Moving Target (2 page)

As mentioned, the U.S. Marshals Service provides for the security, health, and safety of government witnesses—and their immediate dependents—whose lives are in danger as a result of testimony against drug traffickers, terrorists, organized crime members, and other major criminals.

The Marshals Service has had over 17,000 witnesses and their families in the program. To this date, no program participant who has followed security guidelines has ever been harmed while under the active protection of the U.S.

Marshals Service.

Who wouldn't go out on a limb to help a child who was fighting for his life?

"Can you please help us, Ms. King?"

Ani's gaze shifted from the desperate man and woman to the almost perfectly intact fourteen-centimeter-high bronze and gold statue of Tyrion III. With reverence she held the piece that came from the tiny country of Masia. She studied the art as early morning sunshine poured into the antique shop's fifteen-foot-high windows, highlighting the statue's delicate gold inlays.

If she wasn't mistaken—and she was pretty sure she wasn't—the statue was from the twenty-second dynasty, circa 900

B.C. She'd seen only one other like it, and it was in the Brooklyn Museum in New York.

Formerly an art curator for a major metropolitan museum in New York City, Ani now ran a dinky antique shop in Bisbee, Arizona. The Witness Security Program wouldn't allow her to be in the same field as she'd been in before, but at least the U.S. Marshals had put her into an environment she could relate to. Even if most of the "antiques" in the place were junk.

But this . . . this was a priceless treasure.

A lead weight settled in her belly. It was likely also a very illegal treasure. It was against the law for any artifact to be taken out of the country where it had been excavated unless bequeathed to a museum.

Ani looked to the husband and wife who had brought her the artifact to ascertain its value. It was early morning and the Harrisons had been waiting for the shop to open to talk with her. They wanted to see if they could sell the statue to help pay medical bills for their son, a burn victim, and get him to a top-notch center that could treat burns of such magnitude.

The mere thought of what the child was going through made her own twisted scars itch from the small of her back to her shoulder blades.

Ani barely kept her hands steady as she settled the small statue into the intricately carved ebony box Mr. and Mrs.

Harrison had brought it in. The velvet-lined box itself looked to be of some value. It smelled of aged wood and dust, but was in beautiful condition.

"Where did you get this artifact?" Ani asked the couple, wondering how something so priceless and illegal had ended up in Bisbee.

"My older brother just arrived from Montana." Mr. Harrison shuffled his feet and glanced down before looking back up at Ani. "He gave it to us to see if we can sell it to help our child." The hollow-cheeked, emaciated Mr. Harrison fidgeted, then stuck his hands in his jeans pockets. "Our great-grandfather was an archeologist." His voice was scratchy as he spoke. "This statue was passed down through our family. His other findings went to museums and Masia."

Ani studied him, her heart breaking apart for the family. "I can't do anything with this piece. It's illegal to possess an artifact from Masia unless it has been donated to a museum."

Mr. Harrison cleared his throat. "In a secret drawer at the bottom of the box is a letter from Masia's King Aronan awarding the statue to my great-grandfather. It was a gift of appreciation for discovering the tomb of Tyrion III."

Ani raised an eyebrow. Mr. Harrison stepped forward and showed her an almost invisible indentation in the wood at the bottom of the box. She pushed the catch, and a drawer slowly opened.

Nestled inside more velvet lay a yellowed parchment. She withdrew it and carefully unfolded the parchment, which felt rough and brittle between her fingers. She scanned the page and her belly did a little flip. A letter from King Aronan himself awarding the priceless treasure to James Harrison for the exact reason the younger Mr. Harrison had said. It was stamped with a red wax seal and the letter looked as authentic as the statue. The letter by itself would be worth a fortune.

Ani looked up from the paper and met Mr. Harrison's pleading gaze. She tried to keep her voice from wavering with excitement. "I know a collector who might be interested in purchasing this artifact. If you'll give me two weeks, I'll see what I can do." In two weeks she'd be done with her testimony, the trial would be behind her and she'd feel safer contacting someone from her former life.

"We don't have that much time." Mr. Harrison interrupted her thoughts as he looked from his wife to Ani. "We only have enough money left to pay for a few more nights at the motel we've been staying in since our home burned to the ground."

"Do you think that statue will bring enough to pay Jamie's medical bills?" Mrs. Harrison asked, her brown eyes bright with unshed tears.

Now? Could I do it now? The trial's already started
—
it's as good as over in a few days. Why couldn't I help this
poor boy? Isn't it the right thing to do?

Heart aching even more for the family, Ani said, "I can't promise anything, and the statue and letter will have to be authenticated. But I think this may be of some value."

More than you can imagine
.

Mr. and Mrs. Harrison looked at one another then back to Ani. "Please find out as soon as you can," Mr. Harrison said.

Ani had been in the Witness Security Program for almost two years—two quiet, uneventful years. She had the contacts from her past life to help these people, and her gut told her she should. Definitely the right thing.

"I'll do my best." Ani slipped the parchment into the drawer and shut it, then put the lid back on the wood box and extended it to them.

"No." Mr. Harrison waved it off with a pained expression. "You'll need the statue to make this happen for our boy, Ms.

Carter." She could see in his eyes how strong his love was for his son. The treasure meant nothing compared to Jamie's welfare.

Ani offered him a smile even though her soul was wrenched in two for the little boy. "Let me get you a receipt." She set the box on the counter. "And call me Ani, please." She'd been Ani Carter for two years, and the name rolled easily off her tongue. But she still couldn't think of herself as anyone but Anistana King.

Even though they usually recommended keeping the same first name, the U.S. Marshals couldn't allow her to use hers, Anistana, because it was too unusual. But they did allow her to use an abbreviation of it.

Once the Harrisons were gone, Ani braced her hands on the glass countertop and stared at the ebony box. It had gold inlay within the carvings. Likely it was as old as the letter, over a century.

Priceless.

A fortune.

All that little boy would need to cover his treatment, but . . . did she
really
dare call George Hanover?

"I have to," she said aloud. "I can't live with myself if I don't."

Two years was a long time for her to be off the radar, but Hanover was a good guy. He wasn't part of the Russian Mafia—and it wasn't likely the Mob had contacted her old clients. It had been so long, and the Mob probably didn't know about Hanover anyway. George would buy the piece, and if she asked him to, he'd keep his mouth shut. She'd be careful. She'd go about this the right way, and she'd be able to help Jamie Harrison before she went to New York City to testify.

The trial . . .

She held her hand against her belly where it felt as if an ice block had frozen. The FBI case agent, experts, and other witnesses were already testifying. She was on call and was to be flown in a couple of days before she had to get up on the stand in order to be prepped by the associate U.S. attorney, AUSA, John Singleton. He, as well as the FBI and U.S.

Marshals, wanted to keep her out of New York City until the last possible moment. According to the AUSA, she was the one piece that would pull the entire puzzle together.

Now, here she stood with the welfare and life of a child in her hands. It wasn't likely the Russian Mafia would have contacted her old clients. It had been so long. How would they even know about George?

Tears stung the back of her eyes at the thought of Jamie Harrison. Second- and third-degree burns covered eighty percent of his tiny body. The family's home had burned down and the eight-year-old boy had been trapped in his bedroom until firefighters rescued him. The tragedy had been on TV, but as small as Bisbee was, everyone knew about it and many had been donating clothes, food, and other items. Even with monetary donations, they didn't come close to fulfilling the need for Jamie to be sent to the best burn center in the U.S.

The burns Ani had received in the fire two years ago were nothing compared to Jamie's. Her scars only covered her lower back up to her shoulder blades. It had been the most painful experience of her life . . .

No, losing her entire family had been.

Ani clenched her fists on top of the counter and closed her eyes. The little boy
needed
her, and she had the ability to make this happen. All she had to do was contact a friend from her old life.

With steely resolve, she raised her chin and tucked back an errant brown curl that had escaped her upswept hair. The Russians wouldn't have a clue if she called George. He'd been one of the kindest men she'd ever known. The billionaire had an extensive collection of art, all legally obtained. He'd always struck her as honest and upfront and had become a good friend over the years they had worked together.

Plus, she'd use her cell phone. Then she would be sure her call couldn't be traced. Her number was unlisted, so the possibility of the Russians identifying her location was next to nil.

With a lump in her throat, she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and called information. When the operator came on the line she asked for George Hanover in Brooklyn, New York. There were three listings, but she recognized one of the addresses. Ani grabbed a pen to scratch the number on a notepad by the phone.

She took a deep breath. Her fingers trembled as she gripped the cell and punched in the number for the customer-turned-friend, and her hand shook when she brought the phone to her ear. She immediately recognized his voice when he answered.

"This is Anistana King." It seemed weird saying her real name again instead of Ani Carter. "How are you doing, George?"

A brief moment of silence was followed by, "Anistana, what happened to you? I tried getting a hold of you at the museum, but they said you'd more or less disappeared. Are you all right?"

It felt so good to talk to an old friend and to hear the concern in his voice. Yet at the same time Ani's gut churned. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.

But the Harrison family needed what she could give them.

She gripped the phone tight enough that her knuckles ached. "When my parents died, I just had to get out of town."

"Such a tragedy." George's voice softened. "I've thought of you often since then."

"I'm glad we have this chance to chat." A smile touched her lips. "Even if I have a motive behind it."

He gave a low chuckle. "Go on."

She toyed with the pencil in her free hand. "I'm calling because I've come across something that will fit perfectly in your collection."

George cleared his throat and she could imagine the balding man tipping back in his office chair and studying the artifacts in his den. "Shoot."

Ani heard excitement in George's voice when she told him what she was certain she had. "It still needs to be authenticated," she added. "But I don't think that will be a problem."

They negotiated a fair price that would more than help the Harrisons with Jamie's bills, and then some. Before disconnecting the call, Ani gave George her cell phone number, swearing him to secrecy and asking him to not give out her number or tell anyone about her call. He sounded puzzled, but agreed.

For a moment, memories of other friends, coworkers, and acquaintances flowed over Ani and her chest ached. She hadn't been able to say goodbye to anyone. One day she was in a burn center in New York City, and the next day she as good as disappeared from everything and everyone she'd ever known.

Ani missed terribly the three friends she'd lived with in the old carriage house in Brooklyn. Jules, Erica, and Lexi had probably been frantic with worry when Ani vanished. She'd lost her family to a murderer, then lost everything from her old life when she signed the contract to enter WITSEC.

No connections to her past, no information about people from her former life, no trail that the Mafia could follow.

WITSEC was absolute on that point, and the loss on top of loss had been brutal. Still, the hit the Russians put out on her was enough to convince her to enter the Witness Security Program. She intended to live to testify and put the man who murdered her family behind bars for manslaughter, among other crimes.

Just the thought of that bastard made her chest ache with rage and fear.

Ani caught her breath as she opened the box to peek at the figure of King Tyrion III again and marveled at its beauty. She carefully touched the blackened bronze, feeling its coolness beneath her fingertip. She could never get enough of true art, even if she couldn't work in a museum because the Russian Mafia could possibly track her down in such an obvious occupation. And the Russians wanted her badly enough they'd do anything to get to her.

Not that anyone would recognize her now. She was the same cultured, refined, sophisticated woman she had been in New York. But with all of the trauma in her life since that night, she'd had a hard time eating and had lost eighty-something pounds, most of it in the last year. She'd gone from a size twenty-two to an eight, which was a bizarre feeling. She'd always been heavy and had been comfortable in her own skin. Now she had a lot less skin and it just felt strange. She had to start eating again, or there would be nothing left of her.

Her black slacks hung loose on her hips as she took the box containing the statue to the back room, her high heels ringing against the tile floor. She locked the box in the old-fashioned but very secure vault. They kept what few valuable treasures they had in the safe along with the store's daily take of cash. Which wasn't much considering the price tags Tammy put on the merchandise. Ani had furnished her own small house on the street above Castle Rock with some of the nicer pieces that came into the store.