Avengers shadow the shad.., p.1
Avenger's Shadow (The Shadows Book 2), page 1
Avenger’s Shadow
Candle Sutton
Text copyright © 2022 Candle Sutton
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, dialogue, incidents, and locations are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to events, places, or people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or other – without written permission from the author.
Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
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Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Epilogue
Free ebook giveaway
Dedication & Acknowledgements
A note from the author
Excerpt from False Shadow
Prologue
One
Also Available by Candle Sutton
Prologue
The not-too-distant future…
“You said you could handle him.”
Oleander Eckman’s pulse ratcheted to keep time with the thrumming drumbeat coming through the door behind her. Her fingers tightened around the cell phone pressed against her ear. “I can.”
She brought a shaking cigarette to her lips and took a long drag, which did nothing to calm her nerves.
“He’s gaining support. People are listening to him.”
“It’s nothing.” She injected confidence into her words. “The fleeting interest of the masses is of no concern.”
“He could ruin everything!” Niles Wilson, the man on the other end of the line, released a ragged breath. “I don’t need to tell you how much we have riding on this tour.”
No, he didn’t. She was well aware of the importance of what she was doing, of the money it brought into the organization.
“You need to stop him.” Niles’s words contained an arctic chill. “If you don’t, we’ll find someone who will.”
The call abruptly cut off, leaving her clutching the rhinestone-covered phone in one hand, a dwindling cigarette in the other.
She cursed. Niles wasn’t someone she wanted to cross. Not only was he the assistant director of one of the most secretive law enforcement agencies in the country, he was also one of the most powerful forces in The Shadows. Threats to replace her weren’t empty, not with him.
The stillness of the night swirled around her, in sharp contrast to the panic shredding her insides.
No matter what she’d told Niles, she wasn’t confident that she could stop Britt. There’d been a day when Britt had heeded her advice, but those days seemed to be over now.
Unless…
She took another puff on the cigarette, blowing the smoke into the dark night air.
The ground shook with the force of the music pumping from the arena as the concert raged on. Britt Wolfe’s rough signature voice was unmistakable, even if the walls between them made it impossible for her to understand his words.
She dropped the cigarette onto the concrete and turned her face to the night sky. Part of her wished she’d let Niles’s call go, rather than stepping outside to take it. Although doing that would simply delay the inevitable.
No matter. She could handle this.
So Britt hadn’t been listening to her. If he wouldn’t listen to her by choice, he’d do it by force. It was time to show him how much he needed her.
A scream sounded behind her, followed by a whole chorus of them. The music cut off abruptly.
Something was wrong.
She whipped toward the fire door and raced inside, the conversation with Niles fleeing to the recesses of her mind.
The smell of smoke registered. Followed by the smell of burning flesh.
₪ ₪ ₪
The explosion lifted him off his feet.
One second, Britt Wolfe was belting out the lyrics he’d sung a million times and the next, flying through the air.
Heat seared his back. The smell of burning hair and charred flesh singed his nostrils.
He smacked face down on the stage, his hip ramming into the body of his guitar.
Gasps and screams surrounded him. Dimly, he heard the voices of the other guys in the band, their words indecipherable.
The pain intensified, the fire blazing across his back and legs. Spots dotted his vision, but the blackness wouldn’t come.
Footsteps pounded toward him, followed by the whoosh of multiple fire extinguishers.
Ice pinpricked his back. Cold needles stabbed the tender skin on his arms and a cry tore from his throat.
With a cloud of smoke, the flames died.
He tried to push himself up, but his arms wouldn’t move. Tears burned his eyes, streaking hot trails down his nose before dripping to the stage beneath his face.
“Don’t touch him.” Oleander Eckman’s voice drifted through the pain.
The group’s manager. Naturally she’d be out here bossing everyone around.
“EMS is on the way.” She dropped to her knees beside him, leaning down to try to see his face. “Britt. Can you hear me?”
“Yeah.” His voice came out a hoarse croak.
“Get these people out of here!” Her sharp voice lashed above him. “And get those lights up!”
Brightness flooded his peripheral and he pinched his eyes closed against the harsh florescent stadium lights.
A sharp inhalation and a muffled curse told him that Oleander thought it looked as bad as it felt. He swallowed back the bile burning his throat.
The saboteur had struck again. Only this time, he’d almost been killed.
One
Britt blinked in the soft lighting. His head felt fuzzy and his body ached. Where was he?
He looked around.
The hospital. Memories of the explosion rocketed through his mind. They’d been only two songs into their show when something had gone majorly wrong with the pyrotechnics display. How, he wasn’t sure. They had a top-notch crew. There had been multiple inspections. Hundreds of shows over the last three years and they’d never had a problem.
Of course, he’d never had someone stalking his every step before either.
Maybe this wasn’t about the stalker. He’d been asking a lot of questions about the drugs supposedly being moved through his show. Maybe someone was trying to get him out of the way.
That made no sense. Without him, there wouldn’t be a show. No show meant the drugs wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Assuming there really were drugs being moved. He had yet to see a shred of proof supporting that claim.
He let his eyes travel the room. At least his star status afforded him the privacy that he might otherwise lack. Flowers, balloons, and bears holding hearts lined every inch of shelf and window space. More sat on the floor against the walls, although none obstructed the walkway.
His fans had been busy.
An oddly-shaped box stood amidst vases in the corner. His heart stuttered.
He knew that box. He’d seen one like it many times over the past month. The single lily, almost dead, would be wrapped in black tissue paper, as it always was.
He tore his gaze away.
A glance at the clock showed it was after three a.m., about seven hours since he and the guys had taken the stage. Explained why no one else was in here. If it wasn’t the middle of the night, he was sure that Oleander would be here, wanting to know how many shows she’d have to cancel.
While he bet there was at least one of the band’s bodyguards posted outside the door, he was grateful for the solitude inside the room.
As the last vestiges of sleep slipped away, he assessed his injuries. Bandages wrapped his arms from his biceps to his wrists. He didn’t feel a lot of pain, but that was probably thanks to the IV stuck in his hand. A shudder rocked his body and he diverted his gaze from the IV line. At least he hadn’t been awake when they’d put the needle in.
Well, if he wanted details on his condit
Man, did he hope he didn’t get someone who was familiar with his music. He needed professionalism, not a gushing fan or a cranky hater.
A minute passed before a nurse who appeared to be in her sixties bustled in. She offered a kind smile. “Mr. Wolfe. It’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”
Tension seeped from him. If his fame meant anything to this nurse, she didn’t show it. “Not as bad as I think I should be.”
She chuckled. “Well, you’re quite lucky.”
“How bad is it?” The breath lodged in his lungs as he waited for her reply.
“Second degree burns on your arms, but that’s it. Your clothing and someone’s quick response saved you from worse injury.”
The custom-made fire resistant clothing had been worth every penny. “So, second degree burns. What am I looking at for recovery time?”
They still had several stops on this tour. The next show was only three days away.
Plus, they’d probably need to add another show to this city to make up for last night.
“Skin’s going to be pretty tender for a few weeks. You’ll need to use ointment and keep the skin covered, but the doc thought the scarring would be minimal.”
Thanks, God. The prayer filtered through his thoughts. He would have preferred no scarring, but it could’ve been a heck of a lot worse than some minor scarring on his arms.
“I must say, you’ve thrown this wing into a bit of a tizzy.” The nurse’s cheeky grin spoke of amusement, not annoyance. “You had about five nurses fighting to take care of you, but that manager of yours came through and laid down the law, so now you’re stuck with me.”
He grinned. “That sounds like somethin’ she’d do.”
“Broke their hearts. I don’t think they’re giving up on the chance to get in here, but that bouncer outside the door is doing his job.”
Bouncer. He could probably guess who it was. “Gray buzz cut?”
“You got it.”
Vinnie. No surprise that Oleander had sent their most experienced bodyguard to personally watch over him. “You can let them know I’ll be sure to stop by and say hi before I get out of here.”
“That’ll make their day.”
“Hey, can you grab that box for me?” Britt pointed a shaky finger toward the one in the corner.
The nurse picked it up and turned to him, her eyebrow arched. “Looks kind of like a coffin. You’ve got some interesting fans.”
Interesting was one word for it. Fan? Probably not. He forced a smile he didn’t feel and thanked her as she handed him the box.
After checking his vitals, the nurse bustled out, telling him to stay hydrated and get some rest.
He waited for the door to close before opening the box.
Inside, a wilted lily mocked him. A note, tucked amidst the black tissue paper underneath the stem, beckoned.
He extracted the paper and unfolded it.
Feeling the heat, Wolfe? You ain’t felt nothin’ yet.
His mouth parched. The note dropped from his fingers and landed on top of the dying flower.
Inside, he’d known the fire hadn’t been an accident, just like he’d known it had nothing to do with the rumors of drug smuggling. This note confirmed it. He threw the coffin-box and flower toward the window and worked to settle his breathing.
He coughed, the movement scraping from his dry throat. Water. Yes, he should take a drink as the nurse had instructed. He reached for the water glass on the bedside table.
A matted clump of his light brown hair fell across his face as he leaned to replace the glass.
Pushing it back, he raked his fingers through the tangled mess. Ugh. It was going to take a gallon of conditioner to…
His fingers broke free from the hair sooner than they should have. He felt behind his head. The hair, which had gone almost halfway down his back, now stopped barely below his shoulders in places.
The fire had gotten his hair?
He swallowed hard. His hair was one of his trademarks. Evidently not any longer.
It was okay. It’d grow back.
No matter how much he repeated that, he couldn’t banish the emotions. Anger. Disappointment. Grief. He let the anger take over.
Heat rose within him, the fire inside rivaling the one that had landed him in this bed.
When he got his hands on the guy who did this… it wasn’t only his hair. He could have been killed! So could the other guys in the band. Maybe even people at the front of the audience.
More concerning was that the saboteur had upped his game. The previous incidents had been inconveniences, but no one had been hurt.
But now… if this continued, someone was going to wind up dead.
₪ ₪ ₪
Dalton pulled up to the curb outside the modest house and killed the engine.
The sun warmed his shoulders as he stepped out of the rental car. Reno was pleasant in May. Might have to come back for an actual visit sometime.
Right. Like he ever took vacations anymore.
Especially now, when Assistant Director Wilson had tasked him with tracking down Malachi Jones. That search started here, at the home of the one person who seemed to know Malachi best.
Audra Knight.
He walked up the driveway, noting the meticulously mowed lawn, attractive flowerbeds, and maintained house. The single story didn’t look huge, certainly not what he would expect from someone who ran a business successful enough to afford a private jet, but maybe it was larger than it looked. Or maybe Knight was frugal in her personal life.
The doorbell echoed inside the house.
A moment passed before the door opened to reveal a tall man with a full head of salt and pepper hair. Lines crinkled around the corners of his eyes and the smile he offered felt warm and genuine.
Audra’s husband, if he had to guess. He could see physical similarities between this man and the son he’d met when Audra and her crew had flown into Charlotte to help him save Tari.
“You must be Agent Fowler.” His voice had a rich timbre. “Drew Knight. Come on in.”
He followed Drew into an open living room. The walls, painted a light clay color, felt like what he’d expect to see in the Southwest. A chocolate sofa, flanked by chairs in a geometric mustard, clay, and sage print, invited him to sit.
“Take a load off.” Drew gestured toward the furniture before poking his head through a door on the far side of the room. “Audra, hon. Agent Fowler is here.”
Dalton settled into one of the printed chairs as Drew dropped onto the sofa.
“When did you get into town?” Drew leaned back, his body relaxed and casual.
Dalton slid a glance at the clock. “About an hour ago.”
“Well, I hope you have a chance to check out the area. We’re more than gambling and nightlife.”
Yeah, sightseeing wasn’t high on his list at the moment. “Do you work with Security Storm, too?”
Drew laughed, a warm sound that filled the space. “No, that’s Audra’s world. I’m a pastor at a small inner-city church.”
A pastor? Interesting pairing.
Audra strode into the room, cutting off any reply he might have made.
“Dalton. Good to see you again.”
“You, too.” Dalton waited until she settled on the sofa before pushing forward. “I don’t want to take up a lot of your time, but I’ve been given an, uh, different kind of assignment.”
Audra leaned back against Drew, a casual action that Dalton suspected was more instinctive than intentional. “On the phone, you said something about Malachi.”
“Yeah.” Ugh. He hated this. He should be hunting criminals, not a harmless religious nut. “There are some questions about the… incident… last week.”
“You mean the healing.” Audra’s words mirrored her direct gaze.
“Yeah, that.” Dalton raked his fingers through his hair. “Do you know how I can get in touch with him?”
Audra shook her head. “Like I told you over the phone, Malachi moves as God directs. Before last week, I hadn’t heard from him since I met him almost twenty-five years ago.”
Twenty-five years? Malachi hadn’t looked any older than forty and honestly, not even that old. “He was a kid when you met him?”
