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  ALIAS

  AMY J. FETZER

  Published by Silhouette Books

  America’s Publisher of Contemporary Romance

  To the women of the United States Marine Corps

  Our often forgotten heroines,

  mothers, sisters and daughters

  who strap on a helmet, a nine-millimeter,

  shoulder a rifle and heft a sixty-pound pack

  just like their male counterparts.

  For walking into danger

  and being willing to die to protect and defend

  the freedom of a nation.

  If that’s not a true heroine,

  I don’t know what is.

  Semper Fi

  Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to

  Amy J. Fetzer for her contribution

  to the ATHENA FORCE series.

  Chapter 1

  Somewhere in northeast Texas

  10:00 p.m.

  E li Archer’s world was about to change.

  If he’d had any smarts, he’d have left for his usual Friday night out with his pals by now. Instead, he’d stuck around his house, drinking too much too early—and that turned a redneck bully into two hundred pounds of mean and nasty.

  His mistake was in taking his temper out on his small, barely nineteen-year-old wife while Darcy was less than a hundred yards away.

  At the first scream, Darcy’s long legs ate up the dry, flat land, each step on her toes to make as little noise as possible. She hitched over the porch railing and stopped short of rushing through the half-open back door, then flattened against the wall. The floorboards creaked but Eli couldn’t hear the noise over his own shouts. Over the degrading insults he threw at his wife, Mary Jo.

  Darcy reached up and gingerly unscrewed the back-porch light, throwing the area into darkness.

  She’d been watching the isolated country house from the tree line since sundown. Up close, it was worse. Sacks of garbage torn open by animals were stacked against the house. The stench of rancid grease and rotten food hung in the night air, which pulsed with swarming flies.

  Darcy’s eyes watered. The place reeked more of hopeless neglect. Its sagging porches and roof begged to be put out of their misery with a well-placed wrecking ball. Paint barely colored the wood exterior, the stains of the rusted tin roof streaking the sides of the building like bars caging in its inhabitants.

  But a shiny new pickup truck sat in the dirt driveway, a full gun rack clear in the rear window. Easy to see where Eli’s priorities lay. Darcy had already unloaded the weapons and removed the firing pins. But that didn’t mean Eli Archer didn’t have more. Men like him always had more weapons than guts. Predictable morons. Eli drank heavily, worked little and, for recreation, tortured stray cats and spotlighted deer. That Eli beat his wife was a character flaw that put him just below amoebas.

  A real prize.

  Inside the house, Eli shouted for his boots. He was leaving. Men like him always left long enough to work up some twisted reason as to why they pounded on women—she had personal experience to back up that theory. Darcy prayed Eli went out the front door without hurting Mary Jo again. Confronting a drunken wife beater was not in her immediate plans, but she couldn’t let him hurt the girl. If his mood was any indication, he’d kill her.

  Darcy spied through the window for a sign of Mary Jo Archer. Shadows moved behind tattered curtains, and her heart pounded a little harder as the people inside drew closer to her position.

  This was stupid. Normally, she snatched abused women while the men were gone. She could be shot for being this daring, but she couldn’t abandon Mary Jo, either. And where the heck was Jack? He should have been here by now to back her up.

  She moved to the open doorway, peering inside. Despite what the Archer place looked like on the outside, the interior was tidy and clean. But then how else would Mary Jane spend her time as a prisoner in her own home?

  Darcy flinched when another door slammed somewhere inside, shaking the windows. She heard Eli’s voice, harsh and deep as he hurled foul words at the woman he’d promised to love, honor and cherish.

  Three days ago, Darcy had been woken by Mary Jo’s call around midnight, the voice on the other end of the line sounding achingly familiar, hushed, terrified. Sobbing. The caller had heard from her only friend, Tomas, a worker at the local grocery store, that Darcy helped women like her. Darcy had driven like a madwoman to get there, to find Tomas and discreetly learn all she could about the Archer household. It paid to be aware of routine.

  Eli met his pals at the Bullriders Saloon like clockwork every Friday night, leaving his wife locked inside the house like a punching bag he stored for his rage. He was so terrified of losing her that he’d installed latch locks better suited for a storage shed.

  Pig.

  That pissed Darcy off more because she understood exactly what Mary Jo was feeling right now. Terror, hopelessness. A loneliness that imbedded itself deep into her bones. And the constant worry over which insignificant detail would provoke another battle for your life.

  It ends tonight.

  The sound of flesh hitting flesh then a cry of pain came through the open windows and doors. Without a choice, Darcy took a breath, then stepped through the back doorway, into the kitchen. No one noticed.

  Mary Jo was on the floor, scooting back out of her husband’s reach, but Eli kept coming, a growling bear intent on his kill. Man, he was a big one.

  Darcy slipped her knife out if its sheath. “Touch her again, Eli, and you’re a dead man.”

  Eli whipped around, scowling mad. “Who the hell are you? Get the fuck outta my house!”

  Darcy stood on the threshold. “Leave her alone.”

  He latched on to Mary Jo, holding her off the floor like a limp rag doll. “She’s my wife, I can do what I want with her.”

  “No, you can’t, actually. Legally or morally.”

  Darcy inched closer, gripping the knife, point down to slice faster and with greater accuracy. Eli didn’t look the least bit intimidated by the nine-inch blade. Guns were his deal. Darcy didn’t like guns. They were noisy and registered. And though she didn’t really want to stab Eli, he wasn’t looking very cooperative right now.

  Dangling in Eli’s grasp, Mary Jo whimpered, her lip bleeding.

  Darcy couldn’t spare a look at the woman. She kept her gaze on the man threatening them both as she moved the blade slowly back and forth, waiting for the knife to catch Eli’s attention. When it did, he let his wife go, grinning as he headed toward her.

  He charged like an angry bull going after the red cloak. Darcy stood her ground till he was three feet away, then sidestepped out of his path. He plowed past her into the kitchen table and landed hard on it, shattering the table legs and crashing to the floor.

  Darcy rushed to Mary Jo. Keeping one eye on Eli, she grabbed the bruised, bloodied woman and tugged her to her feet, then pushed her toward the back door. “Get out of here.”

  “He’ll kill you!”

  “I’m right behind you. Go!” Darcy put herself between Eli and Mary Jo.

  Mary Jo was nearly at the door when Eli rolled over, shaking his head and getting to his feet. “You bitch!”

  Oh, no. For a big man, he was fast. Darcy sidestepped again, circling, forcing his attention off his wife stumbling toward the back door. Darcy’d run out the front if she had to and circle back.

  Eli charged again, this time with a table leg in his hand. He swung. Darcy ducked. The table leg sang past her head, the impact driving it into the plaster wall. Eli tried jerking it out and with her elbow, Darcy clipped him in the kidney. He howled, arching with the pain, then sank to his knees. She backed toward the door, but not fast enough. He grabbed her ankle and yanked.

  She hit the floor so hard her teeth
clicked. The knife flew from her grip and spun across the floor.

  Oh God.

  “Run, Mary Jo!”

  But Mary Jo, a slim blonde dressed in shorts and a T-shirt meant for a twelve year old, huddled on the edge of the room, too scared to move.

  “Yeah, run, Mary Jo,” Eli taunted, “so I can hunt you, too.” He lunged at Darcy.

  As he came down, she drove the heel of her hand up into his nose.

  Cartilage shifted, bone cracked. Blood poured.

  Eli Archer lurched back on his haunches, swearing and clutching his bleeding nose. “I’m gonna kill you!” he shouted, swiping his sleeve under his nose, smearing blood before grabbing for her.

  But Darcy rolled away, springing to her feet, glancing around for her knife. She spotted it, but he was there, lumbering, big and hound-dog ugly.

  She dove at the knife, landing on her side, grappling for it as he neared. His meaty hand latched on to her calf. He dragged her.

  Darcy kicked out, struggling to reach her knife.

  Eli pulled her closer to him. One smack from him and it was over. Her face would be hamburger and the latex mask hiding her identity shredded.

  A crash sounded at the front of the house, the door banging against the wall just as her fingers skipped over a piece of wood. She grasped the splintered table leg and with every bit of strength she had, she swung it at his head and connected with a solid thunk.

  He dropped like a stone. Darcy didn’t move, breathing hard.

  She heard the distinct click of a bullet moving into the chamber and looked up.

  Jack Turner stood in the doorway to the living room, a huge .357 Magnum pointed at Eli’s head.

  “You’re late.” She tossed aside the wood, then crawled to her feet, annoyed with him, but glad he was here.

  “A bounty got loose.” His gaze flicked to her, switchblade sharp and angry. “Why the hell do you have backup if you don’t wait for it?”

  “He started early,” she said as she retrieved her knife. Mary Jo was still in the corner, staring at her motionless husband. “You know, that was highly illegal—” she nodded toward the shattered front door “—unless there’s a bounty on him.”

  “Oops. Wrong house,” Jack said, deadpan, his weapon still trained on Eli. “That disguise is hideous by the way.” His voice was low, for her ears only.

  The short frosted wig and carefully applied latex face mask made her look homely. “Helps to ugly up a bit. People tend not to notice you.”

  His gaze moved over her body with an intensity that rivaled static electricity. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to wake the sleeping giant.”

  But Eli still hadn’t moved.

  “Oh, hell.” Assault was one thing, manslaughter in self-defense was quite another. She inched close enough to gingerly check his pulse, but Jack stopped her.

  “Leave him. He’s breathing like an engine. He’ll wake soon enough.”

  Darcy hurried to Mary Jo, pulling her off the floor.

  “Who—who are you people?”

  “You called me, remember? Come on.”

  When Mary Jo started for Eli, Darcy stood in her way. “Look at me. Look at me!” When Mary Jo did, she said quickly, “It’s now or never, Mary Jo. You stay, he’ll kill you.”

  Mary Jo nodded sharply, and Darcy pulled her to the door. They ran down the porch, and Darcy directed her toward the woods.

  “Go, straight that way.” She pointed, pushing her on. “Run, girl.”

  Mary Jo looked back at the house she’d shared with Eli for two years and her expression grew angry. Good, that’s what Darcy needed to get her out alive.

  Mary Jo took off, and Darcy backed up, sweeping branches across the ground to cover their tracks. Eli was a hunter, and word from the townsfolk was that he could track anything. His hunting dogs were feasting on some prime, sedative-laced USDA beef right now to keep them quiet. But that wouldn’t last.

  Jack rushed to her. “Go! Dammit! I’ll do that.” He took the branches. “He’s waking up.”

  Darcy froze, met his gaze. “Already? He must have a head like a rock.”

  “So do you.” Jack pushed her toward the tree line.

  Darcy ran, snatching up her equipment pack, then ducking under low branches. Mary Jo was only a few yards ahead of her, crying, but moving. Darcy called softly and the girl froze, a ragged silhouette against scrubby trees. Darcy raced past, grabbing Mary Jo’s hand, pulling her along, then pushing Mary Jo ahead of her. She still had to do some fast moving to get the girl safely away undetected. The two women ran, batting dry branches and skidding on crumbling ground. Then they were out in the open, vulnerable.

  Darcy and Mary Jo headed straight to the edge of a ravine, stumbling down the dirt hillside to Darcy’s Jeep. Darcy pushed Mary Jo into the passenger seat, tossed in her bag, then slid behind the wheel. The engine started up on the first try and she gunned it, racing away from the Archer place.

  “Is he dead?” Mary Jo asked.

  “No.”

  “Then he’ll find me, I know it!” she cried.

  Darcy smothered her impatience, understanding coming quickly. “He won’t find you, Mary Jo.” Even if Eli had the balls to go to the police, with his record, they’d be slow to react to his claims. “I’m taking you someplace safe. Within twenty-four hours, someone will come to you at the safe house and document your abuse with photos and a statement.”

  She’d helped a hundred women in the last three years, from women who drove Mercedes to ones who’d never seen the inside of a hospital before and would be scarred for life. Each time, the situation seemed more desperate. More hopeless. Often, Darcy was their last chance. For some, the legal system had failed them, letting wife beaters out on bail to find the women and do it again—often resulting in death. Some were too scared to venture into the unknown without support. Or worse, they’d become so brainwashed by verbal abuse that they thought they needed these men to survive.

  Mary Jo Archer had a right to be scared.

  Darcy understood that kind of fear only too well.

  It made her an expert at evasion and deception. Five years as a Hollywood special-effects makeup artist made her unrecognizable even now. Using disguises at every leg of a rescue protected the women’s lives, as well as hers.

  Darcy coveted her privacy like a fanatic. With good reason. She was a kidnapper. Plain and simple. She’d taken her baby son from his father and hidden from the world. From her perspective, the end justified the means. Saving a life. In her case, it was two lives.

  But in the eyes of the law, she was the criminal. It wouldn’t matter that, before she’d escaped her abusive husband, she’d gone to the police and filed reports. Maurice’s influence had a long reach. The cops had dismissed her accusations, just as Maurice’s family and their friends had. Maurice had money, power and a stellar reputation as an executive film producer behind him, and in Beverly Hills and Hollywood that put him above reproach. Above the law.

  Darcy had had nothing, and Maurice had made sure she was trapped from all directions. Till she escaped with her friend Rainy Miller Carrington’s help.

  Suddenly her throat tightened with unspent grief. Rainy was dead. Killed in a car crash only weeks ago. With Mary Jo’s call coming soon after the funeral, Darcy hadn’t even had a chance to mourn.

  Rainy would be mad that I’m still hiding, Darcy thought morosely. Even the Cassandras, her schoolmates from the Athena Academy for Women, didn’t know the full extent of her ugly past. Rainy had known. And she’d told Kayla some of what Darcy had gone through to escape. The others knew she was no longer with her husband, and to them she was still Darcy Allen Steele, hairdresser and owner of the Chop Shop Salon. She was ashamed to admit the full truth to them.

  To the rest of the world, including Jack, she was Piper Daniels, an alias she’d been using for nearly three years.

  Everything in my life is an alias.

  A forgery, a mask to kee
p herself and her son, Charlie, safe and hidden. She did nothing that would alert her husband to her whereabouts and was certain he was still searching for her.

  Maurice wasn’t the kind of man who gave up control. Ever. Power and control were the root of who he was. And you didn’t cross him without consequences.

  She took a deep breath, searching for calm. She needed a clear mind for the next hours of the journey.

  At least Mary Jo had a fresh chance.

  “You’ll file a report with the police,” Darcy said, her eyes on the road, “and then disappear till Eli is behind bars.”

  “He should be in prison,” Mary Jo muttered bitterly. “See how he likes it.”

  Darcy glanced her way. The girl’s face was a mess.

  Maurice had never struck her face—it would have been proof to the public that he abused her. No, he had more deadly ways of keeping her under control.

  “Eli kept me in a prison for years,” Mary Jo said, oblivious to Darcy’s thoughts. “That house might as well have had bars.”

  The comment hit Darcy square in the chest.

  A prison without walls. She was still locked in hers.

  “Why don’t you try to get some sleep.” She spoke quickly to bury the feelings struggling to surface. “It’s a couple hours till we make it to the safe house.”

  Mary Jo snuggled down into the seat. Darcy drove, aware of every flash of light in her rearview mirror. Every car they passed. Tonight, Mary Jo had her freedom.

  After three years, Darcy didn’t.

  Because Maurice was out there. Waiting for her to slip up. Hunting her.

  A pearl of fear slid down her throat.

  She hated it. It tasted foul and pitiful.

  And Darcy knew she couldn’t live like this anymore.

  But even after three years, she hadn’t figured out a way to outsmart Maurice. Legally, he still had the power.

  And she wasn’t giving up her son, not even for her freedom.

  Chapter 2

  Nevada

  J ust past the state line, Darcy pulled into the Sleep Easy Motel parking lot, wishing it was her own driveway. But she was still hours away from Comanche, Nevada, and at two in the morning, she was bone tired, her eyes gritty.