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His ragged whisper was more eloquence than she could manage. A raw, aching desire pulsed through her veins, sizzling along every nerve. She was evaluating which part of him she wanted to taste first when the radio and phones launched a bizarre, discordant symphony.
They leaped apart like teenagers caught steaming up a car, both of them scrambling to answer their respective devices.
Recognizing Ross’s number, she worried Morcos had gotten past Bart’s security detail at the hospital. “Talk to me,” she answered as she rushed toward the computers in the den.
“Matheson’s gone missing.”
Eva sagged against the counter. Phillip Matheson had been on the team that stormed the hideout to rescue Abe’s son.
“Didn’t know he was here,” she managed. While she appreciated the loyalty, it surprised her that Ross would invite others who’d been on that team to step right into Morcos’s line of sight.
“He wouldn’t stay away.”
“What do you mean?” She struggled to hear Ross’s voice through the memories of that awful night.
“Everyone involved with the mission got a head’s up and a number to call in case of trouble. That wasn’t good enough for Matheson. He insisted on being here.”
“Retirement doesn’t sit well with some people.”
“Like I don’t know that,” he grumbled. “We disagreed about how he could pitch in, but he insisted on guarding the house, claimed he owed you one.”
“What happened?”
“From the looks of things, he fell asleep at the wheel and drove his car into the ditch.”
“Is he dead?”
“The only thing I’ve got is a deployed airbag, a smear of blood on the door, and a ransom note.”
Two years ago Abraham Morcos’s son had been snatched from his car in a similar accident on his way home from a work site.
“What’s it say?”
“It’s not written in English.”
“Take a picture or copy it in a text. Do something, Ross. Matheson might not have much time.” When they found him, she’d bloody his nose for making her worry. The man had a wife and little girl for crying out loud. What was he thinking to get involved in her troubles?
“I’ve sent a picture.”
The message was in Russian:My price is an audience with the queen.
Eva’s breakfast threatened to come back up the hard way. “Come get me.”
“No. You stay right there. What did the message say?”
She read it back to him. “Come get me,” she repeated, willing him to change his mind. “I want to see Matheson’s car.”
“No. If you’re out here, it means you’re not doing your cyber thing. Stick with your strengths,” Ross said. “He wants you to suffer and feel guilty.”
“Well, give him a gold star.”
“Not today. Focus, Eva. Find Morcos. Let us find Matheson.”
Fingers flying, she brought up her private and corporate email accounts, no longer concerned about the FBI tech genius hunched behind a desk somewhere ghosting the set up to help her trace any incoming communication.
Finding nothing new at her personal email address was small consolation. Either her enemy didn’t have the skill or just hadn’t exercised it yet. The newest message in the primary Cypress Security email inbox gave her chills. Matheson’s name was in the subject line and Bart’s email address was listed as the sender. “Dammit.” Fairly sure it wouldn’t help, she did as instructed and started a trace on the IP address anyway.
The little paper clip indicated an attachment on the message which had arrived three minutes ago. Braced for anything, she opened the email. The only message was the same request, in Russian, that had been left at Matheson’s car. The first attachment was a picture, the second indicated a video file.
