Security Breach
He was back from the dead…and had a lot of explaining to do to his pregnant wifeWhen Sandy DuChaud’s murdered husband shows up very much alive on her doorstep confessing he’s an undercover homeland security agent with terrorists in hot pursuit, she can’t just forgive and forget. She has their unborm child to think about. And a future with a man who faked his own death—no matter how much attraction still sizzles between them—isn’t in the cards. Still recovering from the near-fatal injury that almost cost him his life, Tristan vows to protect his wife and earn back her trust. But with the killers closing in and the overgrown depths of the Louisiana bayou hampering their escape, another funeral—this time for both of them—seems inevitable….
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âTristan?â she whispered. âYouâre real.â
It wasnât a question. Not exactly. Because he was real. She knew it. The water dripping off his hair and clothes was wet on her skin. The face she was touching was sickly white, yes, but it was warm and fleshy and, most important, it was not fading before her eyes. She grabbed a handful of hair and squeezed it. Her hand came away soaking wet. She looked at it and laughed, but the laugh turned into a sob.
His brown eyes turned darker. âIâm real,â he said, his mouth stretching into a wry smile as a dampness glistened in his eyes.
She sobbed again and put her hand over her mouth, hoping to stop them before they stole what little oxygen she had left in her lungs.
âItâs okay, San. Itâs okay.â
âOkay? Is it?â she snapped, still stunned by the vision before her. âWhere did you come from? We. Buried. You.â
MALLORY KANE has two great reasons for loving to write. Her mother, a librarian, taught her to love and respect books. Her father could hold listeners spellbound for hours with his stories. His oral histories are chronicled in numerous places, including the Library of Congress Veterans History Project. He was always her biggest fan. To learn more about Mallory, visit her online at www.mallorykane.com.
This one is for the readers. Thank you for liking my books. Thanks for the letters and emails and Facebook posts. For your insights, your compliments and your critiques. I love you all.
Contents
Murray Cho had always worked hard, as a boy in Vietnam after his parents were killed and in America after he immigrated. But the so-called land of opportunity was not accurately named, at least not for a poor immigrant from Vietnam. Eventually, he managed to buy a shrimp boat in a small town in South Louisiana on Bayou Bonne Chance and make enough of a living to take a wife and have a son.
But when Patrick was five, Murrayâs wife ran off, leaving him to rear his son alone. He and Patrick had made it just fine until two months ago, when gun smugglers hid their booty in Murrayâs shrimp warehouse and hurt his reputation. So Murray moved himself, Patrick and his shrimp boat to a dock near Gulfport.
For a couple of weeks, Murray had thought the move was a good one, until an ominous voice on his phone had shattered his peaceful fishermanâs existence. The voice threatened harm to his son, Patrick, if he didnât follow their directions with no questions.
It wasnât difficult to figure out why the men had chosen him. He was at once familiar and suspicious to the people of Bonne Chance. Brandishing a gun at and threatening the smugglers whoâd used the old seafood warehouse heâd bought as a depository for the automatic handguns they were smuggling into the United States had not helped his reputation in the town.
Stealing a laptop from Tristan DuChaudâs home had been a piece of cake, once Patrick had shown him how to disarm a security system. He didnât want to know how his son knew that. All he wanted to do was leave the laptop computer where heâd been instructed and go back to his simple life. With any luck that was the last heâd hear from the men.
Murray reattached the rope heâd just mended to the rear of the boat, and then headed across the dock and through the gate, locking it behind him. The RV that he and Patrick lived in was across the parking lot. It was tiny but it served. He slept in the bedroom and the boy slept on the couch.
Murray opened the door quietly, frowning to find it unlocked. Patrick always promised to lock the door before he went to sleep, but he was barely eighteen. He had trouble remembering to close the door, much less lock it.
The interior of the RV was dark and quiet. It was after ten oâclock on a school night. His son should be home studying or in bed. Irritated and a little worried, Murray dialed Patrickâs number. No answer. Then before the display went off, the phone rang.
âPatrick, where are you?â he snapped.
âMurray Cho?â a familiar voice said. It was the same man whoâd sent him into Tristanâs house for the laptop.
Murrayâs heart pounded. âWhereâs Patrick? If youâve done something to himââ
âListen to me,â the voice said. âWeâve got your son. Heâs aliveâfor now.â
âWhat? For now? Whatâs going on? I want to speak to him.â
âI said listen! You did a good job of getting the laptop. Now weâve got another job for you. DuChaudâs wife is back in the DuChaud house, by herself. My boss is wondering why she didnât stay with her mother-in-law. What do you know about Tristan DuChaud?â
The dread that had squeezed his chest the first time the man had called him seized him again. âDuChaud?â Murray stammered. âHeâs dead.â
