CHAPTER ONE

"Hell." Mac Carlson hit speed dial for a second time, one white knuckled hand gripped the steering wheel. Crap like this didn't happen on his watch. Carlson Group, though new in Atlanta, ranked number one in the security business.

He punched speed dial for the third time and swerved to miss a car that pulled out in front of him. He swore at the driver and flipped him off. The idiot would have killed a less skilled driver. Why didn't they answer the damned phone?

The Knights' alarm had activated and then fallen silent. Why? Mac had dropped Allen Knight off earlier at a meeting downtown. Only Knight's wife and daughter stayed home, along with the family's personal security, of course.

Could be a false alarm. Yeah, right. Like the newly installed multi-faceted security system all malfunctioned at once, no chance. Besides, Mac trusted his instincts and alarm bells were jangling through every cell of his being. His gut said this was real, and it wasn't going to be pretty.

"Answer the phone."

Where the hell was security? If Allen had allowed him to handpick the on-premise security team this wouldn't be happening. Mac pounded his fist on the steering wheel. At his suggestion, Allen Knight had switched to Longfield Technology for electronic security, but he'd held back when Mac pushed to replace the security team, too.

The mini control module mounted on the dash remained blank. Longfield damned well better have a good explanation for this snafu. Mac had recommended Longfield over Connard because of Longfield's superior technology and special skills.

Gripping the steering wheel with one hand, he used the other to whack the module. It remained blank, dead like a tagged Iraqi sniper. He tried a fourth number on speed dial. Nothing. The security team should have been changed. After this they would be, he'd see to that.

The coal-black SUV sped down Peachtree Street, suppressed power throbbing beneath the hood. Mac turned onto West Paces Ferry Road. He opened her up, speeding past the Governor's mansion, and continued west toward the Knight estate. High wrought-iron gates marked the entry.

Gates that should have been closed stood open, allowing anyone entry.

Crap, this was bad, real bad.

He parked the SUV near the barn that housed Knight's exotic car collection, pulled his Glock from the side pocket of the door and slid from the seat. Mac knelt beside the vehicle. His special forces training decreeing caution, he inched along the wall.

Crouching low, he crept toward the house. Body flattened against the barn wall he rounded the corner, Glock held ready.

He found the first body on the lawn outside the house. The second lay sprawled in the garage, just outside the kitchen door. The security team. Both had a single gunshot to the back of the head. His fifth speed dial was to 911.

"Damn," Mac cursed. No time to wait for back up, he had to find Mrs. Knight and Rachael Anne, now.

Body tense and weapon drawn, he entered through the open mudroom door.

Professional security guards wouldn't have been taken out so easily. He'd warned Knight that as a high-profile executive, he and his family were prime targets.

Mac hugged the garage wall and advanced. Inside more chaos reigned – showroom perfect kitchen trashed, dishes smashed across the floor, living room furniture overturned and shoved askew.

Worse, the petite body of Lora Knight sprawled on the polished marble floor in front of the wide sweeping stairs that led to the upstairs bedrooms.

He switched the Glock to his left hand and knelt, touching his fingers to her throat. Some of the tension left him when he felt a steady pulse.

Caution and dread brought a steely determination to Mac's steps. Slowly he climbed the stairs headed toward the child's room.

* * * *

The twenty-second-floor office high atop the gleaming glass tower overlooked the vista of downtown Atlanta. He stood at the window and admired his reflection. He flicked an imaginary piece of lint from the lapel of his Canali suit, caught the cuff of his Italian silk shirt and tugged it down below the cashmere and cotton blend of his coat sleeve.

Steps one and two of the plan complete, the decoy installed. He smiled and took a sip from his Scotch. Now on to the next step. He moved from the window. "Soon those clowns will see who has the superior technology."

His fingers found the small gold placard on his desk and traced the engraved letters, TBC, absently. Fingers tightening on the nameplate, he flipped open the disposable cell phone and made the call. "Send the ransom message. It's a go."

"Roger that, and if anyone gets in the way?"

"Take 'em out."

Mac Carlson would never realize what hit him.