Page 1 of Condor’s Vow

Prologue

He could just make out the boy through the scope of his rifle on the ground floor of the two-story house. The boy was lying on his side, curled up and trying to make himself seem smaller, his dark head covered by his hands, the look of terror and shock evident on his face as he watched his father pacing the living room where he had just killed the kid’s mother and his wife.

Clay listened as the hostage negotiator spoke to the man, trying to persuade him to give himself up but Clay knew he wouldn’t. This man had already killed five people in two states. He’d finally been cornered at his home and had taken his wife and son hostage before shooting the wife dead in front of his kid.

Clay felt bile creep up his chest at the thought that a man could do that to anyone, let alone his own family, but he’d seen all sorts during his time in the FBI and especially the Hostage Rescue Team.

As the one with the most medical training and having been the official medic for the HRT, he’d go in and secure the kid first, but right now his sights were on the father who was running his hand through his hair in evident agitation.

Mark Roach had killed five women over the last five months, kidnapping and strangling them and then posing the bodies like mannequins. They had finally received a tip that led them here to where Roach held his terrified son.

“I’ll kill him if you come closer to the house.”

“Come on, Mark, just let Sam go and we can talk some more. He’s clearly frightened, and you don’t want that for him.”

“Don’t tell me what I want. I’m his father, not you.” Roach was becoming more volatile as he screamed at the negotiator.

“I have a visual on the target,” Clay spoke into his comms, relaying his position.

“Stand-by, Condor.”

Clay, also known as Condor, knew his teammates also had Roach in their sights and would not hesitate to take the shot.

Roach hung up suddenly on the negotiator and peered out the window, keeping his body concealed, but it didn’t matter. Clay only needed the smallest target to take this fucker down. Grabbing his boy, he made him sit up, shaking him as Clay breathed through his fury. The kid was six years old—a baby, an innocent who’d have to find a way to heal from this.

Clay knew the moment Roach decided he was going to kill his son and then himself and with the go order ringing in his ears, took the shot, hitting his target with two bullets to the chest, but it was too late. Roach had already pulled the trigger on his own child.

Clay was moving so quickly he couldn’t remember anything but his training as he rushed through the door behind his teammate who was clearing the scene. He fell to his knees beside the boy, who by some miracle was still breathing, but was bleeding out fast. The bullet had hit him in the right side and most likely done severe damage to his liver and bowel.

Setting up an IV with steady hands, he pushed fluids and morphine and packed the wound to slow the bleeding. Clay stepped aside when the paramedics arrived, knowing they had more of a chance of saving this kid than he did with his medic training. Yet he couldn’t force himself to leave the kid alone, even knowing he had to de-brief with his team.

The boy was alone, had nobody left here with him, and Clay wouldn’t leave him on his own. He had no idea where the thought came from, but he decided at that moment that he’d stay with this kid until he had family with him and didn’t care what anyone said.

After a brief, heated conversation with his boss, he was allowed to ride to the hospital in the back of the truck as the EMTs worked to save Sammy Roach. His vitals were terrible. His blood pressure was bottoming out, his heart rate going through the roof as they worked hard to replace the blood loss by running bags of plasma through his body.

Clay jumped out of the truck and gave the paramedics room to work as they rushed Sammy through the doors into the emergency department. He went to follow but was stopped by a hand on his chest.

“You can’t go in there.”

Clay looked down, irritated by the nurse who was trying to block his way and found himself looking into stern but beautiful blue eyes. She had blonde hair, which he’d bet had a wave to it when it was down, pulled into a strict, functional ponytail, lush, full lips devoid of gloss or lipstick but still pink and soft looking. She was a looker in the most flawless of ways.

Clay pushed slightly, testing her to see if she’d give as he flashed her a smile. “I’m FBI. I need to stay.”

She smiled, and Clay had to suck in a breath at the impact that smile had on him.

“Handsome, I don’t care if you’re the President himself, you’re not going through that door.”

Clay smiled despite himself at her spunky attitude and moved back slightly to get a better look at the woman who was both barring his way and intriguing him equally. She couldn’t be more than five feet four inches, with soft curves in all the right places. Curves he could hold onto, sink into. Clay had never had a type, but right that second, he decided he did, and she was it.

“I just need to see he’s okay. He has nobody with him, no family, nothing. I don’t want him to be alone.” Clay felt in his bones that he needed to make sure Sammy was all right.

The pretty nurse softened ever so slightly, her face showing compassion and understanding. “Wait here, and as soon as we have him assessed, I’ll come back and give you an update.”

“Thank you.”

She nodded and looked down at his hands which were covered in blood. “You can clean up down the hall and then wait here. I’ll come find you.”

“Thanks again, nurse?”