Alpha One (Shadow Agents 1)

Where was his son?

His hand trembled as he bypassed the room and edged toward the bedroom where Marie slept. One look inside, and his heart stopped.

The lamp was broken on the floor. Pillows tossed on the carpet. The corner chair overturned. Glass shards from the mirror were scattered on the vanity.

A sea of red flashed in front of him. Blood...it soaked the sheets and led a trail into the bathroom.

His stomach revolted, but he forced himself to scan the corners of the room before slowly entering the bathroom. Blood streaked the floor and led toward the claw-foot tub.

A groan settled deep in his gut.

Marie. Her eyes stood wide-open in death. Blood dripped down her neck and bare chest. Her arms dangled lifelessly over the tub edge, one leg askew.

For a moment, he choked. Couldn’t make himself move. He’d seen dozens of dead bodies before but none so personal...none that he cared about.

Emotions crowded his throat and chest, and he gripped the wall to steady himself. He had to. Had to get control. Slide that wall back into place so he could do his job.

Every second counted.

Fighting nausea, he slowly walked toward her and felt for a pulse. Although he knew before he touched her that it was too late.

Dugan had done this. Had gotten his payback by killing his son’s mother.

That creaking sound suddenly echoed again. He froze, hand clenching his gun, then spun around.

Nothing. Except the evidence of Dugan’s brutal crime.

Where was Timmy?

For a fraction of a second he closed his eyes on a prayer. The sound echoed again...

The attic.

Heart hammering double-time, he headed toward Timmy’s room. The door to the space had been built inside his closet. Timmy had called it his secret room.

Had Dugan found it?

Hope warred with terror as he inched inside the closet and pushed at the door. It was closed, but he had insisted the lock be removed for fear Timmy might lock himself inside and be trapped.

Now he wished he’d left that damn lock on so his son could have locked Dugan out.

Darkness shrouded the cavernous space as he climbed the steps. He tried to move soundlessly, but the wood floor squeaked. As he reached the top step, a sliver of sunlight wormed its way through the small attic window, allowing him to sweep the interior.

It appeared empty, but he had heard something.

“Timmy,” he whispered. “Son, are you here?”

Praying he was safe, Miles examined the room. Timmy’s toy airplanes and horses, his train set...

Another squeak, and he jerked his head around. An antique wardrobe sat in the corner, one Marie had used to store old quilts. He held his breath as he approached it, then eased open the door.

Relief mingled with pain when he saw his little boy hunched inside, his knees drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped around them. He had buried his head against his legs, silent sobs racking his body.

“Timmy, it’s okay, it’s Dad.” Anguish clogged his throat as he gently lifted his son’s face. Blood dotted Timmy’s T-shirt and hands, and tears streaked his splotched skin, a streak of blood on his left cheek.

But it was the blank look in his eyes that sent a wave of cold terror through Miles.

Timmy might be alive, but he was in shock.