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A.C. Adams is the nom de plume of co-authors Anthony Leigh Adams and Christina Adams, who have written, produced, and developed film and television projects for many studios, including Disney, ABC, and CBS. 

Christina is a producer of the Emmy Award-winning series, The Amazing Race and multiple programs for Oprah Winfrey. Anthony composed the music and co-wrote the book and lyrics for their most recent theatrical project, Sideways: The Musical, which is based on the Oscar-winning film and is in development as a Broadway musical. 

The Adamses also wrote and produced the original musicals Love-In: A Musical Celebration and Primal Twang: The Legacy of The Guitar. Both shows were filmed and aired nationally on PBS. Primal Twang won Best Documentary Feature at the Rome International Film Festival. 

Adams Entertainment, Anthony and Christina’s production company, is based in La Jolla, California, where they work and live with their two calico rescue cats. Chasing Shadows, their debut novel, is inspired by true events. For more information visit: www.adamsentertainment.com.

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Chapter 1

Thunderstorms prevented Kai Lovac’s flight from arriving on time at the Denver airport. He stared out the window at the fast-approaching tarmac, a welcome break from refreshing the in-flight Wi-Fi on his cell phone. Eternally unresponsive. The airplane taxied to the terminal at 9:00 a.m., ten minutes behind schedule. With the cramped legroom, constant jostling for elbow space with his fellow passenger, and being last on the standby list to board, Lovac cursed the mechanic who couldn’t repair his private plane in time.

He switched his phone off airplane mode. A litany of notifications assaulted his screen. One grabbed his attention: Local accident on Airport Road. Car won’t arrive in time. Sedan reserved at Savvy Rental counter. Usual details.

I’m never late, he thought. Never.

He deplaned via a portable stairway, nodding to the flight attendant who wished him a pleasant day. He checked the reservation on his phone and reviewed his itinerary.

A change. Why the new locker number?

Lovac merged onto the concourse train with his fellow travelers and exited at the central terminal. He proceeded up the escalator. After clearing a security checkpoint, he weaved in between the arriving and departing passengers. He blended into the background, always acutely aware of the people, objects, and circumstances of his surroundings.

The crowd thinned as Lovac traveled through baggage claim and approached the car rental area. He slowed his stride to study his environment. Six wall-mounted cameras and corner mirrors covered every angle.

Continuous surveillance. Security office must be nearby.

He passed two guards chatting near the exit. Their backs to the rental counter, they focused their attention on the TV monitor on the far wall. ESPN commentators, involved in a spirited discussion of the upcoming football season, drowned the murmur from customers waiting in line.

Not a threat.

He continued his evaluation as he joined the line.

Ten feet from the counter to the exit. Four seconds to escape at full sprint. Five if anyone is in my way.

Eleven people waited ahead of him, from elderly couples to young families with small children. Although no imminent issues had emerged, Lovac couldn’t shake his apprehension and hypervigilance. He studied the itinerary, calculated his movements, and weighed various options to shave time off his schedule. Without exception, he always kept to his schedule.

As a relaxing mental exercise, Lovac analyzed the two middle-aged employees at the counter, both more interested in their cell phones than the customers. He studied their mannerisms, posture, and reactions. The first, taller than her colleague, was five feet four, thirty-eight pounds overweight, dark complexion, with peroxide-blond shoulder-length hair pulled back. Her false eyelashes made her blue contacts pop.

She spoke with a thick New York accent. Bronx, Westchester Avenue area.

Strands of the second employee’s black hair had escaped her knotted braid and extended in every direction. She skewered her chewing gum with a six-inch-long acrylic nail and wrapped the gum in a tissue.

Nails: red. Right hand third fingernail chipped, fourth fingernail missing.

Her statements sounded like questions. California—Los Angeles.

The progress of the line slowed, and Lovac’s patience thinned. Someone tapped his shoulder from behind. Lovac tensed and turned to face a stout elderly woman peering up at him. “Could you help me with my bag?” she asked. “I can’t get it closed.”

With the skill and precision of a surgeon, Lovac manipulated the zipper and closed the suitcase.

“Thank you for your help. Business or pleasure?” She tightened the double knot of her fluffy bow used to differentiate her suitcase from the others.

“Excuse me?”

“Are you traveling for business or pleasure? I’m heading to the Springs to visit my grandchildren.”

He pressed his lips together for a moment. “Business,” he said quietly.

The woman removed a bag from her purse and popped a few peanuts in her mouth. “Do you travel a lot for your job?”

Lovac turned slightly, trying to avoid eye contact. “Some.”

She raised her voice and stepped closer, invading Lovac’s personal space. “How interesting. What do you do? A pilot? Traveling salesman?”

Lovac recoiled. “Risk management.”

She smiled. “Well, that sounds exciting.”

He turned to face the woman but stared past her. “Not at all. It’s just business.”

“My husband, Freddie, he’s a car salesman. My four grandchildren…” She riffled through her purse. “Now, where is that picture?”

Lovac, relieved to reach the counter, wished the grandmother a safe trip. He completed his paperwork, taking care to avoid the claws of the bubble-gum-chewing employee. Her fingernails tapped the computer keys in slow motion. The clock on the back wall emitted a deafening tone as the second hand clicked forward. Did the security camera, now focused on Lovac’s face, move? 

Taking forever. Why hasn’t she returned my driver’s license? 

“Sorry for the delay. Our copy machine is on the fritz.” She handed Lovac his identification. 

He walked toward the exit, quickening his pace. The sound of his footsteps striking the floor rang in his ears as the crowd’s noise changed from ambient background voices to silence. Lovac’s senses sharpened. The travelers scattered. He glanced at a mirror to view the commotion and noticed two guards racing toward him. His heart rate slowed and his eyes widened. He turned his head, studied the guards, and assessed the situation. He clenched his jaw. Twelve minutes behind schedule; time was not his ally. He weighed his options. 

Lovac put down his bag and turned to face the onslaught. 

They know, but how? Not possible. 

A guard lunged at him and missed. Lovac didn’t flinch. 

“That’s him,” screamed an older woman, pointing behind Lovac to the young thief who stole her purse.

Lovac stepped aside as the second security guard tackled a teenager, knocking him to the ground. The woman’s pocketbook dislodged from the thief’s grip and bounced off the floor, spewing its innards in all directions. One guard placed the boy in handcuffs and directed him toward the security office, while the other retrieved the purse and its contents. Lovac grabbed his bag and hurried toward the exit, blending into the crowd once more.

No more delays. Still behind schedule. Not acceptable.

Lovac located his car and drove out of the rental area, ready to start his assignment. Light traffic facilitated an uneventful drive. Before long, he arrived at his destination: a majestic stone edifice. With its three towering arched windows flanked by smaller ones, Union Station sat in the heart of Denver. The immense neon Travel by Train sign and an ever-precise clock, now reading 10:32 a.m., welcomed travelers. With trains leaving and arriving every few minutes, the station pulsed with activity.

He skirted the security post, passed a disorganized group of teachers and schoolchildren on a field trip, and arrived at the lockers. He found number 213, tucked in the corner of the bottom row. Lovac keyed 4308 on the touch pad, and the door sprung open. He removed a midsize black duffel bag and exited the station.

Eleven minutes behind, he explored the bag in the privacy of his car. He pushed aside the bag’s contents and opened a legal-size envelope containing Dossier 1627. He memorized the precise timeline with addresses, maps, and a description of his contact. Lovac studied the photo: a thirty-five-year-old white female; athletic build; five feet five; brown eyes; thick collar-length auburn hair curling at the ends. She resembled someone. A person from his past, but who? He searched the picture for a clue, a spark of recognition, a reason for his hesitation, but returned to the same thought.

Boring. Plain. Soccer mom. Why her?

The map guided him to a secure parking lot one mile west of his destination. Lovac squinted in the glaring summer sun. He put on sunglasses and walked to his location: a busy farmers’ market sprawled across a community park.

The blocked streets on the periphery fanned out in all directions, allowing for safe shopping. Small booths peddling food, flowers, clothing, and crafts filled his view. A local band played country music on a stage in the center of the festivities.

From the edge of the park, Lovac surveyed the nearby buildings to determine the best angle for his perch. He located the perfect spot—the right height, the right distance, the right level of privacy.

An excellent choice.

Once decided, his motivation to make his return flight kicked into high gear. He quickened his step. The shortest route to his destination passed by the Polaroid photo booth in front of the stage. His desire to stay masked in the shadows clashed with his need to make up time.

Still behind. No one will recognize me in this crowd. No one knows I’m here.

As Lovac approached the photo booth, the attendant raised his camera and smiled. “Would you like a complimentary picture?”

“No, thank you.” Lovac turned and lowered his head. He pulled the rim of his baseball hat to the level of his sunglasses.

I’m off my game.

He moved to his right and attempted to slip by a teenage volunteer blocking his path.