The Last Mile Read online

  Also by Kat Martin

  The Silent Rose

  The Dream

  The Secret

  Hot Rain

  Deep Blue

  Desert Heat

  Midnight Sun

  Against the Wild

  Against the Sky

  Against the Tide

  Into the Fury

  Into the Whirlwind

  Into the Firestorm

  Beyond Reason

  Beyond Danger

  Beyond Control

  Pivot

  The Last Goodnight

  THE LAST MILE

  KAT MARTIN

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Epigraph

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, 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.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2022 by Kat Martin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2021953418

  The K with book logo Reg. US Pat & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3680-2

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: June 2022

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3865-3 (trade)

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3683-3 (ebook)

  “There is something in a treasure that fastens upon a man’s mind. He will pray and blaspheme and still persevere, and will curse the day he ever heard of it, and will let his last hour come upon him unawares, still believing that he missed it only by a foot. He will see it every time he closes his eyes. He will never forget it until he is dead . . . There is no way of getting away from a treasure . . . once it fastens itself upon your mind.”

  —Joseph Conrad, Nostromo

  CHAPTER ONE

  AN ODD SOUND PENETRATED THE DARKNESS OF HER BEDROOM. Abby stirred awake and opened her eyes, her gaze landing on the neon-red numbers in the digital clock on the nightstand.

  Three a.m. She muttered a curse. The old Victorian house she had recently inherited creaked and groaned as if it were alive. She’d get used to it, she told herself.

  Rolling onto her side, she plumped her pillow, determined to go back to sleep, but the sounds returned, and this time there was no mistaking the quiet footfalls creeping along the downstairs hallway.

  Abby’s breathing quickened as she eased out of bed and slipped into her terry robe. Grabbing the heavy, long-handled flashlight she kept beside the bed—partly for self-defense—she moved quietly out the door, down the hall to the stairs.

  The sounds grew more distinct. There was someone in her grandfather’s study. She could hear them opening drawers and cabinets, clearly searching for something.

  Her pulse accelerated as she realized what the intruder was trying to find, and her grip tightened on the handle of the heavy flashlight. No way was she letting the thief get away with it.

  She needed to call the police, but her phone was upstairs, and by the time she got back up there, it might be too late.

  The door stood slightly open, the soft yellow rays from the brass lamp on the desk providing enough light to see. Flattening herself against the wall, she peered into the study and spotted a figure dressed completely in black, searching the shelves in the armoire against the wall.

  Her first thought was her cousin. Jude wanted the map, and he would be just stupid enough to sneak into her house to get it. But as she eased the door open wider, she realized the black-clad figure had a lean, sinewy build that was far too solid to be her pudgy gaming nerd cousin.

  A trickle of fear slid through her. Abby steeled herself. Whoever it was, the thief wasn’t leaving with the map.

  Easing closer, she raised the flashlight, holding it like a bat, and swung a blow that slammed into the intruder’s shoulder, knocking him sideways into the wall.

  “Get out of here!” Legs splayed, she prepared to swing the flashlight again. “Get out before I call the police!”

  He straightened. She could see the movement of his eyes inside the holes of his black ski mask, but instead of leaving, he charged.

  Abby swung her makeshift bat again, but the man was fast, and he was strong, ripping the weapon from her hands and tossing it away, the flashlight landing with a loud clatter against the wall. She screamed as he spun her around and dragged her back against his chest. Wrapping his gloved hands around her neck, he squeezed, cutting off her air supply.

  “Where is it? Tell me where it is!” He shook her hard enough to rattle her teeth, and her vision dimmed. Dragging in a breath, she clawed at the hands locked around her throat.

  “Tell me!” His hold tightened, and terror struck. There was no mistaking the attacker’s intent—he wanted the map badly enough to kill her.

  “It’s not . . . here.” She fought to suck in air. “Safe . . . deposit box.” It was a lie but a credible one. She had taken it from the box just that afternoon.

  Her attacker swore foully but didn’t release her.

  “I don’t believe you. I want that map!” He started dragging her toward the curtains, grabbed the sash to tie her up.

  No way was she letting that happen! Forcing down her fear, Abby made two fists with her thumbs exposed, as she’d learned in her self-defense class, jerked up her arms, and jammed her thumbs into her attacker’s eyes. One thumb hit its mark, gouging into his eye socket, and a scream ripped from his throat.

  “You bitch!”

  Kicking backward, Abby twisted and jerked free, her bare foot slamming into his kneecap. The guy stumbled as he hit the wall and swore another foul oath. Abby ran.

  Out of the study, down the hall, through the entry, bursting out into the street. The grass felt wet and cold beneath her bare feet. She stepped on a stone, and pain shot up her leg, but she kept running.

  The house was located on Vine Street in an old, historic section of Denver where she had already met a few of her neighbors. She raced to Mr. Godwin’s house and started banging on the heavy wooden front door.

  It took a while for the lock to turn and the door to swing open. Elderly Mr. Godwin appeared in his bathrobe, his gray hair sticking straight up, his eyes groggy with sleep.

  Abby darted into the house. “Close the door! Hurry! And lock it!”

  Mr. Godwin swiftly closed the door, his watery blue eyes wide. “Abigail, what’s happened? Are you okay? What’s going on?”

  Abby’s hand went to the bruises forming a chain around her throat. “A man broke . . . broke into the house. He tried . . . tried to kill me.” She sucked in a deep breath of air. “I need to call the police.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Three weeks later

  ABBY WALKED BENEATH THE DARK GREEN CANVAS AWNING THAT RAN the length of the two-story, redbrick building, stopping to peer through the plate-glass windows into the office. Treasure Hunters Anonymous was located in the LoDo neighborhood of Denver, an area of historic buildings turned into trendy shops and restaurants. She pushed open the door and walked inside.

  “May I help you?” An attractive woman in her mid-forties with silver-touched dark hair rose from behind her computer, one among three sitting on desks along the wall. Several large wooden tables were stacked with papers and files; others were covered by topographic maps and navigation charts.

  “My name is Abigail Holland,” she said. “I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Logan.”

  The woman smiled. “I’m Gage’s
assistant, Maggie Powell. I’m afraid Gage is on the phone. He should be finished in a few minutes. Have a seat, and I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  Abby sat down in a burgundy-leather wingback chair next to the window. Aside from the chair and the small antique oak table beside it, an area that was visitor friendly, the office was clearly a work space.

  Logan’s assistant headed down the hall, disappeared behind one of two closed doors, then returned a few minutes later. “Gage is finished with his phone call. You can go on in.”

  “Thank you.”

  Abby hoisted the strap of her leather purse onto her shoulder and smoothed back the copper hair she wore in a single long braid down her back. The door to Logan’s office stood open. He rose and rounded a big carved antique oak desk to greet her.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Gage Logan.”

  “Abigail Holland.” She extended her hand.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Holland.” Logan’s big palm wrapped around her smaller one, and she felt a little kick she hadn’t expected. He was six-two, she’d read when she’d researched him online, far taller than her own five-foot-four-inch frame. Dressed in khaki pants and a yellow button-down shirt, he had wide, muscular shoulders, and what appeared to be a deep, powerful chest.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” Abby said. He was thirty-five years old, she knew, born and raised on a big ranch west of Denver. At nineteen, he’d left home for college and never returned.

  He was incredibly handsome, with dark brown hair long enough to brush his collar and a solid jaw roughened by the faint shadow of an afternoon beard. His eyes, an amazing shade of blue against his darkly suntanned skin, carried a fierce gleam of intelligence. Though she’d seen his photo on the internet and seen his face on the cover of National Geographic, she hadn’t been prepared for the impact of meeting him in person.

  “Why don’t we sit down and you can tell me why you’re here?” Logan led her over to a claw-foot round oak table in the corner surrounded by four oak chairs. Like the outer office, there were stacks of papers and maps around the room, on the floor and the tops of both oak file cabinets. Manila folders sat in a haphazard pile on the corner of his desk. There was a door off to one side that appeared to open to a private bathroom.

  “Can I get you something?” Logan asked. “Coffee, or maybe a soda?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  He rested an elbow on the table, his shirtsleeves rolled up over muscular forearms. “I understand you have a proposition for me.”

  Her mind went straight to the bedroom. The man had sex appeal and plenty of it. Add to that, she had been following his exploits ever since her grandfather had mentioned him several years back and had begun to imagine him as having almost superhuman abilities. She had a fair complexion, and she hoped the color in her cheeks wouldn’t betray her thoughts.

  Abby smiled. “A proposition, yes. I want you to help me find a treasure. That’s what you do, right? You find all sorts of missing things, historical artifacts, sunken ships, missing airplanes.”

  “My partner and I tend to specialize, but basically, yes, that’s what we do.”

  “But it was you who found the lost rubies of Amanitore, right? Gems that belonged to the Queen of Nubia?”

  He nodded. “The rubies actually belonged to a daughter of the queen. I’ve been back in the States for a while since then, but yes, I led the expedition that found them.”

  “I want you to help me find my grandfather’s treasure.”

  Logan leaned back in his chair. “That was in the message you left on my phone. Interesting, but not very informative. What sort of treasure are you looking for?”

  Abby’s smile widened. “Gold, Mr. Logan, at least two hundred million dollars’ worth.”

  Logan’s expression didn’t change, the gigantic sum clearly not impressing him. “I assume you have some reason to believe you know where to find it, or at least have some clue as to where it’s supposed to be located.”

  “I have a map, Mr. Logan. It was willed to me when my grandfather died. In the past few months, I’ve been making preparations to find it, but I need your help.”

  “It’s just Gage, and you realize most treasure maps are fake, even the old ones.”

  “Not this one. My grandfather was an explorer, much like you. His name was King Farrell. I believe you may have heard of him.”

  Logan’s intense blue eyes sharpened. “King Farrell was your grandfather?”

  “That’s right, my mother’s father. His travels kept him away a lot, but whenever he was home, we spent as much time together as possible. I loved hearing his stories, tales of his travels. When my mother fell ill, then passed away, we grew even closer.” She felt a pang just saying the words out loud. She had nursed her mother during the terrible years of her cancer. She still missed her every day.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. I heard your grandfather has also passed.”

  “That’s right. King died three months ago.” Abby blocked a fresh surge of emotion. “He left the map to me in his will, along with the house he owned here in Denver.”

  “Go on.”

  “Receiving his bequest gave me a choice. I could keep the house and forget the treasure. Or sell the house and use the money to finance an expedition. I sold the house.”

  One of his dark brown eyebrows inched up. “You’re that sure the map he left you is real?”

  “I know what people say about him. That all those years of searching for the Devil’s Gold drove him over the edge. They said he never produced any real evidence the treasure existed. They called it King’s Folly. They said he was a fool. But my grandfather was no fool.”

  Gage leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “So you’re completely certain the map is real.”

  “I was fairly sure when I found out he’d left it to me in his will. Now that someone’s tried to kill me for it, I’m entirely certain.”

  Gage straightened, his posture no longer relaxed. “Tell me what happened.”

  Abby filled him in on the attack three weeks ago, including the description of the man in black who had broken into her house in search of the map. Over the next few days, she’d purchased a. 38 revolver and had a security system installed, but she had been more than ready to move out.

  “I listed the property for sale the next day. It’s a lovely old Victorian, and the Denver market is strong. I had a full-price offer by the end of the week.”

  Those intense blue eyes ran over her, and she felt a little curl of heat in the pit of her stomach.

  “Clearly you’re serious about this,” he said. “Unfortunately, I only met King Farrell a couple of times. I never knew him on a personal level. I’ll need a lot more information before I make a decision.”

  “Assuming you agree, how does it work?”

  “It’s all fairly straightforward. Our lawyers draw up a contract. In layman’s terms, you and I share equally in the cost of the expedition. You provide the information. I provide the expertise and the crew necessary to make it work. If we find something, the expenses are deducted, including any government fees and any unexpected monies that might be required, and the balance is split fifty-fifty.”

  She nodded, expecting similar terms. “That sounds fair enough.”

  “You referred to this as the Devil’s Gold. From what I’ve read, King never gave any indication of where the gold was supposed to be. His travels took him everywhere—from Africa to the southern US border to the tip of Tierra del Fuego in Argentina. That’s a lot of ground to cover.”

  “I can narrow it down for you. You have a reputation for honesty, Mr. Logan. If you’re willing to sign a nondisclosure agreement, I’ll give you all the information you need.”

  “It’s Gage, and I’m happy to do that—if it gets that far. In the meantime, I’ll have to do some digging. Give me a couple of days. Why don’t we meet here again Wednesday morning, if that works for you.”

  “Ten o’clock?”

  “That’s fine.”