Security Breach. Mallory Kane
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“Tristan?” she whispered. “You’re real.”
It wasn’t 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. “I’m real,” 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.
“It’s okay, San. It’s okay.”
“Okay? Is it?” she snapped, still stunned by the vision before her. “Where did you come from? We. Buried. You.”
Security Breach
Mallory Kane
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, Murray’s 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 Murray’s 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 fisherman’s existence. The voice threatened harm to his son, Patrick, if he didn’t follow their directions with no questions.
It wasn’t 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 who’d used the old seafood warehouse he’d 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 DuChaud’s home had been a piece of cake, once Patrick had shown him how to disarm a security system. He didn’t want to know how his son knew that. All he wanted to do was leave the laptop computer where he’d been instructed and go back to his simple life. With any luck that was the last he’d hear from the men.
Murray reattached the rope he’d 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 o’clock on a school night. His son should be home studying or in bed. Irritated and a little worried, Murray dialed Patrick’s number. No answer. Then before the display went off, the phone rang.
“Patrick, where are you?” he snapped.
“Murray Cho?” a familiar voice said. It was the same man who’d sent him into Tristan’s house for the laptop.
Murray’s heart pounded. “Where’s Patrick? If you’ve done something to him—”
“Listen to me,” the voice said. “We’ve got your son. He’s alive—for