Midnight Disclosures. Rita Herron

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      Reminding herself that she had another life to consider now, a baby to protect, she eased her foot off the accelerator, but another pair of headlights behind her, set on high beam, nearly blinded her. She blinked and righted the wheel to correct for the curve in the road, but a horn blared as an oncoming truck roared toward her. She skimmed the edge of the embankment, spotted the bridge ahead and panic slammed into her.

      Behind her another car honked, speeding up on her tail. She skidded on the wet pavement, her Jetta hurling into a tailspin. The passenger side scraped the side rails of the bridge and sparks flew from the car as it careened down the riverbank, grinding over the muddy earth. Glass exploded as she nosedived into the Chattahoochee River.

      The air bag exploded, trapping her against the seat. Spots danced before her eyes, and panic knifed through her arms as a stabbing pain shot through her temple.

      She had to save the baby.

      Water seeped into the car, the current lapping at the windows. She jiggled the seat belt to escape, pushing at the air bag, but the seat belt was stuck. Red water swirled around her.

      Blood.

      Her stomach cramped, a spasm of mind-numbing agony gripping her. She cried out, tears running from her eyes. The red faded into black. Then darkness. She reached for the tiny picture frame and clutched it in her hand.

      Dear God. No. She was losing her baby. They would both die. And Mark would leave the country without ever knowing that she’d planned to accept his proposal.

      Or that she had been pregnant with his child.

      Chapter One

      A year later

      Claire Kos lived in a world of darkness—a world she’d been trying to adjust to since the day she’d lost her child.

      Feeling her way to her desk, she slid into the chair, adjusted the microphone and tried to banish thoughts of her own personal problems. So far, Calling Claire, as her radio talk show had been dubbed, had been a major hit in Savannah. Her callers consisted of people who wanted to discuss love gone wrong, divorces, depression, family and parental issues.

      Ironic that she should be offering advice on love when her own relationship had self-destructed.

      She heard noise on the other side of the glass window and sensed the producer, Drew Myers, gearing up for the show. Drew handled a hundred things at once, all deftly, as well as screening incoming calls. The station had worked out a system so he could signal her with a buzzer.

      As a concession to Claire’s concern for the potential threats to herself and the show, and out of concern for the callers, she and the station manager had agreed to keep the topics on a fairly light note, hoping to avoid any issues which might need a more thorough professional assessment.

      She checked her braille watch, then laid her hand over the buzzer. The familiar ding alerted her to begin the show.

      The first caller complained of a cheating husband, which prompted several callers to admit their own spouse’s extramarital affair. The last caller hit a nerve—her husband had abandoned her and their infant son.

      She thought of Mark.

      Not that Mark had really abandoned her. He’d gone off to war, while she’d fought a war of her own at home.

      Sometimes she wondered if she should have informed him of her accident. Other times, she assured herself she’d been right not to burden him with her problems. Besides, he hadn’t exactly contacted her after he’d left.

      A signal alerted her to the next caller. “Hello, this is Claire, how can I help you?”

      “I… I can’t s-see,” a woman cried. “It’s so dark. P-please help me.”

      Claire froze, the desperation in the woman’s high-pitched voice sending a chill down her spine.

      “Tell me your name,” she said softly. “Where are you?”

      Instead of the woman’s voice, a muffled voice began to sing, “Blinded by the light…”

      A chill skated up Claire’s spine. “Who is this? Is this some kind of sick joke?” She jerked her head up, wishing she could see Drew’s reaction, then motioned for him to trace the call, another stipulation she’d insisted upon before signing on with the program. She had no intention of offering free advice to spike ratings in lieu of true professional care.

      “She was a bad girl, a very bad girl, Claire,” the muffled voice whispered. “Do you know what happens to bad girls?”

      Claire struggled to detect the sounds in the background, anything that might offer her a clue as to the woman’s location. The wind howled. Some kind of bird cawed. She heard the ocean waves crashing against the shore. The man was outside, using a cell phone.

      It would be harder to trace.

      “Tell me who this is,” she whispered. “Let me speak to the woman again.”

      “It’s too late for her,” the dark voice murmured. “But save yourself, Claire. Goodbye.”

      Then the phone went dead, the woman’s cry for help fading into an eerie silence. Panic bolted through Claire.

      Had she just been talking to a killer?

      A week later

      LIEUTENANT MARK STEELE had once lived for the military.

      Unfortunately, his last army mission had gone awry, and five of his men had been killed. Although Mark had lived, he’d been injured and had spent time in an enemy prison camp. But not before he’d shot the traitor who’d revealed his men’s location.

      He’d thought that bit of justice might assuage the guilt that had eaten away at him ever since, but it hadn’t even nibbled at the edges. Blinking against the blinding noonday sun, he entered the Atlanta Federal office building. Since he’d accepted a medical discharge, he’d been slogging through every day, searching for a reason to get up every morning. This new job, tracking down criminals, even if they were civilians, might give him a renewed purpose in life. God knew he needed it.

      A fair-haired man in a dark suit and tie greeted him, although the normally arrogant attitude he’d always associated with the feds was absent, a dark soulless look haunting the man’s eyes. Mark instantly connected. He’d witnessed the same desolation in soldiers’ eyes just before they died.

      “Luke Devlin,” the man said without preamble. He gestured toward two other agents seated at the table and introduced them.

      “It’s nice to have you on board, Mr. Steele.”

      Mark nodded, still adjusting to civilian life. “Thanks. I’m anxious for an assignment.” Anything to take his mind off the lost men. His lost career.

      His lost love, Claire.

      “We’re organizing a special task force to investigate certain aspects of government intelligence as well as the Coastal Island Research Park’s work on Nighthawk Island. Are you familiar with the research center?”

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