Royal Lockdown Read online

  REBECCA YORK

  ROYAL LOCKDOWN

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to

  Rebecca York for her contribution to the

  LIGHTS OUT miniseries.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Prologue

  He could never get his life back. His good name. His career. But in just a few hours, he would exact his revenge against the man who had stolen everything from him. Or men. He had never been sure which of them had sandbagged him on that ill-fated rescue mission.

  Tonight it didn’t matter who was the chief culprit. They would all suffer, for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just the way it had happened to him on that long ago night when disaster had struck.

  First he would scare the spit out of them. Then he would take away everything they held dear, like stripping the flesh off their bones. And when they were on their knees, bleeding and begging for mercy, he would give them mercy. He would end their miserable lives.

  The law wouldn’t call it justice. But he had long ago given up his faith in the American justice system. If you wanted retribution, you had to go out and do it yourself.

  He’d been humiliated in public and tossed in the slammer for a crime he hadn’t committed. And his wife hadn’t even stood by him. Either she’d believed the lies they’d told about him, or she hadn’t been able to take the guilt by association.

  Right after he’d been convicted, Margaret had started divorce proceedings and tried to wipe out any vestige of their marriage from her life.

  They’d had three sons together. But she’d changed his boys’ last names and moved them far, far away, where he could never contact them.

  Poor humiliated Margaret had lived for five years in Oregon, then she’d died of uterine cancer. He figured that was God’s retribution.

  And the beginning of hope for him. Without her around to constantly poison their minds, the boys had gotten back into contact with their father.

  Now they were a family again. More than a family. A well-disciplined covert unit.

  Without his sons, his plans for this night of terror would be impossible to carry out. But the boys were all in place, all ready to execute their roles in the drama that was about to unfold.

  He had been out of prison for a year, making plans and setting up the conditions he needed. He looked at his watch. Eight ten. He had a little less than an hour before the show started.

  His pulse was pounding, just as in the old days before a mission. Only this one was his creation. You could even think of it as performance art.

  He had timed everything carefully. He had gotten his body into fighting shape with sessions at the gym and on the winding roads outside of town. He might be eleven years older than when they’d tossed him in the slammer, but he could keep up with his sons on a five-mile run carrying a ten-pound pack. And he could rappel down the side of a sixty-story building, if he needed to.

  This sixty-story building.

  He turned his head to the right and looked out the expansive windows at the panorama spread below him. From his vantage point, he studied the twinkling lights of the city. He could see the spire of Trinity Church. And Old South Church. And the skyscrapers that had sprung up in the downtown area.

  It wasn’t quite dark yet on this summer night, but already Boston was relying on artificial light.

  Not for long.

  Smiling, he turned away from the window. Just getting into this secure location had been a major victory. Now it was time to don the uniform that would make him virtually invisible when the mission started.

  He was leaving nothing to chance. Once again he began methodically checking the kit that held his equipment.

  Making a list and checking it twice, he thought with a grin as he lightly touched one of the automatic weapons he’d stowed in a sports bag. But he wasn’t Santa Claus. Far from it.

  He pulled out his gas mask and made sure it was ready to go over his face when he needed it. He checked the focus on his night-vision goggles.

  Then he went on to the hostage kit, starting with the duct tape and ending with the hypodermic needles.

  Everything was ready. Now all he had to do was wait for dark.

  Chapter One

  8:15 P.M., August 1

  “May I see your picture ID, sir?”

  The armed man made the request politely. But Shane Peters harbored no illusions about what would happen if he refused. He’d be hauled off to a cell in a Boston police station and held for investigation.

  “Of course,” he answered as he pulled his wallet from an inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket and extracted his driver’s license.

  The Secret Service agent checked the ID carefully, then asked for his Social Security number, which was matched against a list of guests cleared to attend the reception on the observation deck of the John Hancock Tower, New England’s tallest building.

  Since 9/11, the Boston landmark had been closed to the public. But one of the lessees had been instrumental in arranging an international trade agreement that had just been signed by the president of the United States. Tonight the observation floor was open for a reception in honor of the agreement, and guests had come from all over the world.

  To commemorate the momentous occasion, President Stack and Vice President Davis would both be attending the event. Of course, that was highly unusual, since protocol dictated that they remain in separate locations as much as possible. But they would only be together on site briefly.

  Because of the unprecedented joint appearance, the Secret Service had gone into overdrive on background checks for everyone scheduled to be in the tower—from the honored guests to the waiters and kitchen staff.

  The line to pass through security moved slowly. Shane watched some of the formally dressed men and women being ushered through the metal detector. He knew that in his custom-tailored tuxedo, he could pass for a member of the upper classes. But he was also aware that men and women with any security experience tended to mark him down as “dangerous.” So he wasn’t surprised when he was singled out for the wanding treatment.

  He struggled to stand cooperatively as he let the guy do his job. Too bad he knew the drill better than the man wielding the wand.

  Shane owned his own high-powered company called Executive Security. That much was on the public record. But that was only the tip of the iceberg. He was also a member of Eclipse, an elite force that took on jobs too sensitive for the FBI or the CIA.

  He and the other members of Eclipse had all met in the Special Forces. Most of them would be here tonight, although only some of them were actually on duty.

  They hadn’t been on a mission together in several months, and Shane was looking forward to seeing the guys. Of course, if they knew what “Wild Man Peters” was up to tonight, they’d haul him off to the funny farm before he made it into the reception room.

  He repressed a grin as the guard sent him on his way—without even checking the special pocket sewn under the arm of his tuxedo jacket. Sewing wasn’t one of his fav
orite skills, but he’d made the modifications himself, to keep the alteration secret.

  He waited at the elevator, then rode upstairs with a nice selection of the rich and famous. Most of them had the look of confidence and well-being that money brought. It amused Shane to think that he could buy and sell most of them.

  Between his security business and Eclipse, he’d made all the money he was ever going to need. He could retire to his very comfortable underground mansion in the White Mountains and keep busy with his electronics inventions. But inventor was only a small part of his job description. He was too restless to work in the lab every day.

  Instead he thrived on challenges—like the one he’d set for himself tonight.

  The elevator stopped at the sixtieth floor, and the glittering crowd exited, ready to party. Before they were permitted to enter the reception room, they were treated to a second security check.

  Although some of the guests muttered about being stopped again, Shane had been expecting it.

  This time one of the Secret Service agents recognized him and let him step through the metal detector. Instead, the agent singled out a balding insurance executive for the wand treatment.

  After clearing the metal detector, Shane stepped aside to let another couple hurry past, then strode toward the reception hall, where candles flickered in the center of white linen tablecloths. At the edge of the room, floor-to-ceiling windows gave a view of the city lights. The windows were part of the reflective glass skin that covered the whole building. Shane remembered that early in the life of the building, a number of them had fallen out and crashed to the sidewalk.

  Note to self—stay away from the windows.

  “Champagne, sir?”

  “Thank you.” He accepted a flute from one of the formally clad waiters. But after taking a sip, he set the glass down on one of the tray stands scattered around the sides of the room. Right now he needed a clear head. Later he could celebrate with some bubbly.

  The reception hall was already fairly crowded, and he recognized dignitaries from countries as diverse as China and France. He looked around to see if he could spot King Frederick of Beau Pays. He’d been happy to see the king’s name on the guest list. Before Frederick LeBron had taken the throne of his small Alpine country, he’d pursued a variety of interests. He’d earned several advanced degrees from the Sorbonne, in Paris, then made a point of taking some top-secret political and military jobs, just like a regular working spook. He’d been the translator on a hostage rescue mission to the Middle East with Shane, the men who now made up Eclipse and three other highly trained operatives.

  The mission had blown up in their faces when one of the members had jumped the gun and gone in too soon. Luckily, they’d gotten most of the hostages out alive, although three had died, including the U.S. secretary of state.

  Wishing he hadn’t flashed on the gory details of that long-ago mission, Shane swiftly tried to rearrange his features into a more party-like alignment.

  But thinking of LeBron had brought back disturbing mental images from the past.

  Shane felt a cold chill ripple over his skin. Suddenly, with terrible certainty, he knew that something bad was going to happen here tonight.

  As soon as the thought surfaced, he firmly shoved it out of his mind. He was nervous about his private plans for the evening. That was all.

  Or was fate telling him that he’d better abort the harebrained scheme before he got into serious trouble?

  He usually listened to his sixth sense. Now he cursed his unexpected attack of nerves.

  Sorry that he’d put down the champagne flute, he looked around the room and spotted Ty Jones over by the French doors to the balcony.

  The man was six feet tall. At two hundred pounds, he was fit and muscular, not a bodybuilder, just a Secret Service agent who stayed in shape.

  As usual, his blond hair was falling across his forehead.

  Ty’s gaze swept the crowd, checking for anything or anyone that looked out of place. When he spotted Shane, they smiled at each other. Ty was one of the Eclipse team. But his day job was with the Secret Service, and he was with the vice president’s security detail. Which either meant that the VP was already on site or would be soon.

  When Ty went back to his surveillance assignment, Shane crossed to the special display that had been set up before any guests had arrived at the reception.

  In a heavy Lucite case, guarded with a silent alarm, was the priceless Beau Pays sapphire that the first king of the small Alpine country had given his wife on their wedding day.

  As Shane looked down at the ninety-carat gem, which was twice the size of the Hope Diamond, a man came up beside him. Shane recognized him as Preston Hyatt, an oil-company executive who was known for his own collection of fabulous gems.

  “That thing should be under armed guard,” Hyatt commented. “If it belonged to me, I wouldn’t loan it out for a trade reception.”

  “Yeah,” Shane agreed.

  “I guess it’s got state-of-the-art security,” the man murmured.

  “Uh-huh,” Shane answered, repressing a secret grin.

  Supposedly the security system guarding the gem was flawless. But he’d used his covert skills to get up here earlier, and he knew that the precautions the guards from Beau Pays had taken were laughable—at least in the face of one of his newer inventions, a bypass system that would fool the alarm into thinking the protective grid was still in force.

  Hyatt drifted away, and Shane stood for several seconds contemplating the gem—until the feeling of being watched made him turn. He expected to see one of the security men zeroing in on the case with the sapphire. Instead, a porcelain-skinned beauty in a gown that matched the sapphire-blue of the gem was staring at him from across the room.

  He took in details like a camera snapping shots in rapid succession. Her hair was light blond and worn in an upsweep, decorated with a gold tiara as delicate as her features. Her eyes were light blue or green. He couldn’t tell the exact color from this distance. She was small and slender, yet the way she stood, tall and straight, gave her a regal bearing.

  The crowd of people around him dimmed to a blur. Suddenly he felt as if he’d stepped from the reception room into the middle of a dream.

  What was that line from the old Broadway musical? Something about seeing a stranger from across a crowded room. And knowing that person was the one.

  He felt as if a hundred-pound hammer had thunked him in the chest. His heart skipped a beat, then started up again in double time.

  It was several heartbeats before he remembered to breathe, several seconds before his brain engaged again. When it did, one thought surfaced. He wanted to be alone with this woman in a bedroom, although the sudden lustful ache was nothing compared to the emotions flooding through him.

  In the next moment, his memory for names and faces clicked into place. He’d never met her in person, but he knew who she was—and knew that he didn’t have a chance in hell of being anything more than her casual acquaintance.

  Princess Ariana LeBron was off-limits to the likes of Shane Peters.

  ARIANA LEBRON STOOD stock-still, struggling to keep her face from revealing any emotion as she stared at the tall, lean-bodied man on the other side of the room.

  He was devastating in formal attire. She suspected he’d be just as appealing in a pair of faded jeans, T-shirt and scuffed loafers.

  His shiny black hair was styled to perfection. His eyes were dark, too, and focused on her with a laser intensity that tied her stomach into an instant knot.

  His name was Shane Peters. She knew that from her recent research.

  To aid her in identifying the foreign dignitaries and others attending the reception, the State Department had supplied her with an annotated guest list. As she’d crossed the Atlantic in her private jet, she’d read up on many of the men and women who would be attending. Being prepared for any situation went with the job of heir to the throne of Beau Pays.

  As she’d studie
d the information, she’d been especially interested in Shane Peters because her father had talked about him on more than one occasion. He was ex-Special Forces. A security expert. And also an inventor of specialized electronics equipment.

  Of all the pictures she’d looked at on the plane, his had stopped her. He’d intrigued her. She’d taken in his sinfully long lashes, his ebony eyes, his perfect white teeth. Now she knew that the photograph had been a pale shadow of the flesh-and-blood man.

  She could see that there was more to Shane Peters than a biography and the photo he’d slapped onto the information sheet about his company. An aura of danger surrounded him, and she knew instinctively that he’d be a bad man to have on the opposing side of any fight.

  Which was one good reason for staying away from him, she reminded herself. Another was the pull she felt when she stared at him. He was a brash American, just the wrong sort of man for her. She couldn’t date a man simply because she was attracted to him. Duty to her people and to her country came first.

  Since her brother, Rolf, had died in a skiing accident four years ago, she was the heir to the throne. And since she would be thirty in two months, she’d selected a suitable fiancé from among the nobility of her country.

  His name was Jean Claude Belmont, and he would inherit a dukedom. She had thought of practicality, not love, when making her selection.

  From observing her own parents’ polite and friendly marriage, she knew that love was just a fairy tale. You picked a mate because he fulfilled certain purposes. Like Jean Claude, who had a Ph.D. in government. He would father her children and give her advice when she needed his counsel.

  He was home now, attending a meeting she’d had to skip to come here—a meeting of the committee setting up a program where poor women in her country could get free day care for their children while they entered job-training programs and then went out into the workforce.

  But when her father’s gout had flared up, he’d asked her to attend this reception in his place. And she hadn’t refused because duty had been drummed into her since she was a child.