He’d only spent six years in the marines, but those six years had taught him a lifetime of skills and forged friendships that were stronger than blood. Twenty years as a freelance soldier/mercenary/hostage negotiator—whatever you wanted to call it—only honed his skills. Kane had a sixth sense that only the most elite special forces units had. Mental muscle, spidey sense, whatever they called it, Kane had it—and as soon as he saw Siobhan’s cell phone on the charger in her hotel room, he knew she was in danger. Or dead. He searched the room. Her clothes were there—just a few things, but she traveled light. A couple of changes, toiletries, her backpack. And her camera. Siobhan Walsh went nowhere without that damn camera, and she certainly wouldn’t leave it in a hotel overnight. He’d tracked down the taxi that had picked her up for breakfast, but instead of a restaurant, it had dropped her outside a church, Our Lady of Light. That made sense—Siobhan was Catholic, and yesterday was Sunday.
