Christmas On The Run. Shirlee McCoy

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      Hostage-rescue negotiator. Sharpshooter. Sniper.

      If she could contact him without setting off an alarm with the people who were manipulating her, she just might be able to stop them.

      Please, God, please, she prayed silently as she raced along the path, the antique pendant, Josh’s birth certificate and a handwritten note sealed in a plastic bag and zipped into the small pocket of her running pants. The path veered to the right, and she followed it, catching glimpses of Christmas lights through the trees. This time of year, everything seemed to glow. Houses, stores and streetlights were all decorated for the season.

      The beauty of those things always made Carly long for the kind of family she could go home to. The kind of family that exchanged gifts and baked cookies, that sang Christmas carols and attended Christmas Eve service together. This year, more than ever, she wanted that. Not the family she’d grown up with. A family that would stand beside her. One that would be just as determined and desperate to keep Zane safe as she was.

      Up ahead, the path was dark, curving through thick tree growth. Dallas’s place was five miles away. If she cut through the woods, she’d get there more quickly and avoid some of the dark stretches, but that would make the people following her suspicious.

      She was a creature of habit. She couldn’t deny it. She’d grown up in chaos; now she liked order, predictability and routine. She left for work at the same time every day. She picked Zane up at school at the same time every afternoon. She went to church every Sunday, grocery shopping every Monday, to the library every Tuesday evening, out with friends exactly once every other week. They knew it.

      They knew a lot.

      But they didn’t know her. If they did, they would have found someone else to do the job, because there was no way she planned to follow through. She had too much integrity, and she was too devoted to the preservation of antique jewelry. Twenty gemstones in four months. That was what they wanted. Polished and cut with antique methods that very few people in the country were familiar with.

      Carly was very familiar with them. Some people called her an expert. She called herself a lifelong student. She’d apprenticed under a man who’d made studying and perfecting those methods his life’s work. Now it was hers. Aside from working as a museum conservator, she freelanced as an antique-jewelry restoration specialist. She could fix Great-Grandma’s Victorian earrings, Aunt Marie’s broken mourning ring. She could cut and polish new stones and make them match old ones almost exactly.

      She did it to pay the bills and because she hated to see a piece tossed into a drawer or thrown into a scrap pile. With every job she did, she provided documentation that included the date of restoration, the modern gemstones that she’d cut and placed into the piece, and the methods that she’d used. Over the years, she’d worked with high-end jewelry shops and for some very wealthy people. She’d also worked for museums and private collectors. She had a reputation, and that reputation must have put her in the sights of the people who were manipulating her.

      But she wasn’t a forger. She would not pass her work off as someone else’s.

      She also wouldn’t replace the very expensive and intrinsically valuable gemstones in the Smithsonian collection she was restoring and preserving with her handiwork.

      That was what they wanted.

      They hadn’t said it, but the stones they’d provided her with, the instructions they’d given her for cutting those stones, made it clear that she was re-creating many of the gemstones from Ida May Babcock’s gift to the Smithsonian. The oil magnate heiress had died six years ago. She’d had no children, no husband, no connections except for a pet cockapoo that had died three years after her. She had had a will and a handful of distant relatives who’d all wanted a piece of her estate. It had taken six years and hundreds of thousands of dollars for her executor to make certain that the will was honored—her wealth and real estate to charities, her art, jewelry and vast collections of antiques to the Smithsonian. Carly had been chosen to itemize the jewelry collection, put together a conservation plan and restore any pieces that needed it.

      She’d been thrilled to take the job. Zane was getting older, and her years of traveling the country working contracted jobs had to end. Zane needed stability. He needed neighbors and teachers who knew him from one year to the next. He needed a group of friends that he’d grow up with. He needed everything she’d never had.

      But, more than anything, he needed to be safe.

      She shuddered, picking up speed as she reached the darkest section of the park. Trees pressed in on either side, the soft rustle of leaves in the winter breeze the only sound.

      She ran to the edge of the paved path and turned left onto packed earth. She could hear her feet pounding against the ground, her breath panting out in the same even rhythm. She couldn’t hear her pursuers. That was good. It meant they were keeping their distance. Just like always. She’d use that to her advantage. She didn’t need to focus on the pace of the run or on the rhythm of her steps. She’d been this way dozens of times before. She knew the path and the park. She didn’t know who was following her. That was a question she asked herself every day. Who? Why?

      Someone at the museum?

      Someone who knew the value of the jewelry she was working with?

      Maybe. She didn’t know, and she hadn’t dared try to figure it out. She’d felt hunted for weeks, stalked by a nameless, faceless entity. And she wanted it over. Now. Not tomorrow or next week or next month. If Josh’s brother wouldn’t help, she’d pack her bags and leave in the dead of night. She’d go somewhere she’d never been before, and she’d start a new life doing something that had nothing to do with old jewelry.

      Of course, that would mean leaving her life behind.

      Leaving Jazz behind.

      Jazz. Her best friend from college. The person who’d shown up on her doorstep the day after Josh died and who’d arrived again two weeks before Zane’s birth and announced that she planned to stay until after the baby was born. It had ended up being much longer than that. Jazz had been working on establishing herself as a children’s book author. She’d needed an affordable home, and Carly had needed someone she trusted to watch Zane while she worked. It had been a perfect arrangement. They were as close as sisters. Jazz was the only aunt Zane had ever known and would ever have. The thought of disappearing and never contacting her again was sickening.

      But Jazz was getting married on New Year’s Eve. She’d have a great life. Even if Carly and Zane disappeared from it forever.

      At least, that was what Carly had been telling herself. It was what she wanted to believe. She couldn’t stomach the thought of Jazz mourning them any more than she could stomach the thought of living life without her best friend.

      Carly shoved the thoughts way, forcing herself to sink into the rhythm of the run. Frigid November air seeped through the layers of her running gear, freezing sweat onto her skin and making her shiver. Behind her, a twig snapped, and she almost looked back.

      Almost.

      She didn’t want them to see her fear, though. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

      Her lungs burned, her legs trembled as she sprinted through the park. She’d planned everything, timed it all perfectly. She just had to stick to the plan and keep the goal in mind. She had to focus her energy on getting to Dallas’s house and delivering the message she’d brought СКАЧАТЬ