Page 4 of Girl Lost (The King Legacy #1)

THE MIDDAY SUN SLANTED through the window , painting a swath of light across the worn oak floorboards of Stryker’s bungalow.

Luna perched on the edge of a worn leather desk chair in front of Stryker’s computer.

The scent of coconut wafted in on a breeze that ruffled the edges of the gauzy white curtains.

It should have been peaceful here. Should have been a place for her to unpack the emotional baggage she’d hauled from Pakistan.

But all she felt was a sharp jab of worry.

It had been eighteen years since Luna had last seen Corbin King.

Eighteen years since she’d given him her heart on a silver platter only to have him hand it back broken into a million pieces.

And yet, there he was. Standing there, all six-foot-two inches of him, in a finely tailored suit and mirrored sunglasses.

What was she thinking? Of course he’d changed. She’d changed too. People changed. They grew up. They moved on. So why, after all these years, did the mere sight of him punch her lungs and stop her heart in the same instant?

Shake it off. There isn’t time for this . “I should’ve just stayed in Peshawar,” she said with a sigh.

Stryker and his promise to help her find her daughter pulled her back.

And now he’d been kidnapped. But why?

He’d made enemies. Drug dealers, gang leaders—they didn’t appreciate his efforts to pull kids away from their influence.

She knew he couldn’t save every kid. Some were too far gone, lost in the darkness.

But Stryker dedicated himself to helping any within his reach.

Even the ones who were still fighting their own demons, searching for a way out.

She’d been through enough training to recognize that struggle herself. It was how she chose her assets. It was in the eyes. The ones hungry for something more. The ones desperate for a different path.

None of it added up. Why would Stryker’s enemies kidnap him in broad daylight? They could have just shot him. The small-town street was quiet but not that quiet. They had to know there’d be witnesses. Most likely the kidnappers wanted something. Information or something Stryker possessed.

Whatever it was, Luna needed to find it, and she bet clues were in his computer.

The monitor had gone dark, but she nudged the mouse. A photo of the ocean filled the screen, a sky ablaze with fiery hues of orange and crimson. A classic Florida sunset.

And a blinking cursor waiting for the password.

Trying to guess was useless, but if he was like most adults of his generation, he probably had a list of passwords tucked away somewhere.

She scanned the top of the desk. No stray notepads. She pulled the top drawer open. Pens. Pencils. Paper clips. She tried the next one. More of the same. She slammed it shut. Okay , where would he keep his—

Her gaze landed on a framed photo on the corner of the desk. A much-younger Stryker grinned back at her. He had his arm slung around a group of teenagers, all of them flashing peace signs and goofy smiles. She was in the photo, sandwiched between Corbin and Blade.

Luna picked up the frame and wiped the thin layer of dust off the faces. They’d all been so young then. So full of hope. Except for Harlee. She’d scowled at the camera with her arms crossed over her chest, looking every bit the hardened gang member Stryker had rescued from a life of crime.

She put the frame back where she found it.

Wow, she’d missed them. All these years, she’d been so busy outrunning her pain, she’d boxed up the memories of that time.

Refused to look at them. She’d forgotten about her friends.

Forgotten what they all went through. Forgotten what Stryker had done for them.

How he’d rescued them from their aimless, lonely lives.

He’d offered them a place to call home, welcomed them into a found family, and helped them find their purpose.

And she’d walked away without a goodbye.

Stryker’s dog-eared Bible with a worn leather cover lay on the corner of the desk. She flipped it open. His handwritten notes filled the margins. Highlights and underlines punctuated verses throughout. A thicker piece of paper, white and folded, peeked out.

Ah-ha. The passwords. She slid the sheet out and unfolded it. It wasn’t a list of passwords. It was a single line of type: They’re watching. Don’t trust anyone.

What had Stryker gotten into?

Gravel crunched outside. No time to ponder. She snapped a picture of the note with her phone, tucked it back into the Bible, and stood.

Police cruisers pulled into the driveway.

Time to go. She headed for the back door, grabbing her purse from the sofa on her way.

She had every right to be here. Stryker had practically begged her to come.

But explaining to the cops why she was snooping around while he was missing .

.. That was a conversation she wanted to avoid.

Luna stepped outside just as heavy fists pounded the front door.

Stryker’s boardwalk began where the grass met sand. She followed the narrow wooden slats that snaked through tall sea oats and spiky sea grapes. A flock of seagulls scavenged for scraps near the trash cans by the boardwalk entrance.

The beach, deserted except for a lone jogger and her dog in the distance. Good. At least something was going her way.

She slogged through the soft sand down to the water’s edge and started jogging. The public beach access where she’d parked her rental car out of sight was a good mile down the coast, but she needed the time to shake loose the thoughts in her head.

By the time she reached her car, her chest ached.

Years of living in an arid climate had taken a toll.

The humidity was like breathing through a wet wool blanket.

She hit the unlock button on the key fob, yanked open the door, and practically dove inside, where a blast of heat hit her.

The Florida sun had turned the car’s interior into a sauna.

She cranked the engine, set the AC on high, and settled back to wait for the arctic air to reach her.

Okay, so she’d struck out at Stryker’s. She hadn’t been able to get into his computer, and she was no closer to understanding who took him or why.

A daylight kidnapping. Witnesses. It was brazen, almost theatrical.

They were sending a message. But what message?

Was it connected to her past with the CIA, or something else entirely?

She glanced at the clock on the dash. 12:15 p.m. She should head back to the diner. Talk to Corbin. Demand a role in the investigation.

But how could she explain her sudden return? Her involvement in all of this?

No. She couldn’t go back there. Not yet. Not until she had a better understanding of what was going on.

The confetti from the Taser ... that was a start.

The anti-felon identification dots scattered out by the dozens every time a Taser cartridge deployed. Under a magnifying glass, the dots revealed a serial number that pointed to the cartridge’s origin. From there, she could trace the name of the purchaser—and maybe even their location.

Problem was, she couldn’t exactly walk into the Millie Beach Police Department with evidence taken from a crime scene and ask for a favor.

And right now, she was just a civilian with no badge, no gun, and no authority.

The cops would trace the AFIDs, eventually.

But “eventually” might be too late for Stryker.

And there was the risk of another accidental reunion with Corbin.

Langston could help. But he wasn’t happy with her. Not after she’d turned in her resignation. She pulled out her phone and typed the number from memory. Her thumb hovered over the call button. Should she do this?

With a deep breath, she pressed the screen. The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

Each ring brought a fresh wave of dread. What was she going to say?

“Dough Bro’s Pizza, this is Sandy. Will this be pickup or delivery?”

“Delivery.”

“Got it,” Sandy said. “Address?”

“444 Fox Lake Drive, Clinton, North Carolina.”

“Very good. Can you verify the last four digits of your credit card number?”

Luna gave her the numbers.

“Perfect. Now, what can we get for you?”

“One large supreme with extra olives.” Her stomach growled at the thought of food.

“Okay, let me put you on hold for one moment.”

The line clicked several times while the Agency verified her identity.

“Langston.” Deputy Chief Harris Langston. Ten years of working together, and he still hadn’t lost that hard edge.

“It’s me, sir.” She squinted one eye, waiting for the quiet disapproval that was somehow worse than yelling.

He harrumphed. “Thought you were off finding yourself.”

Finding herself. Right. After ten years at the CIA, she’d buried herself under a layer of fiction so deep she wasn’t sure she could ever dig the real her back out.

“There’s been a wrinkle.”

Silence. Then, “A wrinkle?” He didn’t sound surprised. Annoyed, maybe. “You quit the Agency and you’ve been stateside less than thirty days and there’s already a wrinkle?”

“You could say that.” She glanced at the windshield. The AC was finally winning the battle against the heat.

“Spit it out.”

“It’s my mentor.” She avoided using real-world identities.

“Your mentor? What about him?”

“Someone kidnapped him this morning.”

The silence stretched, punctuated only by the faint hum of the air conditioner. She could practically hear the gears turning in Langston’s head. Calculating. Assessing.

“Sounds like a job for the locals.”

“They’re on it.” Luna turned the AC down, and the fan quieted. “But it’s personal. This isn’t some random act of violence. They took him for a reason.”

“I understand. The thing with your daughter...”

“It’s more than that.” She couldn’t tell him everything. Not over the phone. Not when she wasn’t sure who might be listening. “They targeted him. Maybe because of me. They might kill him if I don’t find him first.”

Another long silence. Then, “What do you need?”

“For starters, I need in his computer.”

“I know a guy.” Langston didn’t hesitate. “Brilliant mind. Egghead type. Does some consulting work for us. Mostly helps us with the really big, really bad cyber stuff. Trust me, if anyone can get you what you need, it’s this guy. And I think you know him.”

Her heart stuttered. Jett Nu? No. It couldn’t be. “Is this your ‘top gun’ contact?”

“Yeah, I’ll get you his number. Encrypted, of course.”

Of all the people, in all the world, Jett would be the one she’d call.

Jett, ever the bookworm, spouting facts from a medical textbook, telling her all about what to expect when she was expecting.

Jett, his eyes filled with compassion, assuring her that she would get through it. That she would be okay.

“Thanks,” she said. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Just returning the favor.” Langston paused, and she could almost hear the wheels turning in his head again. “About your resignation...”

“Listen, I don’t want to—”

“Just hear me out. I know you’ve made up your mind. And I respect that. But you’re a good agent. One of the best I’ve ever seen. We’ve invested a lot in you. And I’d hate to lose you. Not like this.”

“I ... I appreciate that.” What else could she say?

“Just ... think about it, okay? For all of us.”

“I will.” She wouldn’t, though.

“Good. Now go find your mentor.”

The line went dead before she could ask about the AFIDs.

She stared at her reflection in the phone screen. Langston was right. She was a good agent. A great one. She’d given the Agency ten years of her life. Sacrificed everything.

Was she willing to throw it all away now? To walk away from her career? And for what? To chase after ghosts? To try and reclaim a past that was gone forever?

She should just walk away. Leave Millie Beach and never look back. She’d lived the last eighteen years just fine. More than fine. She’d thrived. Built a good life for herself. A life of purpose.

But what about her purpose? The one God had mapped out for her life?

That thought stopped her cold.

Stryker had shown her kindness when no one else had bothered.

Back when she was just a skinny kid with too-big eyes and fierce self-reliance that refused all help.

He’d taken her in without ques tion. Welcomed her into his world of structure and kindness.

He’d become the only father she’d ever known.

The only one who’d stuck around long enough to earn the title.

And her daughter. The baby she’d given up all those years ago. The tiny face that haunted her every moment since. The little girl who carried half her DNA but whom she’d never heard call her “Mama.” Not once.

Maybe that was purpose enough.

But knowing her purpose and fulfilling it were two different things. And one thing stood clear. She couldn’t tackle this alone. She needed help. Drawing in a breath, she made her decision.

She dialed the number.