Take My Breath Away.... Cara Summers
she checked on the SUV’s location and adjusted her course. The headlights of the parked vehicle were all she could see now and they were helpfully aimed toward the long flight of steps that led to the front door of the church.
Everything else was totally engulfed in darkness and snow. When she reached the SUV, she leaned against it for a moment to catch her breath. Then she checked the license plate.
She felt a lot more than a tingle now. This confirmed it was Gabe Wilder’s car. The plate numbers were as familiar to her as the details of the file she’d been compiling on him for nearly three months. She’d been right. From the first moment her dad had assigned her to gather research on the case, she’d been sure that Gabe had to be involved.
It wasn’t just the fact that the thief was using his father’s M.O., nor that Gabe’s firm had handled the security for each victim. There was something about Gabe Wilder that just … fit. She knew what it was like to want desperately to follow in your father’s footsteps—and to have to sometimes disguise that desire. But a person couldn’t do that forever.
Just then the headlights went off. Was it one of those models where that happened automatically? Just to make sure … she felt her way along the side of the vehicle and pulled open the driver’s door.
Empty.
He had to be in the church. Circling around the SUV, she pulled out her flashlight and headed toward the stairs. Finally, she was going to have a face-to-face meeting with Gabe Wilder, and she had no idea what he looked like. At least not anymore. The last time she’d seen him he’d been thirteen and she’d been ten.
As she gripped the iron railing and started up the long flight of stone steps, she let her mind return to those six months of her life when her stepmother had taken her every Saturday to the St. Francis Center. Charitable works were high on Marcia Thorne Guthrie’s list.
The St. Francis Center had been located in a brick storefront building in downtown Denver. The first time she’d seen Gabe, she’d been standing in the small prayer garden that sat like a tiny oasis between the main building and a fenced in basketball court. He’d been tall with longish dark hair and scruffy jeans, and he’d had bad boy written all over him. At first he’d totally ignored her as he’d dribbled, jumped and sent the ball flying through the hoop again and again and again.
It had been Father Mike’s idea for her to weed the garden while Marcia shelved donated books in the library. But she’d never gotten to the weeds. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off of Gabe Wilder.
Of course, she’d read all about his father, the notorious art thief, and how he’d died in prison. And she’d overheard her father speak about Gabe—about how hurt and angry he was. She’d known that he was at the center so that Father Mike could save him.
That’s what Father Mike did—he saved bad boys. Most of the ones who came to the center shared Gabe’s reputation. They came from all walks of life—some from the streets, some from the wealthiest Denver families—but as Marcia had put it: “Until they came to Father Mike, they were trouble with a capital T.”
And that was exactly what Gabe Wilder had appeared to be. Trouble. She could see the anger and recklessness in the way he handled the ball. But she could also see a passion for the game. And it fascinated her. He fascinated her.
Suddenly he’d turned to face her. “What are you staring at?”
Nicola recalled that she’d swallowed hard and finally managed to blurt out, “You.”
Bouncing the ball, he’d moved a few steps closer.
“Why?”
A part of her knew that she shouldn’t even be talking to him. She should be weeding. But she hated gardening and basketball looked like it would be so much more fun.
She drew in a deep breath and let it out. “Because you’re great at basketball.”
He turned and sent the ball whooshing through the hoop. Then he turned back to her. “You know how to play?”
“No.” Basketball was not on Marcia’s list of approved activities. Painting lessons, piano, ballet—those were.
To her utter amazement and delight, he’d sent the ball twirling on the tip of his finger. “I could teach you.”
“No, I—I couldn’t …” She knew very well that her stepmother hadn’t brought her here to play basketball with one of the center’s boys. But something in his eyes was tempting her, daring her.
“Why not?” he asked.
Why not indeed? It wasn’t as though her stepmother was here watching her. And she did want to play. So much.
He bounced the ball again. “Look,” he’d said, impatience clear in his tone. “I got friends coming in an hour. Want to shoot a few or not? “
Nicola could still recall the tingling sensation that had streamed through her whole body as she’d raced through the garden gate and onto the court.
“Ready?” Gabe had asked.
And when she’d nodded, he’d tossed her the ball.
After that, she’d played basketball with him every Saturday morning for an hour before his friends Nash and Jonah had shown up. That was always when Father Mike had come out to call her back into the center.
When Marcia had discovered what had been going on, she hadn’t been pleased. Basketball was a boys’ game. But Nicola hadn’t ever regretted those Saturdays. Gabe had teased her, tormented her and endlessly critiqued her game. But she’d learned. Playing basketball had been her first rebellion against the kind of woman Marcia wanted to mold her into. In an odd way, she owed Gabe Wilder, she supposed. If it hadn’t been for him, she might never have found the courage to take a stand in high school and try out for the basketball team.
Who knew? If it hadn’t been for Gabe, she might not have rebelled against Marcia’s and her father’s wishes even further and become an FBI agent.
Having finally reached the top of the church steps, Nicola stepped into a portico that partially shielded her from the force of the wind. She hadn’t seen Gabe Wilder for more than fifteen years—in spite of the fact that her last act on leaving the St. Francis Center for Boys had been to say a quick prayer to St. Francis that she would.
Some prayers went unanswered, and some bad boys couldn’t be saved.
She’d just reached the door of the church when she heard it. A crash? It was muffled by the wind, but Nicola was certain she’d heard something. Glass shattering? She recalled the picture in the Denver Post of the statue of St. Francis standing in its supposedly shatter-proof glass dome.
As she pulled out her gun, she ran her flashlight over the door and saw that it stood ajar. After slipping through the narrow opening, she paused again. There was illumination that wasn’t coming from her flashlight. Candles. She spotted the blur of light at the front of the church to her left.
She’d barely taken two steps up the center aisle when she heard another noise. This time there was no doubt about it—glass shattering.
After pocketing her flashlight, Nicola raised her gun and raced forward. As she neared the front of the church, she thought she spotted movement near those candles on the side altar. Then she saw it—a shadowy silhouette standing in front of the altar, its hands outstretched.
“Stop.” She gripped her gun with both hands as she cut around the front row of pews. “FBI. Raise your hands.”
A body rammed into her and she fell, landing backside first on the floor, then sliding into the first row of pews. Her head cracked against the wood and for a second, all she saw was stars.
“Stop.” She scrambled to her feet and raced down the aisle after the fleeing shadow. Without breaking stride, she raised her gun again and steadied it with her other hand. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”
He kept on running.