Free Long Gone by Marliss Melton, Janie Hawkins

Director Milton?” He caught the eye of the TSA agent. “May I take out my passport?” he pleaded.  
    The dark-skinned agent frowned and nodded. “Go ahead.”
    “Oh, come on,” the younger Donovan scoffed. “He’s the flipping head of the FBI Undercover Division. Of course he has a fake passport.” He lunged at Bill’s face, seized one corner of his false moustache and yanked it off. Some of the artificial skin smoothed over Bill’s cheek went with it.
    The crowd gasped in astonishment. 
    Drake Donovan pushed his face into Bill’s. “I know it’s you, you son of a bitch,” he growled. “You told me about your pacemaker six months ago. But you can bet we’ll fingerprint you in custody just to make sure. We’ll even probe your ass looking for the arsenic you’ve probably hidden in it. There’ll be no killing yourself to avoid prosecution like Owen Dulay did. Now, turn around so I can cuff you.” He grabbed Bill and hauled him around.
    “You’re arresting an innocent bystander,” Bill insisted, struggling to free himself . He wound up with his ear plastered to a conveyer belt, his legs kicked apart, and his wrists in cuffs.
    With a rubber burn on his right cheek, he roared, “I’ll have you fired for this, Donovan! You’ll be sleeping on the streets, living on food stamps by the time I’m done with you!” To his chagrin, bystanders chuckled at his vociferations, which completely belied his earlier impersonation. He lapsed into silence as he was hauled to his feet and prodded forward, surrounded by a phalanx of special agents.
    “We’ll read you your rights on the way to jail,” the elder Donovan taunted.
    Meeting the man’s cool green gaze, Bill Milton experienced his first taste of chagrin, followed by fear.

Epilogue
     
    Drake swung his black Acura ILX into his mother’s driveway. As he neared the garage, the beams of his headlights glanced over a powder blue Honda. It was parked under the old basketball hoop where Lucy used to beat the snot out of him whenever they played a pick-up game. The color of the car made him think of Skyler’s eyes.
    Damn it, it was useless. No matter how hard he threw himself into his work, he couldn’t get her off his mind for more than a minute at a time. How long could he live like this?
    Thumbing the button that sent the garage door rumbling open, he parked alongside his mother’s Buick and closed the garage behind him. He wondered briefly who his mother’s guest could be. Lucy wouldn’t be caught dead driving a car that frou-frou color, so he knew the car wasn’t hers. Besides, she and Gus hadn’t made any plans to visit home for Thanksgiving, as far as he knew.
    His mother wasn’t dating someone, was she?
    Between his job that had kept him down in Freeport for weeks and the effort it took not to obsess over Skyler , he was too exhausted to notice what Karen Donovan was up to these days. He gave a mental shrug, unable to whip up his curiosity long enough to keep guessing.  
    God, he was tired. He wondered if, beyond the actual meal tomorrow, he could get away with sleeping rather than helping to entertain whoever their guest was.  
    Dragging his briefcase off the seat next to him, Drake trudged into the house with it. Thank God his assignment in Freeport was over. Every time he saw a yacht, he thought of Jameson and what that scumbag had tried to do.  
    The aromas of a basting turkey and pumpkin pie hit him in the face as he stepped into the kitchen. His mother, girded in a flour-sprinkled orange apron, turned with a smile on her face. “There you are, darling. You’re starting to remind me of your father, working so late.”
    Don’t ever compare me to him , Drake started to say but since his father’s efforts had put Bill Milton behind bars for the rest of his sorry life and uncovered key evidence against several Centurion elite, it was hard for Drake to whip up his resentment.
    “Smells good,” he said, dropping a swift kiss on his