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  To my brother-in-law, John—the original inspiration for the A-Tac series. And to Harrison Blake, who refused to give up the idea of having his own book.

  PROLOGUE

  Sunderland College, NY

  Sara Lauter looked up from the textbook she’d been reading. The English Industrial Revolution just wasn’t holding her attention. Too many other things on her mind. She stretched and looked around the edge of her study carrel. The library was almost empty. Frowning, she checked her watch, surprised to see that it was so late. Almost midnight. The library would be closing in another couple of hours.

  With a sigh, she closed the book and gathered her things. She had an early class tomorrow, and her professor wasn’t one to tolerate tardiness. Not that Sara had any intention of being late. She’d just have to set an extra alarm. Her roommate was going to love her.

  “Hey, babe? You ready to go?” she asked, smiling over at her boyfriend, Anthony Marcuso. He’d been buried in a midterm paper on Keynesian economics. Everyone said the new Econ prof was a major hard-ass. And if this paper was evidence, Sara was inclined to believe it. Tony was spending every spare moment on the thing.

  “I can’t,” he shook his head, his gaze apologetic. “I’ve still got three sources to verify. And I’m having trouble with the Internet in the dorm. So I’m afraid I’m here for the duration. Paper’s due at three tomorrow.”

  “All right,” Sara nodded, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “I won’t waste any more time talking. But I’m beat, and I’ve got an early class, so I’m heading out. Meet you for breakfast?”

  “Definitely,” he said. “And this weekend, we’ll celebrate.” He smiled up at her and as usual her heart melted. They hadn’t been dating all that long, but somehow, she knew that this was different. Something worth hanging on to.

  “I’ll call you.”

  “You can’t,” she shook her head. “Remember?” She’d lost her cellphone. Left it God knows where, and she hadn’t had the chance to replace it yet. “How about we just meet in front of the cafeteria at eight?”

  “Perfect,” he said, his concentration still on his paper as she bent to drop a kiss on his tousled head and then swung her book bag over her shoulder.

  “All right then, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She waved at a couple of friends as she headed upstairs to the library’s entrance. Built into the side of a hill, most of the building was underground. Which was nice when it came to avoiding distractions. And also the terraced area outside the front doors was a favorite student hangout, with grass-covered hills on both sides making the perfect place to sit and watch passersby.

  Outside, the night was crisp, the last remnants of autumn making her think of cider and pumpkins and flag football. Their dorm was currently in second place in the intercampus league. Not that anyone took it that seriously. She pulled her coat closer as she started up the stairs leading to the quad. Passing the Aaron Thomas Academic Center, she noted a light on in an upper-floor window, a professor or grad student working late no doubt. Most students didn’t have after-hours access.

  Other than the library, the campus was pretty deserted this time of night. Not that she minded. It was kind of nice to be alone with her thoughts. Although she wouldn’t have minded if Tony had been along. She passed the Student Center, darkened like the rest of the buildings, and smiled as she thought about their first kiss. Right there under the hanging oak. So called, because legend had it that some revolutionary figure or other had died there. But in modern times, the arching branches were the perfect cover for a stolen kiss.

  Despite the fact that most of the buildings were closed, the campus was still bathed in soft light, the fixtures mounted high in the trees. So the squirrels could study at night, was the standing joke. Primarily an insult from the state school across town. But Sara had always found it funny.

  Behind her, the bushes rattled, and despite the fact that she had made this trek almost every night since coming to Sunderland, she sped up the pace, suddenly fighting the feeling that someone was following her. She glanced over her shoulder, then sped up even more, her gaze moving automatically to the nearest blue light.

  The security station was at the far end of the cafeteria building, the opposite direction from her dorm, but she knew there was another one at the edge of Regan Hall. And besides, she was being silly. Nothing ever happened at Sunderland. It was one of the safest campuses in the state. Her mind was just playing tricks on her. As if to support the idea, the wind gusted, leaves swirling. She smiled to herself, turning the corner, the lights of Varsley Hall just ahead. There were three women’s dorms. Varsley, Regan, and Gallant. It was kind of old-fashioned these days to have single-sex housing, but Sara had always liked it.

  And besides, there were always ways of getting around the problem if the need arose. Again she smiled, her thoughts turning to Tony, and the endless possibilities their relationship presented. She’d even phoned her mother to tell her that she might have met “the one.” A conversation that hadn’t gone particularly well, her mother being convinced that marriage before thirty would be a mistake.

  Not really a problem since Sara wasn’t interested in marriage—but she was interested in Tony.

  The sound of footsteps broke through her reverie, nervous energy pushing her to move even faster. It was probably just another student, but it was always best to be careful. Off to her left, she could see the shadowy outline of Regan and the faint glow of the blue light. Maybe a hundred feet.

  She shot a glance behind her, but there was no one there, the empty sidewalk only serving to ratchet up her worry. Still, there was no point in panicking. She tightened her hold on the book bag, thinking that as weapons went, it probably wasn’t lethal, but her biochem book was at least three inches thick.

  She reached in her pocket for her keys, wishing she hadn’t put off replacing the damn phone, but she hadn’t wanted to tell her father. He sort of went ballistic when she lost things. Which, unfortunately, happened a lot. Anyway, she’d definitely take care of it tomorrow, first thing.

  The night had grown eerily quiet, but she was only a short distance from the back porch of Regan now. Two minutes and she’d be safely inside. She pulled out her keys, relaxing a little, and then something hit her. Hard. The keys went flying, and a man’s arm clamped around her shoulders, his gloved hand covering her mouth as she opened it to scream. Twisting and kicking, she tried to pull free, but he was strong, and a sickly sweet odor filled her nostrils, making her feel woozy.

  Chloroform.

  Panic crested, along with adrenaline, and she rammed her elbow into the side of her attacker, but he was too strong, and the drug was taking effect. She tried to hold her breath, but even that was too much effort. She felt her strength ebbing as her vision started to cloud, and her last thought was of Tony.

  CHAPTER 1

  Montreal, Canada

  You guys picking me up all right?” Hannah Marshall asked as she adjusted her short skirt, pulling it firmly down.

  “Coming through loud and clear,” her boss, Avery Solomon, replied, his voice crackling in her earpiece. “You all set?”

  “Good as I’ll ever be,” Hannah said, sucking in a fortifying breath as she walked across the street toward the five-story office building where she’d arranged to meet Alain DuBois. It was a quarter past eleven, and the street was dark, the surrounding buildings shuttered for the night. The sole streetlamp flickered ominously, and Hannah couldn’t help feeling as if she’d been dropped into the middle of a film noir set.

  Avery was set up in the building just behind her with Simon Kincaid, A-Tac’s newest member. Har
rison Blake, the unit’s computer guru, was in the adjacent building with Annie Brennon, A-Tac’s sharpshooter.

  Their target, DuBois, was a high-end antiques dealer who had recently been connected to the Consortium, a secretive arms cartel that was directly responsible for planting a nuclear bomb in lower Manhattan. They had also created a plan to infiltrate A-Tac that had ended with one of the team, Hannah’s friend Jason Lawton, losing his life. Add to that the fact that the Consortium had attempted to take out Drake Flynn’s wife and sister-in-law, and there was quite a score to settle, with DuBois being their only lead.

  Unfortunately, up until now, A-Tac hadn’t had any success running DuBois to ground, the man always one step ahead in the chase. So they’d concocted a scheme to pull him into their net. Something that DuBois wouldn’t be able to resist. Hannah was posing as a woman who’d recently inherited a large collection of art, including a presumably “lost” painting by Claude Monet.

  Le Jardin, reputed to have disappeared during the Second World War, had taken on cult-like status among collectors, experts split on whether the painting actually existed. And the chance to possess the elusive canvas had proved too much of a pull for DuBois, who, despite his desire to remain off the grid, had agreed to a meeting.

  The painting Hannah had stowed in her portfolio was actually a forgery. But the artist was very good, an American living in Ireland with a talent for reproducing the masters. There was, of course, some risk that DuBois would connect Hannah with A-Tac, but since she was a background player most of the time, it had seemed worth taking the chance. And besides, in her high heels and designer suit, minus her trademark glasses and streaked hair, she wasn’t certain she’d recognize herself.

  “The place looks pretty deserted,” she said, as she slowed, coming to a stop in the shadows just to the left of the building’s front door. “Any sign of life inside?”

  “Roger that,” Harrison Blake replied. “I’ve got infrared up and running.” Harrison was Jason’s replacement. And although she’d never have thought she’d be able to accept anyone else in the position, she had to admit that Harrison was good. And more important, he’d proved himself loyal to the team. Truth was, she liked the man.

  “Looks like there are three hot spots,” he said. “One in a back office on the second floor. A second on the first floor near the lobby. It’s moving, so I’m guessing it’s probably the security guard. And the last hot spot is in the corner office on the fourth floor.”

  “The one where I’m supposed to be meeting DuBois,” Hannah responded, stepping deeper into the shadows.

  “Yes,” Harrison acknowledged, his voice crackling with static. “Annie’s in place, but the blinds are drawn, so we haven’t been able to establish visual contact other than infrared.”

  “How about audio?” she asked. “Have you got confirmation that it’s DuBois, Simon?”

  “I do. There was a phone call about three minutes ago. Confirming an appointment tomorrow. It was definitely him.” Simon had taken over as the team’s communications officer. He was young, gung-ho, and disarmingly charming. But in truth, Hannah preferred her men a bit more cerebral and definitely more seasoned. Still, Simon’s enthusiasm could be contagious.

  “Look, if this is going to work,” Harrison said, pulling her thoughts back to the task at hand, “you’re going to have to get DuBois in front of the window.”

  “And we’re certain Annie can make the shot, even with the blinds down and the window closed?” Hannah asked, even though they’d already discussed the logistics ad nauseam.

  “It won’t be a problem,” Annie’s voice assured her. “All I need is for you to get him in place. There’ll be a shadow. And you’ll give me voice confirmation that it’s DuBois.” The plan was to tranquilize him. Then Avery and company would move him to a secure location for interrogation. The key was not to tip their hand.

  “Okay, people.” Avery’s voice rang out, his baritone as usual brooking no argument. “Enough talking. If Hannah is late DuBois is going to get suspicious. Or worse, he’ll fly the coop.”

  Hannah nodded, straightened the skirt again, and walked over to the front entrance of the building. After studying a lighted keypad, she typed in the code DuBois had given her. There was a whirring sound followed by a click as the door in front of her unlocked. Feeling a bit like David heading into the lion’s den, she pushed open the door and walked into the small lobby of the building.

  “There’s no one here,” she whispered into her comlink. “I’m headed for the elevator.”

  “Copy that,” Harrison said as she pressed the button and the doors slid open. “The guard’s over in the next hallway.”

  “All right then.” Avery’s voice boomed over the comlink. “It’s showtime.”

  The doors slid shut, and the little elevator lurched as it began the ascent to the fourth floor. A minute or so later and she was walking down the hallway toward the office at the end. Heart pounding, she knocked on the door, surprised when DuBois himself pulled it open.

  He was a small man with graying hair, dressed in a tailored suit with a handkerchief tucked in the pocket. His gaze was wary, but there was also a spark of appreciation. Despite herself, Hannah smiled. Maybe the new look had been worth the effort after all.

  “You must be Rebecca Andrews,” DuBois said, extending his hand, exposing cuff links that were probably worth a year’s salary.

  “I am,” she said, allowing her smile to broaden as she shook his hand. “I appreciate your meeting with me.”

  “You have the painting?” he asked, his eyes dropping to the portfolio.

  “I do.” She searched his face for some sign that he recognized her as A-Tac, but his gaze remained politely impersonal as he motioned her inside the office and then closed the door, gesturing to a table near the window.

  “You can put it over there.”

  She placed the portfolio on the table, and after opening it, carefully removed the forged Monet, then stepped back to give him access. There wasn’t any way to force him to align with the window, so instead she held her breath as he examined the little painting, praying he’d buy into it long enough to give her time to figure out how to manipulate him into place.

  “You’ve had it authenticated?” he asked, pulling out a jeweler’s loupe.

  “Yes,” she said, reaching back into the portfolio to produce the paperwork. “Charles Avignon. My attorney recommended him.” She handed him the file.

  “He’s one of the best,” DuBois agreed, placing the papers on the table as he continued to examine the painting. “What about provenance?”

  “Considering the painting’s history, I’m afraid it isn’t what it should be. I can prove that my grandfather bought the painting from a dealer in Lucerne in 1956. But there’s nothing to attest to the fact that the dealer’s acquisition was legitimate.”

  “That won’t present a problem,” DuBois said. “There are people who will pay most any price for the painting, with or without provenance. That is, of course, if it is in fact the missing Monet.”

  “If?” Hannah asked, holding her breath as he frowned down at the canvas.

  “Yes,” he said, “there are certain anomalies I wouldn’t have expected.”

  “Now you’re frightening me, Mr. DuBois.” Hannah moved closer, patting the gun tucked into the holster on her thigh.

  “I’m sorry.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but his tone seemed sincere and Hannah relaxed. “I’m probably just seeing things. The light here is not the best. I’ll have to have it tested to be certain.”

  “I have no problem with that,” Hannah said. “As long as you’re discreet. I’m sure you can understand why I want to keep the painting off the radar. If it were to go public, then there would most definitely be questions. Questions my family would prefer to avoid.”

  “I assure you, Ms. Andrews,” DuBois said, lowering the loupe, his gaze probing, “my reputation is built on discretion.”

  “Absolutely,” sh
e soothed, trying to figure out a way to get him in front of the window. Time was running out. “That’s why I chose you. Maybe you could show me these so-called anomalies?”

  “Of course.” His smile this time seemed genuine.

  “Could we move into the light?” she asked, answering his smile and nodding at the fluorescent fixture on the ceiling in front of the window. “I’m afraid my untrained eyes need all the help they can get.”

  “That’s totally understandable. It takes years to be able to identify a master.” He picked up the painting and carried it over to where she was standing beneath the light. She made a play of looking at the painting as he explained the things that didn’t conform with Monet’s style.

  Heart pounding, she shifted slightly, forcing him to turn his back to the window. “It’s really amazing,” she said, the words her cue to Annie. “It almost doesn’t matter who painted it.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose in a perfect world that would be true. But in actuality—” DuBois’s words were cut short as the window exploded, glass flying through the air like shrapnel. The man’s eyes widened for a moment and then he fell to the floor as another volley of bullets strafed the walls.

  “What the hell?” Hannah barked into the comlink, hitting the ground, glass cutting into her knees and palms as the gunfire continued.

  “It’s not us,” Avery said, her earpiece crackling to life. “And those sure as hell aren’t tranquilizers. The operation’s been compromised. What about DuBois?”

  “He’s down.” She twisted to reach over and check his pulse. “Damn it. He’s dead.” More shots rang out, and she ducked lower as a second wave of glass rained down on her.

  “Hannah, get the hell out of there,” Harrison’s worried voice broke in. “Now.”

  “I’m working on it,” she said, already crawling toward the door. “Have you still got visual on the building?”

  “Hang on,” he said, his worry carrying over the airwaves. “We’re taking fire—” One minute Harrison was there and the next he was gone, her ear filled with the sound of static.