your transfer?”
She told him about the illegal gun sales. Her voice rose in excitement when talking about working at Stella’s. The year they had celebrated their eighth birthday, their parents had sent them to Mission Grove to spend the summer months. They had learned to fly-fish, swim in the ice-cold lake, pick berries for the pies their aunt Stella made for the restaurant and, when they were older, how to hunt and survive in the woods. Greer and Cooper waited anxiously for the end of the school year to board a plane for the cross-country flight. They would always return counting down the months when they would again enjoy a short summer where they existed like wood sprites.
Pressing his head to the back of his seat, Cooper closed his eyes. “You be careful. I don’t want anything to happen to you where you can’t marry or make me an uncle.”
Greer landed a soft punch on her brother’s rock-hard shoulder. “I didn’t know you were a comedian. And you of all people should know I don’t want another husband. Been there, done that. Now it’s your turn.”
“What about making me an uncle?”
“There’s no way I’d bring a child into this world given my career. What about that nice artist you were dating?” she asked, steering the attention away from her.
“We still see each other every once in a while.”
“And?”
“And nothing. We’ve decided not to be exclusive because I can’t commit when I don’t know where I’m going to be next year.”
“She wants marriage?”
Cooper stared out the window of the sleek aircraft. “She wants marriage and kids. She claims her biological clock is ticking, and she doesn’t want to wait too much longer before starting a family.”
“Do you love her?” Greer asked.
His head came around and he stared at his sister. “Not enough to propose marriage.”
“Then let her go, so she can find someone else willing to commit to a future with her.”
“You’re probably right.”
Greer’s eyes met Cooper’s. “I know I’m right. No woman wants to be strung along wishing and praying her man will step up and do the right thing.”
Cooper and Greer continued their whispered conversation until the jet touched down on a private Portland airstrip. He kissed her goodbye, then followed the other agents to a Suburban, while Greer was escorted to a Ford SUV.
The last time she’d seen her uncle was before her final undercover assignment. It was as if the light had gone out behind his bright blue eyes. It had been her aunt Stella who had helped Bobby adjust to civilian life, had encouraged him to open the restaurant and had taught him to cook the dishes that made Stella’s a favorite restaurant among locals and tourists.
Waiting until the driver stored her luggage in the cargo area of the SUV, Greer slipped onto the rear seat. Opening her handbag, she took out her cell phone, scrolled through her contacts and punched the number to Stella’s. It rang twice before she heard a familiar gravelly voice.
“Stella’s.”
“Uncle Bobby, this is Greer.”
“Where are you?”
“We touched down few minutes ago. I should be there in an hour.” It was about fifty-five miles between Portland and the Hood River Valley.
“Did you eat?”
“I had a little breakfast.” Her little breakfast was a cellophane-wrapped sweet bun and a cup of coffee.
“I’ll fix something special to welcome you back.”
Greer smiled. “I’d like that, Uncle Bobby.”
Ending the call and slumping lower in her seat, she closed her eyes and did what she should’ve done during the flight: sleep.
Chapter 2
Mission Grove, Oregon
The flight attendant leaned over her lone sleeping passenger. “Wake up, Jason. We’ll be descending soon.”
Jason opened his eyes, sat up and peered out the oval window. “Thank you, Carrie-Ann.”
He’d asked the attendant to wake him a half hour before they landed so he could shower and change clothes. He’d flown over three thousand miles and not once had he looked out the window. When the Gulfstream G550 became airborne and the seat belt light extinguished, he’d reclined the seat into a queen-size bed. It’d become customary for him to sleep during the flight from Florida to Oregon. The three-hour time difference played havoc with his body’s circadian rhythm for several days, but sleeping around the clock the first day was the trick in keeping the effects of jet lag at bay.
Coming to his feet, he walked into the bathroom, stripped bare and stepped into the shower stall. Turning on the faucets and adjusting the water temperature, he soaped his body with a shower gel anchored on a built-in shelf. Jason had surprised his parents when he’d announced that he’d bought property in Oregon near the Cascades on which he’d built a sprawling house he dubbed Serenity West. It was where he spent four to six months each year writing and recording new music. This year was different because he’d delayed traveling to the Pacific Northwest for two months.
Once his father had relinquished the day-to-day operation of Serenity Records, an independent recording label, to Jason and his twin sister, he and Ana had continued the trend of discovering new and innovative musical talent. Ana handled contracts and all legal negotiations, while he worked behind the scenes as the artistic musical director writing, recording and editing music.
Usually he left Florida the beginning of June, but when Ana had gone into hiding, it had become Jason’s responsibility to run the company. Once they had discovered there was a mole at Serenity passing information to a rival record company, he’d closed the office, relocating it from a high-rise office building to a freestanding structure outfitted with the latest high-tech surveillance equipment. He’d contracted with a security company to install cameras inside and around the perimeter of the building to monitor everyone coming and/or leaving. All employees were vetted, given electronic badges to swipe in and out, even if they went to their cars in the parking lot for any reason. The tight security was necessary to ensure the safety of everyone associated with the company.
Jason wanted to believe the threat against Ana and Serenity Records ended with Basil Irvine’s untimely death from a massive heart attack, but something wouldn’t permit him to relax completely. The public was led to believe the CEO of Slow Wyne Records was only thirty-nine, but his death certificate indicated he was forty-three. If he’d hidden his age, then what else had the deceased concealed?
Jason raised his head, allowing the water to flow over his face and body. The gurgling sound coming from his belly reminded him that it had been more than twelve hours since his last meal. As soon as the jet landed, he planned to eat, then go directly to sleep. Turning off the shower, he opened the shower door and reached for a thick towel from a supply on a nearby table. By the time he’d changed into a pair of laundered jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, matching thick cotton socks and Timberland boots, the Fasten Seat Belt light chimed throughout the aircraft.
Jason made his way back to the main cabin. The flight attendant had repositioned the bed into a seat. He sat, fastened his seat belt and shared a smile with Carrie-Ann who’d taken her seat outside the cockpit door. She was one of two permanent flight attendants on the ColeDiz International Ltd. payroll, along with three full-time pilots. There was an unwritten rule that anyone claiming Cole blood was forbidden to fly commercial carriers. The edict was instituted more than forty years ago when, as a child, Regina Cole Spencer had been kidnapped and held for ransom, before she was rescued and found unharmed by her uncle and a close family friend.
Flying in the corporate jet suited Jason’s laid-back persona. He abhorred crowds or being jostled as passengers crowded