Unintended Target (Unintended Series Book 1) Read online

  UNINTENDED TARGET

  A Novel

  BOOK ONE OF THE UNINTENDED SERIES

  D.L. Wood

  UNINTENDED TARGET

  Book One of the Unintended Series

  Copyright ©2015 by D.L. Wood

  All rights reserved

  Cover photographs: by Dirk Sebregts, licensed under Creative Commons Zero at unsplash.com (pier); Wavebreak Media with permission by Photodune Extended License (couple running)

  Unintended Target is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Paperback version:

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5171-7097-4

  ISBN-10: 1-5171-7097-4

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015915884

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, North Charleston, SC

  D.L. Wood

  dlwoodonline.com

  Huntsville, Alabama

  FOR

  Ron, Caroline, and Kathleen,

  And my parents—

  for making me believe I could do anything I put my mind to.

  Thank you Lord, for allowing me to do this.

  To you be the glory.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Epilogue

  ONE

  “He’s done it again,” groaned Chloe McConnaughey, her cell held to ear by her shoulder as she pulled one final pair of shorts out of her dresser. “Tate knew that I had to leave by 3:30 at the latest. I sent him a text. I know he got it,” she said, crossing her bedroom to the duffel bag sitting on her four-poster bed and tossing in the shorts.

  Her best friend’s voice rang sympathetically out of the phone. “There’s another flight out tomorrow,” offered Izzie Morales hesitantly.

  Chloe zipped up the bag. “I know,” she said sadly. “But, that isn’t the point. As usual, it’s all about Tate. It doesn’t matter to him that I’m supposed to be landing on St. Gideon in six hours. What does an assignment in the Caribbean matter when your estranged brother decides it’s time to finally get together?”

  “Estranged is a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?” Izzie asked.

  “It’s been three months. No texts. No calls. Nothing,” Chloe replied, turning to sit on the bed.

  “You know Tate. He gets like this. He doesn’t mean anything by it. He just got . . . distracted,” Izzie offered.

  “For three months?”

  Izzie changed gears. “Well, it’s only 3:00—maybe he’ll show.”

  “And we’ll have, what, like thirty minutes before I have to go?” Chloe grunted in frustration. “What’s the point?”

  “Come on,” Izzie said, “The point is, maybe this gets repaired.”

  Chloe sighed. “I know. I know,” she said resignedly. “That’s why I’m waiting it out.” She paused. “He said he had news he didn’t want to share over the phone. Seriously, what kind of news can’t you share over the phone?”

  “Maybe it’s so good that he just has to tell you in person,” Izzie suggested hopefully.

  “Or maybe it’s—‘I’ve been fired again, and I need a place to crash.’”

  “Think positively,” Izzie encouraged, and Chloe heard a faint tap-tapping in the receiver. She pictured her friend on the other side of Atlanta, drumming a perfectly manicured, red-tipped finger on a nearby surface, her long, pitch-colored hair hanging in straight, silky swaths on either side of her face.

  “He’ll probably pull up any minute, dying to see you,” Izzie urged. “And if he’s late, you can reschedule your flight for tomorrow. Perk of having your boss as your best friend. I’ll authorize the magazine to pay for the ticket change. Unavoidable family emergency, right?”

  Chloe sighed again, picked up the duffel bag and started down the hall of her two-bedroom rental. “I just wish it wasn’t this hard.” The distance between them hadn’t been her choice and she hated it. “Ten to one he calls to say he’s had a change of plans, too busy with work, can’t make it.”

  “He won’t,” replied Izzie.

  With a thud, Chloe dropped the bag onto the kitchen floor by the door to the garage, trading it for half a glass of merlot perched on the counter. She took a small sip. “Don’t underestimate him. His over-achievement extends to every part of his life, including his ability to disappoint.”

  “Ouch.” Izzie paused. “You know, Chlo, it’s just the job.”

  “I have a job. And somehow I manage to answer my calls.”

  “But your schedule’s a little more your own, right? Pressure-wise I think he’s got a little bit more to worry about.”

  Chloe rolled her eyes. “Nice try. But he manages tech security at an investment firm, not the White House. It’s the same thing every time. He’s totally consumed.”

  “Well, speaking as your editor, being a little consumed by your job is not always a bad thing.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “What’s important is that he’s trying to reconnect now.”

  Chloe brushed at a dust bunny clinging to her white tee shirt, flicking it to the floor. “What if he really has lost this job? It took him two years after the lawsuit to find this one.”

  “Look, maybe it’s a promotion. Maybe he got a bonus, and he’s finally setting you up. Hey, maybe he’s already bought you that mansion in Ansley Park . . .”

  “I don’t need him to set me up—I’m not eight years old anymore. I’m fine now. I wish he’d just drop the ‘big-brother-takes-care-of-wounded-little-sister’ thing. He’s the wounded one.”

  “You know, if you don’t lighten up a bit, it may be another three months before he comes back to see you.”

  “One more day and he wouldn’t have caught me at all.”

  Izzie groaned jealously. “It’s not fair that you get to go and I have to stay. It’s supposed to be thirty-nine and rainy in Atlanta for, like, the next month.”

  “So come along.”

  “If only. You know I can’t. Zach’s got his school play next weekend. And Dan would kill me if I left him with Anna for more than a couple days right now.” A squeal sounded on Izzie’s end. “Ugg
ggh. I think Anna just bit Zach again. I’ve gotta go. Don’t forget to call me tomorrow and let me know how it went with big brother.”

  “Bigger by just three minutes,” she quickly pointed out. “And I’ll try to text you between massages in the beach-side cabana.”

  Izzie groaned again, drowning out another squeal in the background. “You’re sick.”

  “It’s a gift,” Chloe retorted impishly before hanging up.

  Chloe stared down at the duffel and, next to it, the special backpack holding her photography equipment. She double-checked the Terra Traveler I.D. tags on both and found all her information still legible and secure. “Now what?” she muttered.

  Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that, with all the packing and preparation for leaving the house for two weeks, she had forgotten to eat. Rummaging through the fridge, she found a two-day old container of Chinese take-out. Tate absolutely hated Chinese food. She loved it. Her mouth curved at the edges as she shut the refrigerator door. And that’s the least of our differences.

  Leaning against the counter, she cracked open the container and used her chopsticks to pluck julienne carrots out of her sweet and sour chicken. Too bad Jonah’s not here, she thought, dropping the orange slivers distastefully into the sink. Crazy dog eats anything. Would’ve scarfed them down in half a second. But the golden retriever that was her only roommate was bunking at the kennel now. She missed him already.

  She felt bad about leaving him for two whole weeks. Usually her trips as a travel journalist for Terra Traveler were much shorter, but she’d tacked on some vacation time to this one in order to do some work on her personal book project. She wished she had someone she could leave him with, but Izzie was her only close friend, and she had her hands full with her kids.

  Jonah would definitely be easier than those two, she thought with a smile. He definitely had been the easiest and most dependable roommate she’d ever had—and the only male that had never let her down. A loyal friend through a bad patch of three lousy boyfriends. The last of them consumed twelve months of her life before taking her “ring-shopping,” only to announce the next day that he was leaving her for his ex. It had taken six months, dozens of amateur therapy sessions with Izzie and exceeding the limit on her VISA more than once to get over that one. After that she’d sworn off men for the foreseeable future, except for Jonah of course, which, actually, he seemed quite pleased about.

  She shoveled in the last few bites of fried rice, then tossed the box into the trash. Come to think of it, she considered as she headed for the living room, Tate’ll be the first man to step inside this house in almost a year. She wasn’t sure whether that was empowering or pathetic.

  “Not going there,” she told herself, forcing her train of thought instead to the sunny beaches of St. Gideon. The all-expenses paid jaunts were the only real perks of her job as a staff journalist with Terra Traveler, an online travel magazine based out of Atlanta. They were also the only reason she’d stayed on for the last four years despite her abysmal pay. Photography, her real passion, had never even paid the grocery bill, much less the rent. Often times the trips offered some truly unique spots to shoot in. Odd little places like the “World’s Largest Tree House,” tucked away in the Smoky Mountains, or the home of the largest outdoor collection of ice sculptures in a tiny town in Iceland. And sometimes she caught a real gem, like this trip to the Caribbean. Sun, sand, and separation from everything stressful. For two whole weeks.

  The thought of being stress-free reminded her that at this particular moment, she wasn’t. Frustration flared as she thought of Tate’s text just an hour before:

  Flying in tonite. Ur place @ 2. Big news. See u then.

  Typical Tate. No advance warning. No, “I’m sorry I haven’t returned a single call in three months” or “Surprise, I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth. Wanna get together?” Just a demand.

  A familiar knot of resentment tightened in her chest as she took her wine into the living room, turned up Adele on the stereo and plopped onto a slipcovered couch facing the fire. Several dog-eared books were stacked near the armrest, and she pushed them aside to make room as she sank into the loosely stuffed cushions. She drew her favorite quilt around her, a mismatched pink and beige patchwork that melded perfectly with the hodgepodge of antique and shabby chic furnishings that filled the room.

  What do you say to a brother who by all appearances has intentionally ignored you for months? It’s one thing for two friends to become engrossed in their own lives and lose track of each other for a while. It’s something else altogether when your twin brother doesn’t return your calls. He hadn’t been ill, although that had been her first thought. After the first few weeks she got a text from him saying, sorry, so busy, talk to u ltr. So she had called his office just to make sure he was still going in. He was. He didn’t take her call that day either.

  She tried to remember how many times she’d heard “big news” from Tate before, but quickly realized she’d lost count years ago. A pang of pity slipped in beside the frustration, wearing away at its edges.

  She set her goblet down on the end table beside a framed picture of Tate. In many respects it might as well have been a mirror. They shared the same large amber eyes and tawny hair, though she let her loose curls grow to just below her narrow shoulders. Their oval faces and fair skin could’ve been photocopied they were so similar. But he was taller and stockier, significantly out-sizing her petite, five foot four frame. She ran a finger along the faint, half-inch scar just below her chin that also differentiated them. He’d given her that in a particularly fierce game of keep-away when they were six. Later, disappointed that she had an identifying mark he didn’t, he had unsuccessfully tried duplicating the scar by giving himself a nasty paper cut. In her teenage years she’d detested the thin, raised line, but now she rubbed it fondly, feeling that in some small, strange way it linked her to him.

  He had broken her heart more than a little, the way he’d shut her out since taking the position at Inverse Financial nearly a year ago. He’d always been the type to throw himself completely into what he was doing, but this time he’d taken his devotion to a new high, allowing it to alienate everyone and everything in his life.

  It hadn’t always been that way. At least not with her. They’d grown up close, always each other’s best friend and champion. Each other’s only champion, really. It was how they survived the day after their eighth birthday when their father, a small-time attorney, ran off to North Carolina with the office copy lady. That was when Tate had snuck into their mother’s bedroom, found a half-used box of Kleenex and brought it to Chloe as she hid behind the winter clothes in her closet. I’ll always take care of you, Chlo. Don’t cry. I’m big enough to take care of both of us. He’d said it with so much conviction that she’d believed him.

  Together they’d gotten through the day nine months after that when the divorce settlement forced them out of their two-story Colonial into an orange rancher in the projects. Together they weathered their mother’s alcoholism that didn’t make her mean, just tragic, and finally, just dead, forcing them into foster homes. And though they didn’t find any love there, they did manage to stay together for the year and a half till they turned eighteen.

  Then he went to Georgia Tech on a scholarship and she, still at a loss for what she wanted to do in life, took odd jobs in the city. The teeny one bedroom apartment they shared seemed like their very own castle. After a couple of years, he convinced her she was going nowhere without a degree, so she started at the University of Georgia. For the first time they were separated. But Athens was only a couple hours away and he visited when he could and still paid for everything financial aid didn’t. She’d tried to convince him she could make it on her own, but he never listened, still determined to be the provider their father had never been.

  When she graduated, she moved back to Atlanta with her journalism degree under her belt and started out as a copy editor for a local events magazine. Tate got hi
s masters in computer engineering at the same time and snagged a highly competitive job as a software designer for an up-and-coming software development company. It didn’t take long for them to recognize Tate’s brilliance at anything with code, and the promotions seemed to come one after the other.

  Things had been so good then. They were both happy, both making money, though she was only making a little and he, more and more as time went by. The photo in her hands had been taken back then, when the world was his for the taking. Before it all fell apart for him with that one twist of fate that had ruined everything—

  Stop, she told herself, shaking off the unpleasant memory. The whole episode had nearly killed Tate, and she didn’t like to dwell on it. It had left him practically suicidal until, finally, this Inverse job came along. When it did, she thought that everything would get better, that things would just go back to normal. But they didn’t. Instead Tate had just slowly disappeared from her life, consumed by making his career work . . .

  She brushed his frozen smile with her fingers. Affection and pity and a need for the only person who had ever made her feel like she was a part of something special swelled, finally beating out the aggravation she had been indulging. As she set the frame back on the table, her phone rang.

  Speak of the devil, she thought, smiling as she reached for her cell.

  “Hello?”

  A deep, tentative voice that did not belong to her brother answered.

  * * * * *

  It never ceased to amaze him how death could be so close to a person without them sensing it at all. Four hours had passed and she hadn’t noticed a thing. It was dark now, and rain that was turning to sleet ticked steadily on the car, draping him in a curtain of sound as he watched her vague grey shadow float back and forth against the glow of her drawn Roman blinds. He was invisible here, hunkered down across the street behind the tinted windows of his dark Chevy Impala, swathed in the added darkness of the thick oaks lining the neighbor’s yard.