The Defiant Hero.

A Troubleshooters, Inc. Novel.

by Suzanne Brockmann.

For the brave men and women who fought for freedom during the Second World War.

My most sincere and humble thanks.

Acknowledgments.

Special thanks to Mike Freeman for pages and pages of notes and hours of reading and email time, to Gwen Freeman for going above and beyond the call of duty in providing Welsh translations, to Lyssa Davis who sent me a hard to find, out of print copy of We Remember Dunkirk (all the way from Australia!), to Frances Stepp for too many things to list, and to Joyce Mullan and Cris Martins and all the other wonderful people on my email newsletter list for providing me with contacts and/or information on England in the late 1930s and early 1940s.

Thanks as always to Deede Bergeron, Lee Brockmann, and Patricia McMahona"my personal support staff and early draft readers. More thanks than is humanly possible to Ed, whose patience and love are limitless and desperately appreciated.

Any mistakes that Iave made or liberties that Iave taken are completely my own.

One.

MEG DIDNaT UNDERSTAND at first.

The man was smiling, and his pleasant expression and tone of voice didnat match his words. aWeave taken your daughter hostage.a She was in the parking garage beneath her condo, hauling a box of files from the back of her car, when he approached her. She wasnat even a hundred feet away from Ramon, the buildingas security guard.

The smiling man mustave seen the confusion in her eyes, because he said it again. In a Kazbekistani dialect. aWe have your daughter, and if you donat follow our orders, weall kill her.a And this time, Meg understood. Amy. She dropped the box.

aEverything okay over there, Ms. Moore?a Ramon was down off his stool, starting toward them. Theread recently been a rape in another parking garage in this part of Washington, DC.

aTell him yes,a the smiling man murmured, opening his baseball jacket, giving her a flash of a very deadly looking gun.

Oh, God. aWhere is she?a aIf I donat make a phone call to my associates within the next hour, sheas dead,a he told her as he bent down to pick up the box. aMy associates are Kazbekistani Extremists.a Terrorists. But not just regular terrorists. The Extremists were religious zealots, capable of terrible violence and cruelty, all in the name of their god. And they had Amy.

Oh, God.

aEverythingas fine,a Meg called to the guard, her voice shaking only slightly.

aWeare old college friends.a The man turned his friendly smile on Ramon. aI thought I recognized Meggie. I didnat mean to appear before her like the ghost of Christmas past, though, and scare her half to death.a Ramonas hand was on the gun holstered at his waist. He smiled politely, but his dark brown gaze was on Meg. aMs. Moore?a Help.

Shead prepared for situations like this, back when she was working at the American embassy in Kazbekistan, an Eastern European country also know as K-stan or athe Pita to the Americans who served time there. During her stay, she was reminded regularly that the United States didnat negotiate with terrorists. The best solution was preventivea"stay safe, stay secure, stay away from dangerous persons and situations.

It was a little late for that nowa"although who would have thought a K-stani terrorist would show up here in Washington, all these years later?

Meg knew what she should do in this situation. She should enlist Ramonas help while this man held her box of files, while his hands were full and he couldnat easily reach for his gun. She should be a strong American and refuse to negotiate with terrorists. She should seek help from the FBI.

Who, no matter how good they were, wouldnat be able to find her ten-year-old daughter within the next sixty minutes.

After which time Amy would be killed.

Meg forced a smile. American be damned. She was playing this one out as Amyas very frightened mother. aItas all right, Ramon,a she lied. aWeare . . . old friends.a aHow about I carry this upstairs for you?a The man continued the charade. His English was remarkably gooda"he had only the faintest of accents. aWe could talk about old times over a cup of coffee.a aGreat.a She smiled again at Ramon, who watched them all the way over to the elevators.

aWhere is she?a Meg hissed from behind her frozen smile. aWhereas Amy? And what about my grandmother?a Amy had planned to take her great-grandmother, Eve, to the Smithsonian while Meg picked up these files shead been hired to translate. Meg hadnat been sure exactly who was the baby-sittera"the ten-year-old or the seventy-five-year-old.

aThe old ladyas your grandmother.a He nodded as he pressed the elevatoras call button. aI thought she was too old to be your mother. Weave got her, too.a Meg felt a rush of relief. At least Eve was with Amy. At least Amy wasnat alone and terrified and . . . aI donat understand. Iam not rich, anda"a aWe donat want your money.a The elevator doors opened and he stood back, politely letting her on firsta"the perfect terrorist gentleman. aWe want you to do us a little favor.a Oh, God.

aYou frequently do business at the Kazbekistani embassy across town, right?a Oh, mighty God. The doors slid closed, but she kept her smile in place. Ramon would be watching through the security cameras.

aI only work as a consultant, a translator. Itas never, I never . . .a He pushed the button for twelve. Somehow this man shead never seen before knew she and Amy lived on the twelfth floor.

Meg took a deep breath and tried again. aLook, Iam not allowed into any areas inside the embassy that contain confidential information ora"a aWe donat want you to spy for us. We already have an agent in place inside the embassy for that purpose.a He laughed and it wasnat purely for the cameras. This man was enjoying himself, amused by her fear.

A fear that morphed hotly into anger as she turned her back to the security camera. aThen what do you want, damn it? How do I even know youave got Amy and Eve?a The elevator doors opened at the twelfth floor. He stepped back, again to let her go first. aIf you like, weall send you the old ladyas head in a boxa"a aNo!a Oh, God.

He laughed again. aThen I guess youave just got to trust me, donat you, Meggie?a Megas hands were shaking so badly, she couldnat get her key into the lock.

He shifted the box to one arm and a hip as he gently took her key ring from her, opened the door, and pushed her inside, following her into her living room. aIam afraid I canat be as trusting,a he continued, setting her box next to the couch. aAfter we discuss strategy and negotiate terms, Iam going to drive with you over to the embassy. I know itas after five, but thereas a function tonight. Nothing formal. You can wear jeans. In fact, I want you to wear jeans. With those boots you have. What are they called? Cowboy boots. Or should it be cowgirl boots?a aNegotiate terms?a Meg didnat give a damn what she wore. aWhat terms?a aWell, itas actually a pretty simple negotiation with only one or two minor points. But the bottom line is that if you want to see your daughter and grandmother again, youall do what we tell you to do. If you donat . . .a aI do.a aGood.a He crossed to the windows, pulled the curtains. aOnce youare in the embassy, our inside agent will keep an eye on you. If you make any attempt to get help or to contact the authorities at any time, we will kill your daughter. Have absolutely no doubt about that.a His smile was gone.

Meg nodded. She didnat doubt him. After living and working in Kazbekistan for years, she knew quite well what the Extremists were capable of.

aWhat do you want me to do?a Eve was certainly old enough to recognize real trouble when she found herself in it up to her hips.

And regaining consciousness on the hard metal floor in the back of a moving cargo van with her hands and feet tied was something of a clue that this day had taken a real turn for the worse.

It hadnat started out as a real swell day anyway, considering it was her seventy-fifth birthday and shead long since given up celebrating the fact that she was continuing to get older. A faceful of wrinkles, sagging breasts, thin gray hair, loose skin, brittle bones, failing memorya"wah-hoo! Letas have a party!

She hadnat minded so much while her husband was alive. Head always managed to make her feel twenty years old and impossibly beautiful. But head been gone for two years now, and for two years, all shead felt was old.

She could smell cigarette smoke, hear the hum of low voices drifting back from up front.

When shead first awakened, shead thrashed about a bit, searching desperately in the dimness for her great-granddaughter. Shead found the little girl right away. Amy was still unconsciousa"knocked out from whatever drug theyad been given, there on the sidewalk outside the Smithsonian.

Eve had made sure the girl was breathing, made certain her pulse was clear and strong, then had sunk back onto the floor, the rope digging into her wrists and ankles, the cold metal biting into her tender hips.

They were moving steadily forward, without any radical turns. The van was on the highway, Eve decided. Lifting her head slightly, she caught the final glow of the sunset out the front windows, to the right. They were heading south, probably on Route 95.

How had this happened?

Eve closed her eyes, struggling to remember.

She and Amy had been headed to the Smithsonian, ready to spend the day taking it all in. Theyad packed a picnic lunch as Meg had rushed out the door, promising a birthday that Eve would never forget.

Eve doubted that this was what her favorite granddaughter had meant.

She and Amy had just gotten out of a cab and were there on the sidewalk in front of the museum when a man had approached them, hopelessly lost, asking for directions.

He had a map, and as Eve had leaned over it, trying to read the tiny street names, she hadnat noticed someone else coming up behind them until it was too late. Until theyad grabbed her, grabbed Amy.

She could remember Amy screaming. She could remember her own struggles to reach the little girl, and the sharp stab of a needle that made the world wobble and waver and finally just plain disappear.

There was no doubt about it. She and Amy had been kidnapped.

She had to find Osman Razeen.

Meg could feel a bead of perspiration trickle down her back as she tried to move purposefully up the stairs toward the new Kazbekistani ambassadoras office. She tried to look as if she had a real reason to be here, tried to look as if she couldnat feel the gun in her boot, hard and cold against her leg. She tried to look as if her insides werenat tied in a knot of fear for Amy. Please God, donat let them hurt her . . .

This was impossible.

Ridiculous.

Although it had been absurdly easy getting into the embassy with a loaded gun. The decorative chains on her cowboy boots had set off the metal detector at the front entrancea"the way theyad done many times in the past. She knew the guard on dutya"Baltabek was his namea"and he just rolled his eyes, laughed, and waved her through.

Obviously the Extremists had been watching her for a while. Obviously theyad targeted her specifically for this because they knew she could get into the embassy unquestioned.

What else did they know about her?

They knew that shead do anythinga"anythinga"including give her life to keep Amy safe.

Including smuggle weapons into the Kazbekistani embassy, intending to kidnap ora"if it looked as if she couldnat get her target outa"to kill.

That target was a man named Osman Razeen, the leader of a rival terrorist group known as the GIKa"the Islamic Guard of Kazbekistan. The Extremists hated the GIK and thought Razeen disloyal to their cause and deserving of death. They wanted to bring him back to K-stan for a public execution. But theyad settle for his assassination right here, right now.

And the Extremists seemed confident that Meg, in order to protect her daughter, would be capablea"if she had toa"of pulling that trigger and ending his life.

Meg didnat know for sure that this Osman Razeen was really here, inside the embassy. But the thought that he could be here, that the leader of the GIK might have worked his way so thoroughly into the political trappings of his countryas government, was mind-boggling.

Still, at this moment, she didnat give a damn if the K-stani government had been penetrated by spies or terrorists or even the Easter Bunny himself.

At this moment, she wanted only to save Amy and Eve.

And to do that, she had to find Osman Razeen.

She couldnat get help without the Extremists finding out. There was no one inside the embassy that she could speak to, no one she could trust.

She couldnat even dare to approach the Americans that were here at the embassy on business. One of them could just as well be the Extremistsa inside man.

Meg looked back at the K-stani guards standing at the foot of the stairs in their ornate formal uniforms. Despite the bright colors and the flash of gold braids, those uniforms werenat half as resplendent as the U.S. Navyas dress whites.

No, there was no one and nothing that could compare to an officer of the U.S. Navy when he was dressed to shine. . . .

Meg gripped the banister, stopping short at the top of the stairs. She needed helpa"there was no doubt about that. There was no way in hell she could do this alone. And in a flash of clarity, she realized exactly whose help she needed, and how she just might be able to get it.

But first she had to find Osman Razeen.

He was believed to be a tall man, about six-one or -two, dark hair, brown eyes, about forty years old. The Happy Terrorist from the parking garage had shown Meg a blurred and faded photograph taken a good fifteen years ago. It was apparently the only picture in existence of the elusive Razeen.

Shead studied the photo, memorizing his chin, his nose, his light brown eyes and his rather unremarkable face, praying that shead recognize this man when she saw him.

In the picture, he didnat glare the way a terrorist was supposed to glare. He didnat have a heavy, furrowed brow or thin, cruel lips. In fact, his lips were rather full, and he smiled crookedly, charmingly, at whomever was taking the photograph.

And now he was fifteen years older. His hair might be gray. It might be gone. He mightave gained fifty pounds, mightave aged into someone unrecognizable.

And to add to her problem, Razeen could be virtually anywhere. He could be in the kitchen, disguised as part of the serving staff, cutting lamb into cubes for shish kebab for tonightas dinner. He could be the aide to the ambassador. God, he could be the new ambassador. . . .

Then Meg saw him. It had to be him, didnat it? Osman Razeen, only slightly heavier than the man in the photo, dressed in a dark business suit, deep in conversation with three other men as they headed together down the hall. But she wasnat sure. How could she possibly be one hundred percent certain it was him?

He was about the right age, the right height, the right coloring.

His companions were speaking in Russian as they passed, one of the men, heavyset and balding, making a cruel joke about Putin.

All four men laughed, and it was the smile, that same slightly crooked smile that was in that photo, that convinced Meg.

Shead found Razeen.

As she watched, he went into the menas room with the other three men. And she knew. It was now or never. She couldnat have asked for a better location.

Meg crossed the hall, heading directly for the ladiesa room, right next to the menas. She pushed open the door and went into a stall, where she pulled up her pant leg and reached into her boot for the gun.

She took off the safety the way the Extremist had shown her, slipped the compact weapon into her jacket pocket, finger wrapped around the trigger.

Pushing her way back out of the stall, Meg purposely didnat look at the big mirror above the sinks. She refused to look at the reflection of her face, pale and grim, refused to think about the fact that these next few moments could well be her last. By pulling out that gun, she would be making herself a target, damn near begging to get herself shot and killed.

But shead do it. Shead kill Razeen if she had to. And if and when it came down to it, shead even die herself. For Amy.

Yes, the Extremists knew quite a lot about her.

But they didnat know everything.

They didnat know about John Nilsson.

She yanked open the door, hung a sharp left, and went directly into the menas room.

Alyssa Locke missed her uniform.

She hated waking up each day and staring into her closet. She despised having to decide which pants to wear with which blouse and which blazer.

And then there was the matter of accessories. Locke wished she could wear a tie, but unfortunately the Annie Hall look had come and gone before she was out of grade school. So she also had to worry about whether or not to tie a scarf around her neck for a splash of color. Would that make her look too feminine, or would it counteract the message sent by her extremely sensible, flat-heeled shoes?