A Voice in the Dark. Jenna Ryan
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A Voice in the Dark
Jenna Ryan
MILLS & BOON
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Table of Contents
JENNA RYAN loves creating dark-haired heroes, heroines with strength and good murder mysteries. Ever since she was young, she has had an extremely active imagination. She considered various careers over the years and dabbled in several of them, until the day her sister Kathy suggested she put her imagination to work and write a book. She enjoys working with intriguing characters and feels she is at her best writing romantic suspense. When people ask her how she writes, she tells them, “By instinct.” Clearly it’s worked, since she’s received numerous awards from Romantic Times BOOKreviews. She lives in Canada and travels as much as she can when she’s not writing.
To Merlyn. Keep fighting, sweetheart. Win or lose, we’ll always love you.
Prologue
“Who are you?” The man on the dock frowned. “You said it was urgent. You told me…” His voice flattened. “You lied.”
“I did. But you love, so you believed. You were vulnerable. That’s how I succeed. Love is joy. It’s also pain. Which emotion we experience depends on the person we love.”
A cruel north wind blasted the man from behind. His muscles tightened beneath his overcoat. His hand crept toward his pocket.
The person opposite smiled. “There’s no point trying to be subtle. I can see you have a gun.”
The man’s fingers balled.
“You know, for such an educated man, you strike me as rather stupid. Still, I don’t really expect you or anyone to understand. It doesn’t work that way in my case.”
A knife blade appeared out of nowhere to press against the man’s throat. He made a choking sound and froze.
“Maybe not quite so stupid after all. But an unfortunate victim just the same.”
“Why are you doing this?” the man whispered. “Can’t I at least know that?”
“I already told you. Love is pain.”
“Which you’re going to inflict.”
“Unfortunately.”
Before the man could react, the knife shifted. The blade slashed.
Blood spurted, a steaming red fountain of it.
The man jolted and clawed. He tried to grab the knife, as if that would help. He staggered forward in an attempt to run.
But he was dead, and he knew it, even if he didn’t know why.
When the job was done, the man’s killer stood back. A measure of sorrow crept in and, yes, pity. But no second thought. No regrets.
The time for waiting was over.
It had begun. Again.
Chapter One
A dockyard in Boston
Wind whipped the rain-soaked body of the forty-something male who lay prostrate on the pavement. Two pennies, one shiny, one dull, sat on his closed eyelids. Even so, FBI agent Angel Carter thought he looked shocked, as if he couldn’t believe he was dead.
Behind her, a Boston police officer made notes and muttered. About the federal presence, Angel imagined. Or maybe he didn’t like the traditional “time of death” pool taking place around him.
“Four hours,” one of the patrols said.
“It’s forty degrees,” another argued. “Factor