What people are saying about the

Shadows of Justice series

Justice Incarnate

"Move over Lara Croft–Jaden Michaels is the quintessential heroine of the twenty-first century, full of heart and totally lethal! One thrilling ride!" –Debra Webb, Best-selling suspense author

"This was a fantastically wonderful story…tension and mystery…a tale of cliff hanging suspense. I could not put it down. It is well worth another read." –Coffee Time Romance

"A terrific reincarnation thriller…tense story line grips the audience… Fans will appreciate this strong tale in which the audience will believe in past lives while looking forward to future Shadows of Justice novels." –Readers Guild

"A real heroine in every sense of the word! Jaden is strong and smart and tough as any bad guy… Fast and furious, this story takes off running from page one and never slows down. A perfect blend of mystery, paranormal, and suspense to create a pleasure of a reading experience." –Fallen Angels Reviews

Regan Black

Invasion of Justice

Shadows of Justice

Book Two

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Echelon Press Publishing

9735 Country Meadows Lane 1-D

Laurel, MD 20723

www.echelonpress.com

ISBN: 1-59080-443-0

Library of Congress Control Number: 2005935500

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address Echelon Press.

First Echelon Press paperback printing: February 2006

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Cover Art © Nathalie Moore

2005 Arianna Best in Category Award winner

Editor: Kat Thompson

Printed in USA

Dedication

For Inge.

All my thanks for dreaming in color, for titles and names, for always listening to the process.

Your boundless faith in God, unwavering support, and keen fashion sense have carried me through. You rock!

Our greatest battles are that with our own minds.

–Jameson Frank

Chapter One

a b

He forced the lock with a custom security card General Hawthorne would envy–under different circumstances. Pride swelled as the new idea formed. He'd make sure to see admiration in the General's eyes before this night was over.

Each silent step brought him closer to the target. He felt his pulse quicken and paused until he'd harnessed the adrenaline. This was his proving ground and there was no room for error.

At the lab, he swiped the card again and then offered his eye, the modified one, for verification. He tucked the card away and paused to enjoy the soft hiss of the opening door, etching every moment into his memory.

A man only got one first.

He noticed the target's hunched shoulders, glasses pushed high on the forehead, eyes hovering over the microscope. Those cells in the dish were deadly, but not in the way the genetic engineers intended.

He slowed his breathing for the final approach. Damn, he could practically see the black death-cloud. His lips curled. He could almost smell the blood. His fingers twitched in anticipation of the slick, sticky feel.

He struck the nerve center on the target's neck, sending him to the floor in a heap, leaving the priceless cells in their dish. Pulling a miniature hypodermic from his pocket, he drew the substance from the dish and injected it into the target. He pressed his fingers to the jugular and waited, counting the prescribed ten pulse beats.

Then, with reverence born of training, he unwrapped the sacred blade and began the fun part. A man should enjoy his work, after all.

Indianapolis, IN 2096

She came awake in a rush, her hands fisted and slippery.

"Lights," she rasped, terrified what light would reveal. She gasped–her first deep breath in how long? Her hands glistened with sweat, not blood. It had been so real.

Too real.

She scrambled to sit up, bracing herself against the cool scrollwork of the mahogany headboard. It wasn't the first time she'd been in the mind of evil and she knew what would follow.

Looking at the phone, a retro 1900's antique landline connected to her modern cell card, she waited.

And waited.

Long enough to wonder if it had only been a dream. She scrubbed at her face and decided the link had been too strong, too nasty to have been a mere nightmare. She gripped the heavy, old-fashioned telephone and searched the shadows of her room for an intruder, ready to strike.

The clunky contraption burst out ringing and she dropped it on the bed.

"Petra Neiman," she managed when she got the receiver to her ear.

"I've got a tangled mess for you," the caller stated.

That she knew. As if ritual evisceration could be anything less. She wanted the who and where of it.

The nameless voice that made these calls obliged. "Kincaid wants you in Chicago immediately. A dead Jane Doe is likely connected to a solid lead on two recent kidnappings."

She almost corrected him. It was a murder, high profile, with no secondary crime, in a seaside genetics lab. She'd smelled the humid tang of saltwater on the assassin's clothes.

The revelation startled her. Not even she maintained a sense of smell during a dream.

"Ms. Neiman? Are you there?"

"Yes. How long until the car arrives?"

"Thirty minutes."

"I'll call my assistant."

"Special Agent Kincaid insists you come alone."

Special Agent Kincaid could get a hobby that didn't contradict her needs. "Then I'll need a videographer."

"He says whatever you need will be on site."

"Fine. I'll be ready." There was no point beheading the messenger. She dropped the receiver back into the cradle and stared at the ceiling.

Yes, she'd be ready; knowing she was only marking time until the call from the coast came in.

The flight into Chicago was uneventful, but Petra's senses were nearly overwhelmed upon landing. Almost as soon as the wheels settled, she felt a heavy darkness pressing in on her. She had to disagree with her assistant's opinion; having "evil radar" was not the ultimate asset.

In the Government Issue black transport van, Petra closed her eyes and opened her mind. The city seemed to vibrate with a nasty presence that didn't mind being known.

She shivered. Awareness at this level was a two-way street. The malevolence fueling the criminals they sought knew Petra was in town.

As the transport pulled up, she prepared herself for the known and unknown of the process. She'd read the crime scene, interview witnesses, and gently tap their emotions for details they didn't often realize they left out. Even expecting to uncover the weird or surprising didn't always mute her shock when she found it.

"Thanks for coming," Kincaid said with a smile. The Special Agent in Charge of the Central Region Investigation Authority looked past her into the van. "Where's Kelly?"

Petra sent Kincaid a meaningful look. "Out tracking down real glazed doughnuts. Where's the videographer you promised?"

Kincaid's eyes narrowed, but he too reserved comment for later. "There's someone on site that can help us, I'm sure."

Putting the possible security breach on the back burner, Petra took her first hard look at the area. The Hammond Street docks had once thrived with cargo train activity. Now, the prime location for loading and unloading boats and trucks was a deserted, nightmarish collection of worn and rusting parts.

Except the tracks. She walked closer to the original style double rail and ties. The rails gleamed, even in the poor evening light. "I've heard of train collecting, but not true to life models."

"My thoughts, too. This is some operation we've bumped into."

Petra looked at the old diesel engine, sitting frozen on the tracks, with three disconnected cars behind it. Petra walked inside the now empty area and just absorbed the lingering energies.

Fury. Fear. Survival. Salvation.

She took the electronic data pad Kincaid offered and checked his notes. Jane Doe was dead and three other men, all refusing to speak, had apparently watched it happen. Those three sat propped against the train wheels, awaiting her questions.

Mentally she ticked off her interview goals. She wanted to know which of them knew how to drive the antique diesel engine. She wanted to know the contents of the three cars. Evidence crews had found random hairs and prints and a half dozen sterling armbands in an infinity pattern.

"Need some help with a video?" a man's voice asked.

Petra whirled around, startled that anyone had slipped under her senses. She thought she'd seen him before, but couldn't put a name with the face.

"Have we met, sir?"

"Nope. I'm Gideon Callahan," he said.

She stepped back from the smile that didn't reach his eyes and the extended hand she couldn't accept. "A pleasure to meet you," she lied, through her most professional smile. "I'll pass on the video." She slid the data pad into her tote and withdrew a spiral notebook and pencil. "This'll do for today." She climbed up into the engine and opened herself to the residual feelings.

Gideon followed her. "So what the hell happened here?"

Petra began to put words to her thoughts and impressions. "This was quite a struggle. A battle for more than life." She crossed to the side wall where scratches marked the progress of the Jane Doe's attempt to escape her bonds.

Here was the fury. Complete and violent fury that the mission had gone off course.

"Off whose course?"

"What?" Gideon asked.

She ignored him. "Two opposing forces determined to win. Why didn't the men struggle? Why didn't they help Jane Doe?"

"Cat fight."

"I beg your pardon?" Petra turned at last to study the man who wouldn't take the hint and disappear.

He had dark hair that would curl if not for the strict cut, straight-boned features, a Van Dyke beard, and deep brown eyes that didn't evoke warmth, but warning. She didn't need the warning from his eyes as his aura hummed with an evasive quality she didn't trust. The beard was only one more point against him. She'd never liked bearded men.

"Haven't you seen the autopsy report?"

This time she took personal blame for the irritation she felt with this man. She flipped pages, but couldn't find a hard copy. Pulling out her palmtop, she scanned the official email from the coroner via Kincaid.

"Give it up. The words don't do it justice. Take a look here."

Forcing herself to remain calm, she lifted her gaze to the holographic display open in his hand. The coroner's clinical voice detailed every injury Jane Doe earned in her final fight. Scratches, offensive and defensive, lacerations and the blade strike that ended it. Even in death, the woman looked wild and intimidating. Over six feet with extreme musculature that made it easy to believe she'd been using the hormone-steroid blend known as 'juice'.

"See," Gideon persisted, "cat fight. I don't know a guy that'll jump between two women out for blood. Especially juicers. Not sure I wanna see the bird who won."

I do. The thought came unbidden and nearly escaped verbally. She wanted, needed, to know more about the second woman she'd sensed here. The connection felt deeper than any other she'd felt before, including the link she shared with her only sibling, her brother Nathan.

"She fights but she doesn't juice."

"Not anymore." Gideon flipped off the hologram. "Women haven't looked like that since the days of the Amazon."

"Not the Jane Doe. The other woman." Petra stomped on her frustration. This issue could wait. "Bring in the witnesses, please."

"Okay, but they won't talk."

"I wish the same could be said of you," she muttered. His bark of laughter told her he had ears like a bat.

Putting Gideon out of her mind, she calmed herself with breath control as she watched the witnesses file in. All three were nervous, but the first man was the target of hostile energy from the other two.

She didn't need them to talk as much as remember and feel. When she tapped those feelings, conversation would follow.

According to her notes, they'd been found less than twenty-four hours ago, along with the decaying Jane Doe. Men or not, she didn't think she'd have trouble getting a read on their emotions.

"The lady here wants to know why you didn't help your girl," Gideon blurted.

The men stared back at him with one surly expression in triplicate.

Petra knew her expression differed. If Gideon bothered to spare her a glance, he'd see the unruffled calm she practiced to perfection. But inside she plotted how best to remove him from the investigation–preferably in tiny pieces.

She walked, wishing she could swagger, to the testosterone-heavy end of the engine. "The lady here wants to know why the three of you are working on a decrepit railroad."

Reading the body language of all three, Petra quickly identified and mentally tapped the man the other two didn't respect. His sense of failure went deep and was mixed with a healthy dose of fear and insecurity.

Her prodding produced the expected result.

"J-just a job."

The other two groaned, but Gideon kept them from moving on the talker.

"We got nothing else to lose," he said to his associates. "We just h-hauled cargo."

"And where is that cargo now?" Gideon demanded before Petra could speak.

"W-we–I mean I–don't know. Just gone I guess."

"Drugs? Juice? Caffeine?" Gideon inquired. "That sort of cargo would need legs to just go anywhere."

"Women," Petra interrupted. "Girls and women." She felt Gideon turn to stare at her, but she kept her eyes on the three other men. "Hauling females to a slave auction." She sighed. Kincaid's instincts were right on target–as usual. Maybe they'd finally recover and close some of their stalled kidnapping cases. "Okay. Considering you're all undereducated, I can see the lure of the money here."

Beside her, Gideon shuffled and seethed. Well, he clearly needed a lesson in role reversal. It was past time for her shot at these thugs.

"What happened? Who released your prisoners?" she continued.

The expressions on the two sterner faces flickered. Mr. Talkative went pale.

"Sit," Gideon ordered the three men.

She saw the benefit. By sitting, they'd be closer to re-enacting the recent fright. She followed his lead. "A woman breaks free of the cargo hold and overpowers four guards?"

"Who was driving?" Gideon asked.

Not one answered verbally, but Petra knew. She knew her big picture was off. "None of you can drive this thing. The engineer went with the cargo. With the women. And you," she knelt in front of Mr. Talkative, "you're glad the Amazon's dead."

"'Course he is. She woulda killed him next," one of the others muttered.

Petra kept her eyes on the chatty guard. "Then I guess I owe someone my thanks. Who?"

"W-we don't know. She stormed in, took my weapons and tased me. When I c-came around we were all t-tied up."

Gideon coughed into his hand, but the expletive was clear enough.

"Think you coulda done better?" said the biggest thug, challenging Gideon.

"Yeah, I believe I coulda done better than the sorry group of you three, combined."

"Awright. Come prove it." The third man surged to his feet, snagged Petra's arm and spun her so her back landed against his hard chest. His thick forearm clamped over her throat, locking her in place and allowing her just enough air to stay conscious.

The instant, unexpected physical contact provided a connection Petra never risked without preparation. She wasn't anywhere close to prepared for the onslaught of this criminal.

It felt like being sucked into a whirlpool. His memories circled her, recent and not, and drowning seemed preferable to the rush of anger and fear washing off him and over her.

She heard strident male voices, but Petra couldn't sort out any actual words. If only she could latch onto one specific memory amidst the torrent and gain control. As if her thought and his actions summoned it, she seized on his recollection of the Amazon's last battle.

Here too was a strangulation–the Amazon had the neck of a smaller blond woman wrapped in the chain of her handcuffs. Petra watched, then mimicked the blonde's escape by pushing her fingers under the man's arm and letting her legs give way. The upward push combined with her suddenly dead weight threw her attacker off balance and she dropped to the floor and rolled out of the way.

Gulping air, leaning against the wall of the engine, Petra waited as the rest of the memory played out–all the way through the victorious slide of the blonde's dagger into the Amazon's ribcage.

When the blonde turned to the man who owned this memory, Petra saw through the bravado to the pain hidden deep in the woman's green eyes. Here was the face that matched a dream she'd been having since childhood.

A sister. My sister. The knowledge bubbled up from a depth of awareness Petra had never known–not even with Nathan.

"Hey? You okay?" Gideon asked.

Petra shut him out, curling into a tight ball. She wanted to remain with the memory, to explore all she could of this new connection before dealing with the reality at hand.

"Stay back," Kincaid demanded, entering the engine. "Don't touch her."

Gideon sneered. "What if she's hurt?"

"I'm not," Petra said, putting an end to yet another pissing contest. They seemed to be Gideon's specialty.

"Can you lift your head?" Kincaid asked.

Petra obliged, raising her chin for his visual inspection, but keeping her eyes closed.

The men made noises about bruising and soft tissue damage, but Petra wasn't worried. "I'm fine." She'd learned years ago how best to heal herself. Opening her eyes to ease their concern, she asked about the status of the guards.

"All on their way to the city lockup," Kincaid replied. "Want a hand?"

"Thought we couldn't touch her."

"Actual contact is possible if I'm prepared," Petra explained.

Gideon's eyes narrowed. "Prepared for what?"

Oh, the temptation to shock him with his own ignorance. She managed to control herself. Barely. "Touch enhances my ability to read emotion." And memory, she left unsaid.

Gideon leveled his sharp gaze at Kincaid. "You hired an empath? It was bad enough when I thought she was psychic."

"She's been of great assistance to the CRIA–"

Petra gained her feet and gave up on them both. "I'm going to the hotel to write your report, Kincaid," she called on her way out.

"Wait!" Kincaid jumped out of the engine after her. "You get anything on the victims?"

"They're safe. Escaped on a ferry headed up the Michigan coastline."

"Destination?"

Petra just shrugged.

"And the Jane Doe?"

"That was self-defense, not murder." Petra shook her head. "Jane was one scary woman."

"What about those arm bands?"

Petra sighed. "I don't know. Things went haywire before I could prod that out of them. If I'd been alone maybe I could've gotten more." She refused to look at Gideon.

"If you'd been alone, you'd be dead by now," Gideon said, joining them.

Petra looked at him, then away. The docks weren't any improvement. The bleak, dismal view left an impression she didn't want to cloud her senses later. The very air smelled of disuse and decay. "I need to get out of here."

"I'll drive you," Kincaid offered. "We're at the Ritz downtown."

"Nice. But no thanks. I'll take the el." As she walked the few blocks to the platform, her nerves got worse instead of better. Only after forcing herself through the security scanner and into the elevated train, did Petra realize the feelings weren't her own.

My sister.

Pushing aside the layer of anxiety, Petra smiled. Her sister hated the el. It was fascinating to discover such a detail about a person who'd been a figment of her imagination until an hour ago. Mentally, Petra reached out and waited for a reply. When nothing but emptiness returned to her, Petra sent out as much warmth as she could generate after the ordeal at the docks.

Once in her hotel suite, she wrote the first draft of her report and then ran through a brief healing meditation. When she felt restored, she put on her favorite music and sent herself in search of the sister she'd never known.

The incessant summons of her cell card brought her back before she'd made any real progress. The distinctive chirp told her it was another CRIA call. Maybe they'd found the victim in the lab at last.

"Petra Neiman."

"It's Kincaid."

The tension in those words brought her to full alert. "Let me guess. Genetics researcher dead by evisceration. Looks like suicide. Pretty fresh scene, I'd bet. It got funneled to me–"

"And you didn't report it?"

"CRIA ordered me here. I haven't had a chance to re–"

"Just shut up a minute."

She did. This sort of impatience didn't match with Kincaid's normally temperate personality. Something was very wrong. "You're scaring me."

"About time something did. Meet me downstairs in ten minutes."

The connection died as Petra deciphered their emergency escape code. She had five minutes to meet him in the south stairwell on the tenth floor. Having not bothered to find the landmark when she checked in, she wasted two minutes getting her bearings.

"Are we evacuating?" she asked, gasping from her mad dash up four flights.

"Not yet. Let's go for a walk."

He started back down and she followed him, restraining the urge to comment that they could've met at ground level. Except anyone listening to the call would've expected that. Petra knew if Kincaid was taking these precautions, there was a reason. She shivered, hoping it was a glitch and not a serious breach in CRIA security.

The stairwell opened into a street level alley. Kincaid helped her negotiate the smelly dumpsters and cluster of homeless men near the street. They merged into the foot traffic and walked for two blocks before Kincaid spoke again.

The tension simmering around him warned her she wouldn't like what he had to say.

"Nathan's been arrested. Apparently for the crime you experienced." He risked a touch to steady her when she stumbled at the news, but he released her quickly. "Why didn't you call me when you felt the scene?"

"I didn't want to believe it was real."

"Did you see the killer?"

She shook her head, forced herself to think logically. Her brother had nothing to do with this. Surely everyone knew better. This was just a formality.

"I was inside him. I felt his anticipation, even the blood on his hands. It wasn't Nathan."

"It was his retina."

"What?" Petra stopped, and was jostled by those around her. Fortunately, nothing stronger than irritation got through. She lowered her voice. "The security scanner's wrong. It can't be Nathan. What I felt was dark and vicious. Nothing like I've ever felt in Nathan."

"The deceased is General Hawthorne."

Petra gasped and began walking again. "I know they didn't always agree, but they were on the same team." She straightened her shoulders. She could do this. "When do we leave?"

"We don't. I'm leaving in an hour."

"But I can help you ID the real assassin."

"Not when I need you here. Not when it's personal. If you were there, you'd threaten the case no matter what you found."

Sudden tears streamed hot down her face. "I have to see him," she begged. "Let me help."

"You can't." They came to a stop in front of the Ritz. "It's too sensitive, Petra. I'm sorry. Don't even try to fly to him. That's an order. It'll just make things worse."

She swiped at her face, struggled to regain her composure. "Where are they holding him?"

"I'm not authorized to tell you."

"Aaron, please!"

He shook his head. "I can't. Go inside and try to get some rest."

"My parents?" she asked before he stepped out of earshot.

"They've been told."

"And?"

Kincaid just shook his head and turned away.

She didn't need to hear the answer. With such damning initial evidence, her parents would've deserted their son for using his unique mental talents for selfish or criminal purposes. The family standards were impossibly high, image and reputation vital. Nathan's choice of a military career was constantly lamented by their mother as an outright rebellion and promotion of violence.

She entered the hotel lobby and, grateful for the empty elevator, let the tears fall. Once inside her suite, the murder she'd been privy to replayed in her mind and she clutched her stomach as the gruesome reality swamped her.

Nathan wasn't capable of the evil she'd witnessed and she would find a way to prove it.

Determined, she lit up her computer and programmed the music for an extended flight. To hell with orders. No one could track her during a spiritual search. Flying without an anchorperson was a risk, but it conveniently eliminated a record of any comments she might make.

Besides, she was flying to Nathan, her brother and best friend. They couldn't hold him anywhere that she wouldn't find him.

The patient presents as a normal, healthy eight-year-old girl. Gleaming dark hair and intelligent blue eyes in a serious face. Her parents arranged the session, as they were concerned about recent nightmares.

Patient describes dreams of a grandfatherly sort of neighbor who takes her hostage and abuses her to the point of death. Her words were simplistic and often her vocabulary limited a full description of events so I don't suspect staging. No one in her neighborhood fits the physical description according to parents and police. The medical report confirms parental and patient claims that she is unharmed to date.

Her fear however, is real, and quite tangible. I ached for her while she spoke, my own eyes filled with tears. In twenty-four years of private practice, I've never been moved to such extent.

I've prescribed three more sessions of one hour each.

–From the notes of Dr. Julian Reynard,

founder, Reynard Psychiatric Institute