kiDNApped (A Tara Shores Thriller) Read Free

hall until she reached the advertised condo. Her ad claimed it was for sale by a reputable agency, but Tara knew the con-artists often used fake ads to lure their victims. It wouldn't take long to figure out if this was a scam or not, Tara thought as she stepped through the doorway into the condominium.
    Three prospective buyers milled about the place while a realtor, a Caucasian woman in her fifties, hovered behind the kitchen counter over a stack of brochures. Tara recognized the woman from an earlier canvassing and knew her to be legitimate, although the realtor had no idea Tara was FBI or that she was under investigation at all. Tara held her ad up to the realtor, doubting she would recognize her from previous visits, each of which was made wearing a different casual disguise—sometimes she wore a hat, sometimes not, sometimes oversize sunglasses, sometimes she was accompanied by a male agent posing as her husband. Tara disliked this type of role-playing since she herself was single in real life, but her dedication to the job led her to do whatever it took to solve a case.
    “Still available?” Tara asked.
    “Yes, unbelievably, it still is!”
    “I'll just have a look around,” Tara said. She walked out toward the lanai , or balcony, to escape the hard-sell. The place was a small, partly furnished studio condo. Tara had seen all of it and was getting ready to leave when the Asian smoker from the lobby walked in. He ignored the real estate agent's attempt at pleasantries or information by breezing past her and walking directly out to the lanai . The man wore casual business attire, was well groomed, and, if not for his brusque attitude, wouldn't have attracted undue attention.
    He went to the rail to take in the incredible view from the 43rd floor—the tallest building in Waikiki, the realtor was used to boasting. The distinctive outline of the Diamond Head extinct volcano lay before them as if one could walk right into it. To the right lay the glorious panorama of Waikiki Beach and the ocean beyond, transitioning in color from an aquamarine near shore to the deep, royal blue of the open ocean, various boats and watercraft dotting its surface. To the left lay a rain forested mountain range, its tops obscured by clouds. Overhanging everything was a brown haze that some visitors mistook for smog, although its source was a natural one: the sulfur dioxide gas emitted from the active Kilauea volcano on the Big Island, over a hundred miles away.
    Tara saw the realtor give an irritated huff at being ignored, before pursuing the man out onto the lanai . On occasion the realtors of high-floor units had to deal with tourists who only wanted entry in order to take pictures of the breath-taking views.
    The man on the balcony, however, possessed no camera. He had placed both hands on the rail and was now rocking back and forth.
    “Excuse me, sir, did you have any questions about the unit?” the realtor asked. The man ignored her and continued his trance-like rocking.
    Tara looked at the man's face and knew something was wrong. He was staring ahead but seeing nothing, eyes brimming with tears as he flexed his biceps against the waist-high rail. He wore what Tara judged to be a moderately expensive outfit—light suit jacket, silk shirt without a tie, slacks and brown leather loafers. A jeweled lapel pin was affixed to the jacket.
    “Are you feeling alright, sir?” Tara addressed the man from the opposite end of the ten-foot wide lanai .
    The man tossed his head back and uttered a guttural yell. He flexed his legs.
    Tara knew she had to get him away from the edge. She lunged toward him, hands outstretched, grabbing his sport coat just as he jumped over the rail. She clutched the fabric with both hands, wincing as her own shoulders slammed against the rail while the realtor shrieked nonsensically behind her.
    “Mrs. Garrish, get building security up here. Tell them to call 911. Now !”
    If the realtor was surprised that Tara