn’t what he planned.
Cops, crime scene techs, and two plainclothes detectives clustered near a blood pool on the asphalt. A black body bag — full — sat on a gurney, waiting to be loaded into the coroner’s van. Zach stopped short. The metallic smell of blood hit him harder than a cement wall.
This couldn’t happen. Not today.
“You the one they just let in?” one of the detectives asked.
Zach kept his focus on the body bag as he approached and pulled out his badge. “FBI.” Normally, he said it with force — he didn’t get to say it often — but today, his voice was a hollow echo ringing in his ears.
The man who’d addressed him — white, fifties maybe, gray hair, suit — threw up his hands in mock celebration. “Tell me the Feds want this one. I’ve got three hours till my shift’s supposed to start.”
“Have you IDed the body?”
“Not yet,” the graying detective said. “You live here?”
“My fiancée does.” The weight of his own words hit him, and he stared at the body bag.
“Is your fiancée an eighty-year-old man?”
Zach looked at the younger detective, a Hispanic man with dark, wavy hair. “Huh?”
At the detective’s tiny nod, the coroner unzipped the body bag. He pulled back the flap before Zach could brace himself.
Not her. Zach’s shoulders relaxed instantly, and he tried to ignore the twinge of guilt at his relief at finding the old man who lived down the hall, the whole front of his plaid shirt coated in dried blood. “Victor Petrowski.”
“Shot from behind.” The younger detective gestured toward the exit wound.
Zach scanned the crime scene and spotted Molly’s green Jetta. She was okay, then. Even if she hadn’t answered the phone. He tried to clamp down on the disturbing murmur at the back of his mind. “Not sure which car is his.”
One of the detectives pointed at a Ford. “Found his keys.”
Unless Petrowski had fallen in with mobsters or terrorists, Zach couldn’t do much more for him. And after that type of scare, he wanted to check on Molly as fast as possible. “I can take you up to Petrowski’s apartment.”
The detective turned to the coroner. “You done?”
“Yep. Load ’em up and move ’em out.” The coroner and his assistant pushed the gurney toward the back of the open van. The older detective conferred with the crime scene team a minute before Zach led the detectives to the elevator.
“Any theories?” Zach asked once they were halfway to Molly’s floor.
The dark-haired detective smirked. “Yeah, we think Victor Petrowski was shot in the back.”
The graying cop filled in the rest of the evidence they’d found. “Maybe a robbery. No wallet on the body.” The elevator slowed to a stop and the doors slid open. Zach led them to Petrowski’s apartment.
The younger detective knocked. No answer.
“He’s a widower,” Zach said. “I got it.” He pulled out the key he’d filed into a series of even peaks for Molly’s apartment. Luckily, the whole building used the same basic key pattern.
“That what they’re teaching at Quantico these days?” The older detective folded his arms.
“Nah, I learned this on TV.”
The dark-haired detective pulled out a baggie with keys in it — bloodstained keys. Zach backed off. Probably better that way.
The detectives started in, but the graying one paused at the door. “Any chance you know his next of kin?”
“Think he’s got kids somewhere. Let me check with Molly.” Zach headed down the hall. He couldn’t help a little thrill: breaking into one another’s apartments had become a running joke between them. He’d guarded his keys jealously for the last couple months, and she didn’t know he’d filed an old key into the fastest lock picking tool either of them had tried.
Zach slid the bump key into the deadbolt, applied tension and hit the key, forcing the pins to jump long enough to trick the tumbler into twisting. The lock flipped a quarter turn too easily. Unlocked.
Definitely not like Molly.
He repeated the procedure on the handle and let himself in. The lights were on in the living room, but an eerie quiet pervaded the air.
“Molly?” His voice bounced off the exposed brick of the far wall. “I have bad news.”
He waited. No response. “Molly?”
Maybe she forgot their morning run.
Right. They’d only done this three times a week for the last four months. He started down the hall and called her name again.
Her bedroom door was open, the light on there, too. Her dress hung from the closet door in its plastic garment bag. The bathroom door stood ajar, the light off, but he checked anyway. Empty.
Back in the bedroom, the bedsheets were shoved to one side. Zach felt the striped sheets. Cold.
Not answering her phone. Apartment unlocked. She hadn’t been here for a while.
No. This couldn’t be what it looked like. Not today. But his carefully constructed denial was foundering on the facts.
He pulled out his phone again and called her. After a few seconds’ delay, he heard her phone ringing, its screen lighting up amid the crumpled sheets. He ended the call and grabbed her phone, quickly bypassing the lock screen.
Her phone showed the last call she’d made: to him, at 11:14 p.m. No incoming calls or texts from anyone else since yesterday afternoon, and then, nothing revealing — her mother, Lucy, Zach.
He set her phone down on the nightstand by her ring. Her car was here. Where were her keys?
Back in the living room, Zach checked her purse in its spot on the side table, wallet and keys still inside.
Nothing else in the room was amiss, from the Swedish-designed sectional to the sleek dining table to the atmospheric photographs of Ireland.
None of it added up, and a couple obvious answers stared him in the face. If this was supposed to be a game, she would’ve left him some sort of clue. She couldn’t have cold feet. Right?
He almost wished it were that simple.
Zach grabbed the brown leather wallet from her purse, holding on like he clutched a lifeline. It felt like he was plunging through Lake Michigan’s shelf ice.
Something was very, very wrong.
Would they be married in eleven hours?
More about Saints & Sinners | Get updates & free reads in my readers’ group!
