Chasing Shadows

CHASING SHADOWS

CJ Lyons

PRAISE FOR NEW YORK TIME BESTSELLER

 CJ LYONS:

"Everything a great thriller should be—action packed, authentic, and intense." ~#1 New York Times bestselling author Lee Child

"A compelling new voice in thriller writing…I love how the characters come alive on every page." ~
New York Times
bestselling author Jeffery Deaver  

"Top Pick! A fascinating and intense thriller." ~ RT Book Reviews

"An intense, emotional thriller…(that) climbs to the edge of intensity." ~National Examiner

"A perfect blend of romance and suspense.  My kind of read." ~#
1 New York Times
Bestselling author Sandra Brown 

"Highly engaging characters, heart-stopping scenes…one great rollercoaster ride that will not be stopping anytime soon." ~Bookreporter.com

"
Adrenalin pumping." ~The Mystery Gazette

"Riveting." ~Publishers Weekly Beyond Her Book

Lyons "is a master within the genre." ~Pittsburgh Magazine

"Will leave you breathless and begging for more." ~Romance Novel TV

"A great fast-paced read….Not to be missed." ~Book Addict

"
Breathtakingly fast-paced." ~Publishers Weekly

"Simply superb…riveting drama…a perfect ten." ~Romance Reviews Today

"Characters with beating hearts and three dimensions." ~Newsday

"A pulse-pounding adrenalin rush!"  ~Lisa Gardner

"Packed with adrenalin." ~David Morrell

"…Harrowing, emotional, action-packed and brilliantly realized." ~Susan Wiggs

"Explodes on the page…I absolutely could not put it down." ~Romance Readers' Connection

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. 

Copyright 2009, CJ Lyons

Cover art: Pat Ryan

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. 

Library of Congress Case # 1-273031561

CHASING SHADOWS

CJ Lyons

PROLOGUE

Marine Staff Sergeant Chase Westin lay in his bunk, eyes closed and breathing stilled as the intruder drew close.

Vague disappointment coursed through his veins.  Bruno Gianotti needed to hire a better class of hitman—this guy made more noise than a drunken frat boy stumbling to the john.

Cicadas serenaded Chase through the open window beside his bunk.  A soft, North Carolina breeze, heavy with July humidity, drifted lazily into the room.  As he lay there, debating his options, the most frightening thing was not the possibility of facing death.  

What scared the hell out of Chase was that he was hard pressed to find a good reason to make any effort to do something about it.

Had he fallen so far that he couldn't trust in the possibility that tomorrow might have something better to offer?  A floorboard creaked, interrupting Chase's existential debate.  

The intruder froze.  

Chase remained motionless, exhaling a raspy snore to placate any itchy trigger fingers.  

What did tomorrow have to offer except the arrival of his official notification of separation?  The medical board had made their final ruling, no more appeals, no going back.  Only the dreary prospect of returning to a nowhere town in nowhere Pennsylvania to find a nowhere job.  As far away from the real world as Chase could imagine.  The closest thing to hell for a Recon Marine.  

Make that soon-to-be-former Recon Marine.

The shuffling sound of a muted footfall announced his visitor's arrival at his bedside.  All right, maybe the guy wasn't strictly amateur-hour.  He had made it from the doorway to the night stand without crashing into anything.  But he sure as hell was no snake-eater.  If this was the best Bruno had to send after a Recon Team leader, well, hell.  That was just downright insulting.

Now it was a matter of pride.  No way he was going to let some Tony Soprano wannabe take him in his bed.  

He slid his fingers around the hilt of the K-bar cradled beneath his pillow.  Seven inches of carbon steel would be all the weapon he needed against this yahoo.

His eyes still closed, body relaxed as if asleep, he sniffed the air, following his prey's approach.  The scent of stale beer, a woman's perfume and a designer's signature aftershave registered. 

This guy wasn't one of Bruno's hitmen.  Adrenalin flooded his veins, jump starting Chase’s heart.  This was worse.  Because they both could be killed if his visitor said the wrong thing.

Chase shot his free hand out into the dark.  He found his target, capturing the other man's larynx between clawed fingers and tugging him onto the bed, rolling over on top of him.  His visitor sputtered and tried to break Chase's grip.  The whites of his eyes glistened in the dim light, reflecting his surprise.

"Hold still and you won't get hurt." Chase's whisper was a mere breath in the wind, inaudible to anyone—or anything—except his intruder.  

The other man complied, relaxing his body, signaling his surrender.  Chase took no chances, patting him down, removing a Glock from a hip holster, a fully loaded .40 caliber from the heft of it.  

"I told you not to contact me, Harriman.  I'm done talking."  

Chase found no other weapons on the Navy lieutenant and sat back on his heels, allowing Harriman to finally draw a deep breath.  Lt. Dwight David Harriman, Hollywood to his friends—a group Chase once upon a time was a part of—said nothing as he massaged his bruised neck.  

"Things have changed," Hollywood whispered.  

Chase held a finger up in the universal gesture for silence.  He couldn't trust that Bruno hadn't bugged his room.

"I don't care," Chase breathed into Hollywood's ear.  "I told you everything I know. The rest is up to your boys at NCIS."

Hollywood shook his head.  "Come with me.  My boss wants to meet you."  Chase was silent.  "It's important."

If it had been anyone but Hollywood.  But they'd been friends too long—Harriman had stuck by Chase longer than most of his old friends once he'd returned from A-ghan.  Chase slid off the bed and reached for his BDU's.  He was fully dressed and armed with his K-bar and Beretta M9 before Hollywood even made it upright.

Barefoot, Chase padded to the window, carrying his boots.  As soon as he'd secured these quarters, he'd loosened the screen and oiled it, allowing him to come and go at will.  

Always have an exit strategy.  First thing he taught his team members.  Once upon a time when his team was still alive.  

He slid the screen free from its track and climbed through the window, landing silently on the ground seven feet below.  The impact triggered a twang of pain ricocheting through his back, but it wasn't anything Chase wasn't used to.  He ignored it the same way he ignored the gnats and mosquitoes swarming around him as he stepped silently into the kudzu laden bushes.  By the time Hollywood plopped down beside him, Chase had his boots laced and tied.

"Where to?" Chase asked.

"Woods beside the obstacle course."  

Chase allowed the NCIS man to lead, trying not to wince at the noise he made.  To a snake-eater like Chase it sounded like a stampeding herd of elephants.  What could he expect?  Hollywood wasn't even Marine, just a squid with a fancy uniform and office to go with it.  Tonight Harriman wore street clothes, jeans with a black t-shirt, designer hiking boots.  

They followed the deserted path to the obstacle course, then Hollywood veered off into the thick woods populated by pin oaks and loblolly pine.  The faint sound of a live ammo exercise being held beyond the fence in Lejeune's special ops area drifted past them.

Chase's gut tightened as he envisioned the training op running less than a mile away.  One that he should have been a part of—would have been a part of if the damned medics weren't such self-righteous, arrogant SOB's that they wouldn't give a guy a second chance.  Hollywood stopped, waved Chase to a halt.

They stood in a clearing.  The only sounds were Hollywood's stifled breathing and the love-sick cicadas.  Chase peered around.  There was no one else here, yet he felt an itching along the scars that ran overtop his spine.  An itching that would not be denied...

He turned, trying to focus his sense of unease.  When he pivoted back to Hollywood, she was there.

Just like that.  Chase's heart revved into overdrive and he reached for his Beretta.  Where the hell?  How the hell?

The woman merely smiled at him, the crooked smile of a magician.  Or better yet, a witch.

Chase relaxed a little.  Enough to smile back.  Damn, she was good.  Good enough to be a snake-eater herself.

"Thanks for coming, Sergeant Westin."  Her voice barely carried over the raucous calls of the mating insects.  

She was 5-3, maybe 110 soaking wet, with long, dark hair frizzled by the humidity and curled around her high cheek bones and above her almond-shaped dark eyes.  He couldn't make out much more in the faint light, but she carried herself with the confidence of command.

"Who are you?"  The words escaped despite his determination to stand silent, not wanting to reveal he actually gave a damn.

Hollywood stepped to her side.  "This is my new boss," he explained.  "Rose Prospero."

Chase eyed the woman.  She obviously had real world experience, unlike Hollywood and his fellow investigators.  It was hard to tell her age, but he would guess she was in her mid to late thirties.  That was about as old as the Ancient Mariner in the world of covert ops.   Chase himself was only twenty-eight, although these days between the aches and twinges from assorted wounds, scars and surgeries, he felt hundred and eight.  "You're not Navy."

Her smile widened.  "Neither is Hollywood, at least not since he's come to work for me."

Hollywood shuffled his feet and looked down.  Chase didn't think it was embarrassment at her use of his nickname—the one he'd earned with his Brad Pitt good looks and his lengthy score sheet of sexual conquests.  He leveled a stare at Harriman and waited.  

Finally, the other man shrugged.  "I couldn't tell anyone—not even you."  He looked up, met Chase's gaze, his eyes bright with excitement.  "But now that you're on the team, you're gonna love it.  Rose has put together the best of the best from every branch of the alphabet soup, including a few that I never heard of outside of whispered rumors in the back alleys of the Pentagon."

"Team?" Chase asked cautiously.  He didn't do Teams—not anymore, not after losing his men six months ago.  The echo of gunfire—M16's peppered with AK-47's—vibrated through the night, blurring in his mind with the memory of automatic weapon fire during the longest night of his life.

The night he'd trusted the wrong person and lost everything.  Everything except his life.

"The official name is the Special Threats Response Team," Prospero answered.  "No one but a few select members of Congress, the President, National Security Advisor, and Head of Intelligent Services even knows that.  We're the last resort, tasked to track down terrorist threats the other agencies can't or won't handle."

Chase straightened.  Maybe this was the chance he'd been looking for.  "If that means you want to send me back to the sandbox, I'm your man."

"Sorry to disappoint, Sergeant Westin.  I'm not planning to send you back to Afghanistan."  She paused, her dark eyes scrutinizing him as if searching for hidden flaws.  

Chase met her gaze, not really caring what she saw, or thought she saw in him.  If she wasn't going to get him back with the troops, boots on the ground where it counted, where he could do some good, then to hell with her.  "I already gave you your man.  What more do you want?"

"Hollywood told me how you spotted Bruno Gianotti in a bar in Jacksonville, overheard him negotiate with two Marines as they planned to steal weapons for him."

"Right.  I did my part.  Now you guys go and arrest him."

She shook her head.  "We need more.  We want more.  Gianotti is the major supplier of illegal arms to every gangbanger, drug dealer, and militia fanatic on the East Coast, even has some international connections.  We want him and his buyers.  To do that we need you."