Midnight Caller

  Dear Reader,

  If you’ve been reading the 43 LIGHT STREET books, you probably remember Nowhere Man, in which Hunter Kelley was being trained for a dangerous mission at a secure research facility. The place was run by a group of hardbitten men who trusted no one and took no prisoners. They were quite a formidable bunch. In fact, they were the bad guys in Nowhere Man.

  In Midnight Caller I’ve brought together a similar cast of characters—only, this time, ironically, they’re the good guys, defending a place called Castle Phoenix, which is under siege from a man who will stop at nothing to sabotage their mission.

  Their leader is Glenn Bridgman, a physician and former army officer trying desperately to atone for a mistake he made in the past. All his energy and all his time are focused on a life-or-death research project—until a beautiful woman named Meg Faulkner invades his armed camp. From the moment he and Meg lay eyes on each other, they’re overwhelmed by powerful emotions drawing them inexorably together. But neither of them can trust the other. Meg’s memory is wiped out when she’s injured in an accident on the way to Castle Phoenix. And Glenn has evidence that she’s invaded his territory for some sinister purpose. Yet even under these circumstances, neither can deny the magnetic attraction drawing them together. The roiling mix of danger and deceit, loyalty and love makes for a potent story—one that was both fun and a challenge to write. I hope you’ll like the results.

  I’m looking forward to bringing you more exciting stories in the months ahead.

  All my best,

  Ruth Glick, writing as Rebecca York

  Midnight Caller

  Rebecca York

  Ruth Glick writing as Rebecca York

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Meg Faulkner (aka Meg Wexler)—She came to Castle Phoenix with a hidden agenda. But she couldn’t remember what it was.

  Glenn Bridgman—He’d do anything to carry out his mission, until Meg Faulkner made him break every commandment in his personal rule book.

  Jerome Johnson—Winning was everything, unfortunately for any man or woman who stood in his way.

  Hal Dorsey—His health might be fragile, but he had a will of iron.

  Tommy Faulkner—He knew his sister Meg would do anything to save his life.

  Blake Claymore—Chief of Security, and the most disliked man at Castle Phoenix.

  Dylan Ryder—If Glenn Bridgman got killed he’d have to take over the Castle Phoenix project.

  Tim Lipscomb—Was he into drugs, or was there some other explanation for his behavior?

  Terry Shipley—He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Leroy Enders—How did he fit into Jerome Johnson’s plans?

  Chuck Fogerty, Stewart MacArthur, Bill Gady, Edmond Sparks, Duncan Catlan, James Oakland, Bruce Erdman—Was one of them a traitor?

  Previous titles by REBECCA YORK

  43 Light Street books:

  Life Line

  Shattered Vows

  Whispers in the Night

  Only Skin Deep

  Trial by Fire

  Hopscotch

  Cradle and All

  What Child Is This?

  Midnight Kiss

  Tangled Vows

  Till Death Us Do Part

  Prince of Time

  Face to Face

  For Your Eyes Only

  Father and Child

  Nowhere Man

  Shattered Lullaby

  AFTER DARK—Counterfeit Wife

  Midnight Caller

  Peregrine Connection books:

  Talons of the Falcon

  Flight of the Raven

  In Search of the Dove

  Don’t miss the next 43 Light Street:

  Never Too Late

  On sale March 2000

  Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the

  following address for information on our newest releases.

  Harlequin Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5×3

  Chapter One

  Meg Faulkner felt it like a dull ache—disaster looming around the next hairpin turn of the road. Night had fallen hours ago, bringing with it a chill haze that billowed across the narrow ribbon of macadam winding through the thick pine forest. The mist fogged the headlight beams and turned the landscape into a scene from The X-Files.

  In the TV show, Meg would be playing the unsuspecting first victim of some unseen menace. In real life, there were plenty of reasons why the analogy didn’t quite work. She wasn’t an innocent victim. She knew what she was getting into. And now that she was having second thoughts, it was too late to back out.

  “Damn Glenn Bridgman’s hide!” she muttered under her breath as she hunched over the wheel, straining her eyes trying to see the road ahead. Maybe he hadn’t arranged the nightmare driving conditions, but he’d chosen to live in the back of beyond, fifty miles from the nearest town and a couple of well-placed steps from hell. Which was where she hoped to send him, if she ever made it to the front gate of his estate—and managed to talk her way inside.

  The car rounded a rock outcropping, dipped into a hollow where the pavement was covered with water, and went into a skid. Jaw clenched, Meg fought to keep from sliding into the wall of rock hemming the right-hand shoulder.

  From the trunk of the car she heard a muffled sound like that of a couple of sacks of oranges rolling around. But she wasn’t carrying a shipment of citrus fruit to Mr. Bridgman.

  Tires spun on gravel as she surged back onto the road. Breathing a little sigh, she slowed the heavy car, then glanced at the glowing green numerals on the dashboard clock. Ten after eleven. Probably she should have taken a motel room when she’d had the chance and started fresh in the morning.

  She’d voiced that observation to Mr. Johnson, after he’d blinked his lights and led her onto the old logging road where they’d agreed to exchange cars. But he’d told her in his gravelly voice that they’d lose the element of surprise if she stopped overnight. So she’d slid behind the wheel of her borrowed vehicle with its special cargo hidden in the trunk. Then Johnson had driven off in her car, leaving her on her own.

  Nervous energy and fear had kept her going for the past fifty miles. Not fear for herself, but for Tommy.

  Thinking about her brother made her vision shimmer. She managed to fight back the tears, but she couldn’t wipe away the mental image of his haunted face, sunken cheeks, and trembling hands. He was going downhill fast—thanks to Glenn Bridgman.

  She’d made the mistake of delivering that opinion to Tommy, and the old spark had ignited in his hazel eyes. For a moment she’d been glad that he was still capable of showing some spirit. Then he’d started defending Bridgman, warning her that he didn’t want to hear a negative word about the man, since every member of the team had known what they were getting into.

  Seeing that the heated defense was draining her brother’s strength, she’d clamped her mouth shut and gone into the kitchen to fix sloppy-joe sandwiches—one of Tommy’s alltime favorite meals. But even her home cooking hadn’t tempted him to eat more than a few bites.

  She’d left his small apartment a half hour later, choked with despair and simmering with anger. Over the next few days, the anger had grown into a roiling cauldron of emotions that had left her vulnerable to a devil’s proposition. A man named “Mr. Johnson” had been playing the devil. He’d shown up at her Light Street office a week after her visit to Tommy, taken her out to dinner, and made her an offer so tempting that her mouth had practically watered.

  Still, she’d politely refused. No way was she getting into anything illegal, immoral and insane.

  He’d kept talking—knocking down her object
ions one by one, making it sound as if it was her patriotic duty to give Glenn Bridgman what he deserved. Even then, she might have gotten up from the table, until he’d pointed out how far a million dollars could go toward defraying Tommy’s medical costs.

  Johnson must have sensed the moment when she’d gone from confirmed skeptic to would-be convert, and he’d started talking faster. Before she quite knew what was happening, she’d agreed to sign on to his “mission impossible” team.

  According to instructions, she’d told her Light Street friends she was just going off on a much-needed vacation. Which meant nobody knew where she was or what she was doing, she reminded herself with a sudden chill as a gust of wind whipped clouds of mist into her path like a fog machine on a Hollywood set. Still, she caught a glimpse of a diamond-shaped yellow sign that said, Falling Rock Area.

  Great.

  For the hundredth time since the nightmare ride had begun, she glanced at the odometer. Only five more miles to Bridgman’s private road. When she got to his estate, the real fun would begin. First she’d have to confront the armed guards. Then, if she were lucky, she’d get an audience with the Big B, as she’d started calling him in her mind. Some luck!

  She’d seen a couple of pictures of him. He was tall and dark-haired, with icy, shuttered eyes—the kind of man you’d hate to face in a high-stakes poker game. Unfortunately, that was pretty close to what she was going to be doing.

  She found the turnoff in the fog. The small sign said Castle Phoenix. She’d thought the name was pretentious when Johnson had told it to her. And she’d seen pictures of the dark, brooding pile of stone that looked like something out of a gothic novel.

  As she swung onto the one-lane access road, she mentally reviewed her prep sessions with Johnson—all the things she was supposed to say in answer to Bridgman’s inevitable questions.

  Her attention was focused on the confrontation, so that it was several seconds before she realized she was hearing a rumbling noise above her.

  Thunder?

  The question was answered as a trash-can-size boulder came hurtling down the cliff to her left, crashing through the underbrush and landing with a thud in front of the car. Jamming her foot on the brake, she managed to avoid the obstruction. Unfortunately, it was only the first of several chunks of mountain that had torn loose. They came cannonballing down, slamming into the side and back of the car and straight toward the window beside her head.

  A scream tore from her throat. The last conscious thought she had was that she’d bartered her soul to the devil—and he was going to collect on the deal a lot sooner than she’d anticipated.

  “IT’S AFTER MIDNIGHT. Get some rest.” The words were said quietly, deliberately, like an oft-repeated mantra.

  Down on his knees in the dirt, Glenn Bridgman composed his features, glad that he had his back to the walkway. It had been a long time since he’d closed his eyes before two in the morning. Tonight, a kind of charged feeling in the air had made him even more restless than usual. The sensation had been building for weeks—a crawling feeling at the base of his spine that he couldn’t define. Yet he’d learned to trust his instincts. Something evil was in the air. Too bad he didn’t know what—or when it would happen.

  He’d tried to work off the tension with a grueling session in the gym, but the punishing physical workout hadn’t settled him down. After a shower, he was more wide-awake than ever. It was too early to check the cell samples in the level-four biohazards lab. So he’d wandered into greenhouse eight and started looking for new growth on the rare cliff-dwelling bushes that he’d brought back from an expedition to Nepal three months ago. A tea brewed from the bark had been used by the natives for years as a headache remedy. A chemical analysis of the active ingredients showed high potential in the treatment of migraine headaches.

  The trouble was, he’d damn near broken his neck getting samples of the stuff from rock crevices halfway up a mountainside. The only way he was going to get a stable supply was to propagate the dozen specimens he’d brought into the country.

  “Give it a rest,” Hal Dorsey repeated, his tone a little more demanding as he jabbed a gnarled finger at the controls of his motorized wheelchair, moving a few inches closer to the edge of the path.

  Glenn stood, brushing dirt from the knees of his jeans. He rose to his full six-foot height before turning to stare down into dark eyes that were still as sharp as bayonets. He’d learned that those eyes could pierce his armor as no one else’s dared. Still, he kept his voice level. “I was just getting ready to turn in.”

  “I mean, give the guilt a rest.”

  “Don’t start on that tonight,” he answered, hoping the subject was closed.

  No such luck.

  “Spending the hours between midnight and five in the morning doing penance isn’t going to help the men from Operation Clean Sweep.”

  Glenn gestured toward the low-growing plants with their twisted stems and feathery leaves. “I’m not doing penance. I’m making money so I can keep the main research project going. That will help them.”

  “Any cash you see from this stuff is years down the road,” the man in the wheelchair retorted.

  “Not if Mac McQuade at Medizone Labs buys into the research project.”

  “Chump change. You need to score something bigger.”

  Glenn might have risen to the bait. Instead, he worked hard to keep his features even. It was starting to look as if he could hit big in the biotech lottery with one of the projects in the main bio lab, but he wasn’t going to put a jinx on it by speaking too soon.

  “You trust McQuade?”

  “I’ve known him for a long time.”

  “Everyone has his price.”

  Before Glenn could respond to the cynical observation, a series of electronic beeps interrupted the discussion. With a little sigh, Glenn pulled a portable phone from his pocket and pressed the receive button. “Bridgman here.”

  The voice on the other end of the line belonged to Jay Trescott at the communications center, and his tone resonated with suppressed excitement. “We have something on the screen you might want to see, sir.”

  “Don’t call me sir,” he snapped. After walking away from the army three years ago, he’d looked forward to being simply Glenn Bridgman, private citizen. Then, in one unforgettable afternoon of carnage, when armed men had stormed Castle Phoenix, he’d discovered that his work demanded a private security force. Most of the guys he’d hired had military backgrounds, which made them tough and loyal. Unfortunately, they had speech patterns that were hard to break. “Just give me a summary.” he added more gently, regretful that he was taking out his dark mood on Trescott.

  “Uh…sorry. We were monitoring a car heading toward the main gate—on your private access road,” he added unnecessarily, since Glenn had made sure there was only one way to get to this place.

  He glanced at his watch. Midnight. An inauspicious time for visitors.

  “How close is the vehicle?”

  “Four point six miles.”

  Which meant that either the driver was lost in the woods north of Rome, New York, or he was planning a surprise visit to Castle Phoenix.

  “But there’s been a complication,” Trescott said, interrupting his speculation. “A rockslide along that stretch we’ve been worried about.”

  “The rocks hit the car?”

  “Looks like it from what we’re seeing on the sensors.”

  “I’m on my way,” Glenn advised. “Have a fully armed security team ready to leave the compound at once.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Trescott was really excited now. Glenn didn’t waste the energy correcting his form of address again.

  “I take it there’s trouble,” Hal muttered as Glenn slipped the phone back into his pocket.

  “Maybe. I’ve got to check out an accident on the access road.”

  “You expecting company?”

  “Negative.” He strode toward the greenhouse door, knowing Hal would w
heel himself into the communications center where he could monitor the action from the comfort of his chair—although comfort was a relative term for his old friend.

  Three minutes later, Glenn trotted into the garage at the right of the main house. Hell of a night to be out, he thought as he set his medical bag on the back seat and climbed behind the wheel of the lead jeep.

  Blake Claymore, the security chief, was already in the passenger seat, a compact machine gun held upright. There were two more jeeps in the small convoy and a van bringing up the rear—all full of armed men. Quite a little military force to investigate an accident—and probably not enough firepower if they were walking into an ambush.

  Glenn made a low sound under his breath as he started the engine and pulled out of the parking garage. This could be a trap, but it would take anyone else over an hour—under the best of driving conditions—to arrive at the scene of the accident. Tonight, the roads were less than ideal, and he couldn’t leave an injured motorist out there in God knows what kind of shape. The guy could be bleeding to death for all they knew.

  Switching on the cellular phone as he headed toward the main gate, he aimed a question in the direction of the speaker. “Any sign of movement at the accident scene?”

  “Negative,” Trescott answered.

  “Let me know if there’s any change.”

  “Yes…”

  The gate swung noiselessly open as the lead jeep approached. Then the convoy rumbled into the fog-shrouded night. Glenn felt Blake’s tension as the headlights cut a path through the gloom. They both knew this could be another stealth attack by the man who called himself Jerome Johnson, the man they’d dubbed “The Jackal.”