The Specialist Read online

  THE SPECIALIST

  Rhonda Nelson

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  For Jen and Vicki, my Bent Quill Posse partners in crime, the Conference Call Queens, Plot Wizards and friends extraordinaire. You guys are the best.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Coming Next Month

  1

  FEELING A BIT LIKE a puppet master about to pull the strings, Colonel Carl Garrett shifted in his roomy first-class seat and gratefully accepted a tumbler of Kentucky bourbon from the pretty flight attendant currently smiling down at him. “Thank you,” the colonel murmured.

  Brian Payne, his puppet de jour and a former major under his command sat next to him, his face an impassive mask of patience…but Garrett knew better.

  Payne might appear patient, but that was the extent of it.

  In exchange for pushing Payne’s end-of-service papers through—when Garrett could have just as easily made things very difficult for them—Payne and a couple of his other friends had agreed to grant him one favor. Garrett had already collected from former Major Jamie Flanagan. His lips quirked.

  And he’d gotten way more than he bargained for.

  He’d sent Flanagan to Maine to prevent his granddaughter from marrying the wrong man. Only Flanagan had ended up marrying her himself. Though that hadn’t been the colonel’s original intent, he had to confess that he’d been pleased with the outcome. If he’d searched the world over he couldn’t have found a better man—a better partner—for his granddaughter. In seven months she’d be delivering their first child—his first great-grandchild—and if the child was a boy, they’d promised to name the baby after him. He didn’t know when anything had delighted him as much.

  Of course, if Payne succeeded on this next “favor”—and considering the man had never failed at anything in his life, Garrett had no reason to suspect that he would start now—he’d be equally delighted, though for completely different reasons. Even his recent commendation for meritorious service—his expert handling of a hostage situation, specifically—as rewarding as it was, wouldn’t compare to owning a piece of history, a piece he had secretly searched for and coveted for years.

  He’d let Payne stew long enough, Garrett decided. Besides, waiting the man out was a futile effort. Garrett instinctively knew he would lose.

  “I’m a big Civil War buff,” Garrett said conversationally, a mild understatement. He wasn’t merely a “buff.” According to his wife, he was obsessed, but there were worse obsessions. “Did you know that?”

  Though he hadn’t so much as blinked, the colonel felt Payne go on alert. “No, sir.”

  “Oh, yes.” Garrett lifted his glass and studied the amber liquid within. “I’ve walked every battlefield, studied every strategy, read hundreds of letters from soldiers—mostly Confederate, of course—and even collected a few. It was a fascinating time in history,” Garrett ruminated. “Fascinating time…and yet, there’s no man I find more fascinating than General Robert E. Lee.” Another mild understatement. Lee was brilliant, possibly the best strategist and tactician in history, American or otherwise. If he’d been able to walk the valleys of time and had the liberty to choose to meet any of the men who’d gone before him, with the exception of Jesus, Robert E. Lee would be first on his list.

  Payne quirked a brow, a silent indicator which told Garrett to continue.

  “Did you know he was asked to lead the Union army first, but turned it down?”

  Payne inclined his head. “I seem to recall hearing that.”

  Garrett continued. “In a letter written to his sister, he said, ‘With all my devotion to the Union and the feeling of loyalty and duty of an American citizen, I have not been able to make up my mind to raise my hand against my relatives, my children, my home.’” He sighed. “No one talks that way anymore. Lee had passion, Major. He was a great man.”

  Payne acknowledged this proclamation with the usual silent nod.

  “You’re going to Gettysburg,” Garrett announced without further preamble.

  Gratifyingly, the first notable flicker of interest sparked in Payne’s annoyingly impassive gaze. “Gettysburg? What will I be doing in Gettysburg, sir?”

  “I want you to find something for me.”

  Payne waited, presumably for him to elaborate, Garrett concluded, quite perturbed. The man was supposed to be more interested than this, dammit. Garrett frowned. It was quite unsporting of him. “Don’t you want to know what I want you to find for me?” he asked, swallowing an impatient huff.

  “I’m assuming at some point you’re going to tell me, sir,” he replied mildly.

  Fine, Garrett thought. There was no point in playing cat and mouse with a mouse that didn’t want to play. “Lee might have surrendered at Appomattox, but scholars agree the war was really lost at Gettysburg. The Confederacy never fully recovered from that defeat. Furthermore, Lee lost more than the war there. It’s rumored that he lost a pocketwatch, as well.”

  “Rumored?” Payne repeated, seemingly interested now. “You’re cashing in your favor on a rumor?”

  It was a gamble, Garrett had to admit, but one he was willing to make. After sifting through countless letters—though none in Lee’s own hand—Garrett was convinced that the watch did exist. It reportedly was engraved with the inscription “Lighthorse,” meaning that it had most likely belonged to Lee’s father, Harry.

  If it existed—and he thought it did—then Garrett wanted it.

  And if anyone could find it, then Brian Payne—aka The Specialist—could.

  Operating on the belief that the watch had never made it out of Gettysburg, Garrett had kept feelers out at various antique dealers and pawn shops over the years. Up to this point they’d yielded frustrating leads which had inevitably arrived at dead ends. But now Garrett thought he’d finally received a viable clue. He scowled.

  Unfortunately, so had another rival collector.

  And unfortunately this rival collector was also a friend, one who’d had the nerve to bet him—only one of many wagers over the years—that his rebel rule-bending girl could find it before Garrett’s Specialist could.

  Hogwash.

  Granted, Garrett knew enough about Emma Langsford and her service in the military not to completely discount her. But to consider her a worthy opponent to Payne? One of his Project Chameleon protégés? Hell, Payne had been part of a secret unit that couldn’t be found in any file, computer-generated or otherwise. He and his friends had been the best. So, would Emma Langsford be a match for Payne? He thought not.

  Since Emma had recently left the service, as well, Garrett imagined that he wasn’t the only person cashing in a favor, so to speak. No doubt Emma owed Colonel Martin Hastings, as well. He couldn’t imagine any other reason the woman would agree to go and look for the watch.

  Garrett had debated whether or not to tell Payne about Emma, but ultimately decided against it. In the first place, Payne needed to stay focused and if he was worrying about keeping up or even one step ahead of the woman, then he wouldn’t be able to properly utilize that eerily pragmatic brain of his.

  And secondly, somehow he didn’t think Payne would appreciate being the object of a be
t between friends. He’d undoubtedly take exception to his manipulated part in this wager. Naturally Garrett wanted to win, but he wanted the watch more.

  Luckily, he had every confidence that he’d have both.

  “I have what I believe is a solid lead in Gettysburg,” Garrett finally continued. “According to a local auctioneer, a watch with the same inscription as what’s rumored to be on the one Lee lost at Gettysburg was recently sold in the estate sale of an elderly woman who was an avid collector of, well…junk. She most likely didn’t know what she had.”

  “What was the inscription?”

  “Lighthorse, after Lee’s—”

  “Father,” Payne finished, displaying a gratifying knowledge of Confederate history. “So if you know it was sold at auction, then there should be a record of who bought it and for how much. You shouldn’t need me to go find it.”

  Garrett grimaced. Yes, he’d originally thought it was going to be that simple, as well. “Evidently this was a slipshod job and most of the items were sold in lots. The woman owned dozens of watches and they were sold off in groups of three.”

  Payne sat there for a moment, seemingly absorbing what Garrett had just shared. Predictably, he came to the same conclusion Garret himself had. “So the watch—provided it even exists—could be anywhere.”

  Exactly, Garrett thought. He looked away and quaffed the rest of his bourbon. “I’m confident you can find it.”

  Then that made only one of them, Payne thought, resisting the pressing urge to grind his teeth. Given the nature of Jamie’s favor, Payne had known that trying to anticipate Garrett’s next request was an effort in futility. But he had to admit, never in a million years would he have expected Garrett to send him on a freaking treasure hunt for a fabled pocketwatch.

  One that had supposedly belonged to Robert E. Lee.

  And which may or may not even exist.

  It was madness. Payne inwardly frowned. And it was going to be extremely time-consuming.

  “If it exists, then I will find it,” Payne said, bristling at having his Ranger training squandered on such a frivolous task. “However, I cannot afford to devote more than a week away from work.” It wasn’t altogether true, he supposed, but Jamie had set a precedent and frankly, Garrett wasn’t getting any more out of him than absolutely necessary. He’d agreed to one favor and he would deliver to the best of his ability. It was not in his character to do otherwise. But clearly the colonel had been on this quest for many years and Payne had no intention of getting sucked into an indefinite search.

  “I’m a reasonable man, Payne. If you can’t find it within a week, then you can give me what information you’ve gathered up to that point and I’ll take it from there.”

  Fair enough, Payne thought. For reasons he couldn’t begin to explain, he got the distinct impression that the colonel was holding out on him. “Is there anything else I should know, sir?” he asked, more to gauge Garrett’s response than to mine for a real answer.

  “Just this,” Garrett replied after a slight hesitation. He pulled a folder from his briefcase and handed it to him. “This has the necessary information. Contacts, a map of the area, your plane ticket and reservation. I’ve booked you into a bed and breakfast rather than a hotel. You get better service at a B&B and the owners are generally more informed about local history. This particular one is called The Dove’s Nest and has been in the same family for several generations. Oral history is becoming a forgotten art, but by all accounts this family is one of the better-informed in the area.”

  Be that as it may, Payne figured he’d have more anonymity at a hotel than a B&B. Furthermore, what about modern conveniences? He had no desire whatsoever to share a bathroom with anyone and he grimly suspected he’d be forced to depend upon a dial-up connection versus the high-speed cable version he could expect from even the cheapest hotel chain. But because he’d mastered the art of keeping his emotions completely in check—it was easier to keep a potential threat from using them against him—Payne didn’t so much as grimace at this idea, though internally his organs were beginning to twist with dread.

  He did not want to do this.

  It was a pointless waste of time—his time—because if the damned pocketwatch existed at all, he was certain some other Civil War Robert E. Lee buff would have snatched it up ages ago, displaying it for other Civil War Robert E. Lee buffs to salivate over.

  Though many collectors would probably state otherwise, the purpose of possessing items worthy of collecting wasn’t to satisfy some personal need, but to showcase what other collectors wanted but couldn’t have. A cynical view? Probably. But it was his opinion and he was entitled to it.

  Furthermore, that telling pause he’d noticed when he’d probed for more information told him that Garrett wasn’t being completely honest with him. Something else was at work here. He didn’t doubt that the colonel wanted the watch. Clearly adding it to his cache of Confederate memorabilia would be a coup. But he wanted something else, as well.

  The million-dollar question, of course, was…what?

  Oh, hell. What did it matter? Payne thought, his lips curling into a vague smile. So long as he wasn’t guarding another granddaughter, he should thank his lucky stars. Women, he knew from personal experience, tended to complicate things and he’d just as soon avoid complications.

  And since women and complications tended to go hand in hand, other than to scratch an occasional itch, he typically avoided them, as well.

  Too much trouble, too little reward, too little time.

  Women tended to make the men in his family do stupid things, like forego prenuptial agreements and crash their cars and drink too much. They made them miserable and weak and out of control. And for what? Good sex? A handy dinner companion? Another body in the bed? He smirked. Hell, he could get all of that free, usually in the course of one night. And, other than paying the tab for a meal, his finances were still in good standing, as well as his pride.

  Payne had watched both of his parents barter their self-respect for love to the point where he wondered how they could face themselves in the mirror each morning. He certainly couldn’t respect them, that was for damned sure. All he felt was pity and contempt, limited fond memories of a lonely childhood and a snarled-up obligation toward his parents he wished he could let go of.

  Both Guy and Jamie—his brothers of the heart, comrades and current business partners—called him a cynic, but what the hell.

  Being a cynic was better than being stupid any day.

  2

  “SO WHAT ARE WE SELLING next? The fine china or the Fabergé egg collection?”

  Emma Langsford smiled at the comment and shook her head, but didn’t look up from the scarred desk in her mother’s beauty shop where she was currently working on the books. A piercing throb had developed behind her right eye and an empty hollow feeling of dread had commenced in her belly.

  It felt like she was…broke.

  Unfortunately, she recognized the feeling all too well.

  Point of fact, in an effort to keep the bank from foreclosing on the family home, they’d sold off everything that hadn’t been deemed an absolute necessity months ago. Continuing care for her grandfather until his death had been a huge drain on her mother’s already strained finances and it had taken every last penny in her mother’s woeful collection to make sure that her grandfather hadn’t suffered. Cancer, Emma thought bitterly. Damned miserable disease.

  Rather than re-up for another four years in the military, as much as they’d needed what little money she could send home, Emma had left the army and had returned to Marble Springs to be there for her mother. Lena Evans might have needed money, but when going through the final stages of losing her father, she’d needed her daughter more.

  Unfortunately, aside from coming home and helping her mother, Emma hadn’t made any additional plans. She’d gone to work at the local grocery store to help make ends meet, and planned to cash in on her military service for college. But unless a windf
all landed in their lap, she couldn’t see being able to enroll anytime soon. Emma had a reputation for making rash decisions, but usually she managed to come out on top. She frowned.

  In this instance, she’d definitely landed sideways.

  “We’re not going to sell anything else, Mom. There’s nothing left to sell.” With the exception of her body, that is, Emma thought with a grim smile. But as much as she loved the old home-place, she wasn’t willing to make that sort of sacrifice. At least…not yet. She reached down and absently stroked Moses’s patchy furr, feeling as much like the stray as the old dog who’d adopted her immediately upon her return home. “I’m going to see if I can pick up some extra work.”

  With her shears poised over Mrs. Wilkins’s smoky-blue hair, her mother stilled and stared at her. “More work? Absolutely not. You’re already picking up every hour of overtime you can at the store and I know that you’ve been going over helping Darcy Marcus at This Bud’s For You.”

  Damn. “She needed help pulling a few arrangements together for Decoration Day.”

  He mother glared at her. “Darcy Marcus made your life a living hell all through school. She made fun of your clothes, purposely excluded you from every party and what about the prom? She hijacked your date!”

  Emma grimaced. All true, still… “He wasn’t much of a date to start with.”

  “Be that as it may, you don’t have to work for her.”

  Emma had known her mother would react that way—that’s why she hadn’t mentioned the extra work with Darcy. But honest work was honest work. She’d also picked up a couple of cover shifts at the video store for Dwight Allen. Dwight had stolen her peanut butter and jelly sandwich in kindergarten, but that hadn’t kept her from working for him, either.