SNEAK AND RESCUE

March 2006
Silhouette Bombshell
ISBN 978-0373513956

Toting a .38 and a loaded makeup case, retrieval specialist Samantha Ballanger distracted her enemies with disguises and disarmed them with a swift kick. Hired to find a missing teen at a sci-fi fan convention, Sam became the bull's-eye in a ruthless target practice -- and soon suspected she'd been hired under false pretenses.

Reviews

"SNEAK AND RESCUE is an entertaining action-packed retrieval tale starring a strong female assisted in this case by her spouse and to a degree (mission first) DEA Agent in a case in which nothing is what it seems on the surface. The fast-paced thriller is fun to read because of the solid cast as this time Matt is at her side more as an equal than the retrieved that he was in her last case (see FINDERS KEEPERS). Readers will enjoy Sam's latest snatch story. " -- Harriet Klausner

"Shirl Henke's Sneak and Rescue (4) is a fun read. Her female character is likeable and strong, without being perfect, and Matt and Sam are perfectly matched." -- Alexandra Kay, RT BookClub

"This is really life on the edge! Shirl Henke creates another winner as the stars of FINDERS KEEPERS, Matt Granger and Sam Ballinger square off as a married couple." -- Lucele Coutts, Noveltalk.com

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Excerpt

"Quit hiding from me, you sneaky piece of junk!"

Sam dug through the stacks of receipts and file folders, frantic as a starving squirrel looking for its winter cache of nuts. One heavy binder slid off the chair in front of her and toppled dead center onto the neat piles of checks and bank statements spread out on the carpet. With horror, she watched an hour's worth of sorting flutter into its former chaos. Muttering a curse beneath her breath, she listened more carefully. The muffled chirp of the new cordless phone was coming from behind a tower of IRS pamphlets piled on the love seat next to the chair.

"It used to be so much easier — just start at the jack and pull the phone through the rubble," she muttered.

Crawling on hands and knees to the sofa, she tossed aside manuals with print so fine she couldn't read them with the magnification of the Hubble telescope. "Might've known it was the IRS's fault," she said, seizing the phone, which had been wedged behind a cushion.

Just before the final ring set off her answering machine — if she'd remembered to reactivate it — Sam answered, "Ballanger Retrievals," in her most professional voice. She pushed another stack of manuals onto the floor to create a narrow empty space where she could sit. The small sofa was so full of folders, pamphlets and papers that only the brown leather armrests were visible. Risking an avalanche that might bury her five-four frame if either side toppled, she gingerly leaned back, trying to catch her breath so she would not be huffing like an asthmatic marathon runner.

"Ms. Samantha Ballanger, please," a male voice with a clipped upper-class accent said, as if accustomed to instant acquiescence. She'd heard the type before.

"This is Sam Ballanger." If he expected her to have a private secretary to screen her calls, he was in for an unavoidable disappointment. After growing up poor in a big south Boston blue-collar family, Sam never wasted money on things she could do herself.

"My name is Upton Winchester IV, Ms. Ballanger. I understand you find and return runaways...discreetly."

"Who referred my service to you, Mr. Winchester?" She always wanted to know her clients were legit and not wasting her time. Lots of wacko husbands who used their wives and kids for punching bags wanted her to haul the victims back. No dice. She'd seen too much when she'd worked as a para-medic and then a police officer after moving to Miami.

There was a slight hesitation on the other end of the line. "I was referred by Jayson Page Layton. Jay and I golf together," he replied, expecting her to be impressed.

She was. Layton was a Bal Harbor real estate tycoon whose daughter had joined a religious cult and vanished into a commune in the Everglades a couple of years ago. Sam had literally wrestled an alligator while rescuing the poor kid from her nutcase captors, who'd been little more than child molesters and responsible for at least one dead cult member. That was Sergeant Will "Pat" Patowski's take on it. He was her mentor at the Miami-Dade Police Department, where she had spent seven years as a police officer. The Kingdom Come "prophet" and his "deacons" were presently serving ten to life in the state pen at Raiford.

"What seems to be the problem, Mr. Winchester?"

"I'd rather not discuss the matter over the phone, Ms. Ballanger. Please come to my office at the Seascape Building, say —" he paused as if consulting his day- planner " — four this afternoon. Winchester, Grayson & Kent Accounting is on the fifteenth floor."

She paused, as if consulting her own day-planner, which was a scratch pad and ballpoint buried somewhere in the income tax debris smothering her office. "Yeah, that'll work for me. Oh, my retainer's three hundred for consultation. If I take the case, I get three-fifty a day plus expenses," she said, figuring any guy with a Roman numeral in his name could afford a little extra.

"Very well. I'll expect you at four promptly."

She found herself holding a dead phone. "Jerk," she muttered. Obviously used to getting his way. But the address was in the Brickell high-rent district and he hadn't haggled over the price. She scanned the wreckage of the room, looking for the yellow pages, then spotted the volume on her desk next to the empty phone charger. Two feet of books and other papers were piled on top of it.

"Screw it," she said, getting up to dig for it. As she scooted out from between the piles of IRS manuals, they toppled, then slid with a loud series of thumps onto the mess on the floor.

She managed to extract the phone book without disturbing the "ordered chaos" on her desk. Sam thumbed through the accounting section until she reached the Ws, then whistled. A full-page ad, tastefully done in black and white — or black and yellow, more properly — proclaimed Winchester, Grayson & Kent had been in business for over fifty years. Corporate taxes were their specialty.

"Yeah, I did smell money. Must be a family business. Too bad I didn't up my fee even higher. Looks like Winchester could afford a lot more than three and a half bennies a day," she said regretfully.

Her mother, God rest her Irish Catholic soul, used to light candles and pray for Sam to abandon her avaricious ways. Avarice was one of the seven deadly sins, after all. But stretching a beer driver's income to feed six sons who ate as if each meal was going to be their last, Mary Elizabeth Ballanger never had an abundance of time to fret over her daughter's vices. Sam had elevated what she liked to think of as "fiscal prudence" to an art form.

Her ruminations about family back home were interrupted by a loud crash, followed by an oath as the front door slammed. "Dammit, Sam, I thought we agreed you'd call that cleaning service while I was gone," her husband yelled down the hall.

"Welcome home. I missed you, too, darling," she called back, walking down the hall into the living room of their condo.

Matt Granger sat like a disgruntled yoga student, rubbing the toes of his right foot while cursing inventively. "A man needs steel-toed construction boots to walk in this sty."

Returning from a weeklong assignment for the Miami Herald, he'd unlocked the door, juggling his suiter and laptop as he entered the dark room only to trip on one of an assortment of free weights Sam had forgotten to pick up. In a last-ditch save, he'd cradled his computer in both arms and pitched forward. He landed on an empty pizza carton.

"Let me guess. Double cheese and pepperoni, right?" He glowered at the orange stain on the knee of his best tropical wool worsted slacks. "You take these to the dry cleaners," he said, knowing it would provoke her, but not caring at the moment.

"No way. I have some cleaning solution here that will take that out in a jiff."

"Way. You're not touching my Natazzi slacks with some junk you bought in the discount store."

"Well, since they're Italian, they go with pizza," she said, stooping to pick up the carton and toss it in the general direction of an overflowing wastebasket. "You know, we could afford professional dry cleaning if you let me —"

"Let's not go there, Sam," he said, interrupting before she could restart the old argument. Why had he given her the opening? On the subject of money, his wife was as tenacious as a Boston bull terrier with teeth sunk into a letter carrier's leg. "I have a ton of work to do. Kiss and make up?" he suggested hopefully as he climbed to his feet.

She gave him a grudging peck that ripened into a long, languorous welcome. When they finally broke apart, she said, "I've been too busy working on income taxes to think of the mess. It is April, and besides, I have a business to run, too."

He looked around his once neat-as-a-pin bachelor pad. When had the hurricane hit? Everything from fast-food packaging to dirty laundry littered the room. He could only imagine what the kitchen looked like. No, on second thought, he didn't even want to imagine it. "You promised to get a maid."

"Do you know what they want an hour just to straighten up a little? I'll get around to it." She gestured vaguely.

"No, you won't. Like you said, you have a business to run and so do I. We're both gainfully employed, Sam."

"We don't make enough to afford a cleaning service...but we could if —"

"Don't start with Aunt Claudia again," he warned. "We can afford a damn maid — if any of them are brave enough to set foot in this landfill. And we don't need the Witherspoon millions to live quite comfortably."

Sam threw up her hands, cocking her head so she could look up at Matt. At six-six, he towered over her, but she never backed down. "You are nuts, you know that? First, after graduating from Yale, you turn your back on a trust fund Paris Hilton wouldn't sniff at." She ticked off number one on her finger, then moved to number two. "Whaddya do instead of living the high life in Boston? You enlist in the army!" Finger number three. "Now you bust your ass working the news beat at the Herald when we could have the deal of the century.

"Your aunt — your very, very wealthy aunt — has forgiven you for being nuts. Or maybe she's forgiven you because she knows I'm not nuts. She offered me — out of the goodness of her heart — a monthly stipend to stay married to you."

"Stipend," Matt snorted. "Try bribe!"

"Try allowance for the fodder and stabling of my jackass husband!"

Matt looked down into his wife's stubborn little face. "You know, you mercenary little runt, if I weren't kinda fond of you, I'd drop you off one of the causeways into the bay." There were days that it didn't seem like a half-bad idea. This was shaping up to be one of them.

"And if I weren't afraid of getting a hernia, I'd do the same to you, you Godzilla-sized jerk...wait a sec, if you were fish bait, I betAunt Claudia would settle a widow's jointure on me."

Matt couldn't help it. He burst out laughing in spite of the aggravation. "You've been reading those historical romances again. A jointure is something out of the last century."

"Yeah?" Sam poked her husband in the chest with a stiff finger. "Aunt Claudia is out of the last century. Hell, she's probably out of the nineteenth century!"

Matt grunted, rubbing his sore chest. "Don't bother me. I'm thinking." Sam shushed him before he could interrupt. "With that money I could hire a maid..."

"And have our taxes done," Matt added.

"That maid would give me time to work on my own damn taxes. You know it's April and the vultures are circling."

"We should hire an accountant. You don't have to battle the IRS like the Lone Ranger —"

"Accountant! Damn, I'll be late. Gotta scoot, sweetie," she said, stretching up on tiptoe to plant another fulsome kiss on his mouth before she dashed down the hall.

As he watched her sleek little derriere disappear into their bedroom, Matt shook his head at her mercurial mood swing. He could never stay mad at her even when she drove him crazy. Their argument was over...but only for the moment. Matt knew she'd renew it. But he was damned if he wanted his eccentric millionaire aunt paying his wife to stay married to him!

Sam simply didn't understand how hard he'd struggled to break free of the smothering boardroom mentality of his rich family. Being born with a silver spoon in your mouth choked some kids. The Grangers and Witherspoons were a stuffy bunch of humorless old farts who only mingled with "the better sort." In other words, other Boston Brahmins. His great-aunt Claudia ought to know. She'd run away to Europe to escape. But since he was the last of the Granger men, she now felt it her duty to see that he fulfilled the very obligations she'd fled.

"Out of the goodness of her heart!" he parroted, kicking the offending pizza carton that had tumbled from the waste- basket. His aunt Claudia didn't have a heart — a spleen, sure, but a heart? Ha! If he gave in to her manipulations, she'd have him back in Boston, in charge of the family brokerage firm, attending high teas and charity auctions! He was an adrenaline junkie, addicted to the thrill of chasing after a hot story. He had acquired friends in low places and liked it that way.

"I'll never go back to that gilded cage — not even for Sammie. Damn, one week trying to be a society matron and she'd go crazy herself!" But he'd never been able to convince her that luring them back to Boston was Aunt Claudia's ultimate goal. His aunt and his wife had bonded the first time they met. Small wonder. Claudia had made Sam an offer a poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks couldn't refuse — a ton of money.

In spite of the differences in their backgrounds, they were sisters under the skin — ruthless schemers. He loved them both to distraction, but that was all the more reason to keep them separated. Claudia a thousand miles away was a good thing. The very thought of the two of them united and working together made him shudder.

Abandoning the ongoing argument that was giving him an ulcer, he trailed her into the walk-in closet where she was hastily stripping off a pair of shorts and a T- shirt. "I suppose it's too much to hope that you're taking our records to a tax accountant," he said, but could see she was too rushed to hear him.

Sam hated panty hose for a number of reasons besides the humid South Florida heat that fused them to her legs, but she grabbed a pair from an overflowing drawer. Shoving her way past Matt, she lay back on the bed and yanked them up her legs in one quick motion. "Gotta look like class to impress a guy with a 'fourth' tacked on the end of his name, after all," she muttered to herself.

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