Before we start I'd like to give credit where credit is due: All things Twilight related: Stephanie Meyer Everything else: Debra Webb
Chapter One
Thursday, September 7, 2006 11:35 a.m
Key West, Florida
23 hours and 25 minutes remaining…
EPOV
Waking up dead would have been preferable to waking up with this screaming throb inside my skull. Cracking open one eye and blinking to try and focus. Morning light barged into the room through the slits in the blinds. "Damn."
Waiting a few seconds before trying to sit up reaching for my half empty pack of Marlboros, parking one in the corner of my mouth before lighting up. Stifling a cough while inhaling the noxious chemicals necessary for tolerating this continued existence.
Die you son of a bitch.
Cigarettes were doing their part. The irony was if I'd given one damn about living, I'd probably be dead by now. Getting out of bed, waiting for the room to stop spinning before taking a step. Having to take a major piss and wish that I hadn't consumed enough alcohol to completely erase the day as I don't recall much of what happened before waking up.
One of the many bad habits I'd picked up since moving to the . A hazard of the job I guess. Though if I drank enough to sleep like the dead I didn't have to worry about dreaming. Even the thought of the dreams that haunted me made my stomach clench.
My hand shaking as I took another drag of the cigarette. Blocking the nightmares that required the drinking that resulted in mornings like this. Considering the downward spiral during the 3 years since my career at the Bureau abruptly ended I decided that FBI stood for Fucking Bad Idea.
It was a shame it had taken me 10 years of active duty to realize that. Just in time to be fired by the biggest prick carrying a badge. There were some things a man just couldn't get past. Edward Masen, this is your life. What a monumental waste of air space. More of that dammed battering in my skull had me closing my eyes and trying hard to calm the assault between my temples. Wait a minute. I struggled to focus enough brainpower to isolate a source.
The pounding wasn't in my head… it was at my front door. Tossing the cigarette butt into the toilet then flushing it. Moving slowly to maintain my equilibrium, I followed the trail of abandoned clothing across the bedroom, along the length of the hall. I gave up on finding my boxers but found a pair of jeans just in time for more of that confounded banging.
Dragging them on, stumbling toward the door, wrenching it open, and glaring at the person waiting on the other side. Female. Brown hair pulled up into a twist, dressed in a black suit with a white blouse, standing taller in her heels. Professional and uptight.
"Edward Masen?"
She knows my name, this couldn't be good. As I leaned against the doorjamb to keep myself upright I observed her further. Young, early twenties maybe. Despite the inexperience her age gave away, her determined bearing told me she'd come prepared for battle. The idea stirred my curiosity even though I knew her appearance at my door meant trouble.
"Are you Edward Masen?" she repeated firmly, drawing my attention to her mouth. Nice lips. Voluptuous.
"Depends on who's asking."
I spent all that time checking her out and she hadn't once allowed her attention to stray from my eyes. Talk about discipline. Uptight and a control freak. As if she read my mind she squared her shoulders and drew and impatient breath. The movement accentuated the slight bulge beneath her jacket that I hadn't noticed before.
On the left of her torso just above her waist. Well well the lady was a cop. What the hell did I not remember about last night?
"I'm special agent Isabella Swan. I need to speak with you on an urgent matter. May I come inside?"
A fed. Perfect. Before I can come up with some profound statement about what the Bureau can do with their need to talk or anything else I pushed off the door.
"I need a smoke." And left her standing at the door and went in search of my cigarettes. For about 3 seconds I contemplate calling Quantico and asking what the hell they meant sending some baby agent-in-training down her to harass me. Isabella Swan couldn't be more than 24 or 25 tops. Probably hadn't even finished her in service probationary period.
Flicking my lighter I sucked hard and held the smoke deep within my lungs, mulling over what she'd said. What the hell urgent matter could the Bureau need to discuss with me? Had one of my old cases gone active again? That was doubtful. Every dammed case I'd worked was closed with the perp or perps serving time or dead and the victim recovered safely. Except one.
Pushing the memory aside, I decided there was only one way to find out why she was here. I wandered back to where I'd left her. She hadn't moved. The good little agent, doing her sworn duty, braced and ready for battle. If this was going to be complicated, I needed to do a little bracing of my own.
"I won't be any good to either of us until I've had coffee." She didn't object so I headed for the kitchen. If she wanted to continue with whatever she had to say she would follow. The front door creaked closed and her heels clacked on the hardwood.
Persistent, I liked that in a woman. Scooping the grounds into the basket, adding water and flipping the switch the smell of fresh brewed coffee instantly began to fill the air, signaling relief was on the way. After a final drag, I smashed the cigarette into an ashtray and returned my attention to my uninvited guest, who lingered the entire expanse of tiled floor away.
"What do they want?"
"A six-year old girl is missing and..."
"Welcome to the real world, Agent," I cut her off, and abrupt blast of fury churning in my gut. What the hell kind of con was the Bureau running on me?
"Kids go missing every hour of every day. Your esteemed employer has an entire unit dedicated to finding them. Unless you have a reason to suspect I had something to do with the abduction, I can't fathom what you want from me."
The bastards fired me, then they had the balls to come running when they hit a case that confounded their elite unit? Three fucking years later? And I'm supposed to help them out? No. Fucking. Way. I don't owe the FBI squat. Though my reaction clearly started her, my visitor wasn't ready to give up. Her chin tilted in challenge, she ventured two steps farther into the room, in my direction.
The movement momentarily brought my attention to her calves which were revealed by her knee-length skirt. Great legs. Probably ran five miles at the crack of dawn every morning. Well, she could just turn her sweet little ass right around and run back to where she came from. I wasn't in the mood to play whatever the hell kind of game the Bureau had in mind.
"I know your story Masen. There isn't an agent alive who hasn't heard about the legendary Edward Masen. That's why I've come to you."
Oh yeah, the legend. Another memory I'd drowned in booze.
"I hate to be the one to tell you, but that legend died three years ago, Agent Swan." I reached for a cup and looked at her for any indication she was interested. She shook her head so I filled my own and kicked back a couple slugs of hot brew. With enough caffeine tainting my veins, I might just reach the point of caring whether or not I survived the day.
"We need your help." Outright desperation flashed in her dark eyes. "You were the best the Bureau has ever had. It's going to take you to save this little girl."
Now there was a seriously unoriginal line of bull. I refused to think about the child. This wasn't my case, wasn't my problem. And yet I felt the tension rising, the coiling of emotions I couldn't hope to contain threating to strangle me. I plunked my cup down on the counter. I don't need this shit.
"Maybe you didn't pay attention to the last chapter of my story, Agent Swan." I countered.
I could hear the bitterness in my own voice. The bitterness that I'd tried long and hard, and evidently unsuccessfully to bury.
"They fired me. It got ugly. There is no going back."
"I read the file on your last case," she confirmed.
"It's certain you made the only decision you could based on the facts available to you. Sometimes failure is unavoidable and some dies. That's the flip side of what we do." I had to laugh at that. "Deep, Agent," I said in a patronizing tone.
"Do you think that matters? Dead is dead."
"Maybe not to you, but to those of us who admire what you accomplished during your career, it matters."
"Tell that to the kid's father."
I said turning my back to her, braced against the counter and squeezed my eyes shut in a futile attempt to block the images tumbling one over the other though my head. I couldn't do this.
"We don't have the luxury of time, Masen." Apparently bolstered by a blast of latent courage, she moved right beside me as she spoke.
As hard as I tried not to react, I could feel myself tense up.
"We have less than twenty-three hours. If we don't find her before then, Alyssa Byrne will die."
Aylssa. The name reverberated through me. I banished it. I couldn't help her. I'd given the Bureau everything I had for ten years. I'd maintained the perfect record. Never failed. Except that once. And the mistake hadn't been mine. When the proverbial shit hit the fan, the Bureau had refused to take the heat. They had needed a scapegoat and I'd been it. A decade of hard work hadn't made a difference any more than my so-called legendary status.
Case in point. For nearly a year afterward, I'd actually expected someone to show up and beg me to return to duty. No one had shown up. No one had even called. So I had found other ways to spend my time and fill the void left by the part of my life that was ripped away from me.
I blamed the booze on my current on again off again occupation but that was just an excuse. The ugly truth was that every time an amber alert was issued I had turned to the one consistent thing within reach to help me forget that I wouldn't be there- a distraction.
With enough distraction, I could forget that I no longer made a difference. That part of my life is over. There wasn't any going back…not for Agent Swan and all her hero worship… not for Alyssa Byrne. Truth was, even if I wanted to go back, I wasn't that person anyone.
The pressure of working that kind of a case was immeasurable. If I lost my focus, or fucked up, someone died. If I wasn't fast enough, or smart enough, someone died. I no longer had that kind of nerve, the edge it took to get the job done. The hero I used to be was long gone. Pretending otherwise would be a mistake. The kind I didn't want to make twice in one lifetime. Nowadays I was just your plain old garden-variety coward. Before I sent the agent on her way, there was one thing I had to know.
"Why now?" I couldn't keep the resentment out of my tone; didn't really try.
"In three years the Bureau hasn't once acknowledge that I still exist. What makes this case different?" She searched my eyes, her own still hopeful that I would change my mind. Not going to happen.
"The kidnapper," she explained her voice somber, "asked for you by name." He claims he'll provide clues to facilitate the search for the girl."
That damned headache started bearing down on me again, hammering at my temples.
"What kind of clues?"
"Don't know. No you, no clues." She swallowed hard, the effort visible along the length of her slender neck.
"No clues, Masen, and the little girl dies."
