“They got me, my old friend. They got me.”
Aidan Mahoney woke with a start.
His room was dark; instinct made him reach for the Glock at his bedside and then remain dead still.
Listening.
He’d heard the words as clearly as if they’d been spoken directly in front of him. And when he’d first opened his eyes, he could have sworn that there’d been a form—the form of a man. A man beseeching him—for help. Tall, nicely dressed in a suit, leaning toward him.
But he’d blinked.
And now...
Now there was no one.
He tensed, searching the darkness, listening carefully. He heard the hum of the heater, the noise of a car in the street below and, distantly, the blaring of a horn.
Nothing else. The usual sounds of New York City at night.
But something teased at the back of his mind. Something he should have realized, something he should have recognized about that whisper. His eyes adjusted to the shadows. No, there was nothing in his room. No one stood by his bed. He glanced to the side, but he knew he’d slept alone the night before. He occasionally brought a woman home, but there hadn’t been anyone regular in his life since his crush on Tina Hastings in high school and his passionate college romance with Kathy Flanders.
The passion had lasted until college ended—and cooled almost overnight when their career choices clashed and Kathy had gone on to study anthropology in Cambodia.
Even then, he’d been the one to keep his distance. Sometimes it was just best to be alone and to fight your own demons.
And right now he was definitely alone.
But he’d heard the voice.
He’d seen something.
Cautiously, he crawled out of bed. He kept the light off and made a quick but thorough search of his immediate space, checking next to the dresser, quietly opening the closet.
From there, he left his room just as quietly. Nothing in the hallway. He kept moving, wearing only his boxers, inspecting the apartment’s second bedroom—his office—the kitchen, living room and dining area. No sign of anyone. Anywhere. He’d dreamed the words. He must have.
From down below, he heard the angry squeal of a cat; a garbage can was knocked over. A lot of street noise came into the apartment, since he was on the third floor of an old brownstone in the Village. But the voice he’d heard hadn’t come from the street.
He groaned aloud, setting his Glock on the kitchen counter and opening the refrigerator door, letting the cool air wash over him. He was always wary; training in various military and law enforcement branches had caused that. But he wasn’t paranoid. There was no one in his apartment and he was sure of that now.
But, to his mind, the alternative was almost worse.
He’d known the voice. But he couldn’t quite place it.
They got me, my old friend. They got me.
Aidan glanced at the clock over the fireplace. The time was creeping toward 5:30 a.m. What the hell? He might as well stay awake, shower, get dressed, then head on in to work.
He put coffee on to brew while he got ready, but checked the locks on his door before he went to shower. By 5:35 he was dressed and pouring a cup of coffee. With his gun in its small holster he went to the door to get his newspaper. He still liked reading the Times in its old-fashioned form.
When he picked up the rolled bundle, he saw the headline: Highsmith Missing!
It suddenly seemed that his blood really did run cold—a physical impossibility, of course, but for a moment he felt frozen in place. He felt a distinct chill coursing through his body.
Then his phone rang.
And, of course, he knew that call presaged a hell of a day. Just as he now realized that the voice he’d heard had been that of Richard Highsmith.
“Mahoney,” he answered, aware of how terse he sounded.
From the caller ID he’d seen that it was his new unit chief, Jackson Crow. He liked Crow, all right, and working for him wasn’t going to be a problem. But...
He’d known Richard since they were kids. Once, they’d been great friends. But time went by, people got older. Life and work intruded. Obligations kept old friends from being together, kicking a ball around or playing video games, but that didn’t change the fact that a few hours grabbed for a football game or a quick dinner wasn’t damned good. And yet even those occasions became less and less frequent.
Richard was missing.
This was going to be about Richard.
A phone call from Crow was new for Aidan. He’d been working as an FBI field agent out of the largest office in the country—the New York City office—for the past ten years. He’d worked briefly with Crow on a case that had included the D.C. offices. Then they’d gone in different directions. Now, Crow was heading up a special unit—and that unit was opening new offices in NYC.
Aidan hadn’t asked to transfer to the new unit. He hadn’t wanted it. And when he’d received a call from the director of the bureau, he’d known he could refuse the transfer. If he did, however, his career with the agency might well be at stake.
But this call? He was almost certain it would be about Richard. He wanted to work Richard’s case; he desperately wanted to find his old friend. And find him alive.
He was afraid he wouldn’t.
And he still wasn’t sure about the new coworkers he’d wind up with on the case.
Aidan reassured himself that