* * *
Consciousness came to Alessandra in steps.
First came the pain. Rawness in her throat. A pounding in her head.
Second came awareness. The movement of a vehicle underneath, the fresh air streaming around her and the stiffness of an awkward sleep.
Finally came the panic. Rush. The fire. Jesse.
She tried to focus, but her head was swimming with fear and confusion. And when her eyes flew open, and her surroundings assaulted her, the fear only grew. It was light out. Her face was pressed against a cool glass window, and she could see foliage whipping by, and for a second it confused her. Her mind was too hazy to make sense of it, and her heart thundered so hard it hurt. Then she clued in. The vehicle she was in was rolling unevenly through the woods. And not on any kind of road, either.
Why?
She started to ask the question aloud, then thought better of it. Instead, she closed her eyes again and let her head flop down just a little. Then she cracked her lids and sneaked a look through her lashes. And what she saw made renewed fear bowl through her. She was in the passenger seat, and the man driving the car was the same one who’d attacked her and Rush at the secluded cabin. There was no mistaking the bushy beard sticking out from under his scarf. Alessandra squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lip to keep from making a sound.
Where was Rush? Where was she? How had she gotten into the car, and why was the gunman driving her into the woods?
She tried to make herself sort through what she remembered last. It was nothing but smoke and desperation and the surety that she wasn’t going to make it out alive. And of those three things, the surety was the only thing that remained.
I need a way out.
But she wasn’t certain what that would entail. She had no idea where they were or where they were headed. The man driving the car could simply be looking for a place to he could kill two birds with one stone—a spot where he could shoot her and dispose of her body at the same time. And even if she managed to avoid that particular fate, what was she going to do after? Run into the woods? God knew what kind of shape she was in. Her head felt like it was stuffed with fluff. The adrenaline that had helped her do what needed to be done in the warehouse...that was all gone. Maybe she wouldn’t even be able to put one foot in front of the other.
But you have to try, urged a voice in her head. If not for your sake, then for Rush’s.
Thinking his name again made her heart lurch. For all she knew, he was dead.
Oh God.
The despondent idea hit her like a blow. From behind her closed lids, she could see his face the way it’d been in the last moments. One eye bruised and puffed up. A lip so swollen that she wanted to kiss it better but would’ve been afraid to actually do it for fear of hurting him.
The ache in Alessandra’s chest changed from physical to emotional. Life wasn’t fair. Her mother had always said so. But this was the worst of the worst. A glimpse of something greater, ripped away before she could even acknowledge what it might truly become. The chance to love someone. Gone.
Tears slid out from under her eyelids, thick and hot. She could feel them sliding down her cheeks, and she knew that if the gunman turned her way, he’d see them and she’d give herself away. But she couldn’t stop them. The pain of loss was too acute. Far greater than the need for self-preservation.
“He’s still alive, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
The gruff statement made Alessandra jerk involuntarily toward its speaker. Strangely, it wasn’t the words or the acknowledgment of her silent concerns that gave her true pause. It was the fact that there was something vaguely familiar about his voice.
Because you heard him talking back at the cabin.
But that wasn’t it. Yes, he’d said a few things. But she couldn’t remember what they’d been or what he’d sounded like. She’d been too scared to notice. Now, in the small space, this feeling of familiarity was distinct.
Alessandra studied him for another moment, trying to place the odd sensation. The man’s attention was fixed straight ahead, his hands tight on the wheel. And there wasn’t anything about him that she could say she recognized—not on a deeper level. He was dressed the same as he had been when he’d confronted them at the cabin, and he was definitely the same man. But aside from that, he was a stranger.
When he spoke again, though, the same jolt of remembrance hit her.
“You can go ahead and look, if you don’t believe me,” he said without moving his gaze from the windshield. “Your guy’s in the back seat.”
As much as Alessandra wished she could’ve stopped herself—it left her feeling too vulnerable—she couldn’t help but turn to check. And she couldn’t stop the exhale of relief, either. Rush was lying straight across the back. Battered and bruised. Covered in soot. But his chest rose and fell evenly.
Thank God.
Alessandra stared for another few seconds, counting off ten perfectly healthy breaths before she faced the driver again. She couldn’t think of the right question to ask. “What do you want?” seemed too vague. “Are you going to kill us?” seemed like too much of a lead-in. But he beat her to it anyway.
“I thought he was trying to hurt you,” the man stated, and his voice held a surprising amount of emotion.
Alessandra blinked. “What?”
“At the cabin,” he elaborated. “I assumed that because he was working for Jesse Garibaldi, he couldn’t possibly have your best interests at heart.”
“I...” She trailed off. Why does he even care?
“I’m sorry, Lessie. If I knew he was helping you, I would’ve approached it all differently.”
He said something else. Possibly a few things. But all of it was lost. Because the jumbo jet of realizations had just crashed straight into Alessandra’s brain.
There was only one person who’d ever called that nickname. One person she’d let get away with it. But it was impossible that this was the same man.
Because he’s dead.
She didn’t realize she’d said it aloud until the man stopped talking and turned his head. Then she saw his eyes, and she knew. It was him.
If Alessandra had though the world was swimming before, it had nothing on that moment. She met that blue stare—one she knew as well as she knew her own—and then the world winked out, this time in a faint.
* * *
It was the silence that woke Rush. Or maybe it was just that the noise—an indefinable hum and the comforting whistle of the wind—had kept him under. It was hard to say which. Either way, both sounds were gone, and it was far too quiet. And he was cold, when he could swear just moments earlier, he’d been surrounded by blistering heat.
Trying to stave off the chill and sink back into oblivion, he reached for the warm body he knew should be beside him. He tensed pleasantly in anticipation of her soft breath and the smell of her hair.
Maybe sleep isn’t what I’m after at all.
The thought was tinged with drowsy desire, and when his fingers whacked into something cold and unyielding instead of warm flesh, it had the same effect as an icy bucket of water. He jerked up. Or tried to. His chest met with resistance, and his body slammed down again so hard that his eyes watered. He was left staring straight up at a strangely textured roof and wondering what the hell was going on.
Then he remembered it all, and for a few seconds, he assumed he’d been captured and tied up again. His mind immediately went to Alessandra. If he was tied up, where was she? Fearing the worst, he brought his hands up to feel his bonds and to seek a way out. What his grabbed at instead of rope was a familiar-feeling piece of nylon. It only took a moment to place it.
A seat belt.
The realization made Rush pause to quickly reexamine his current situation. His flicked his gaze back and forth. Yes, he was definitely in a car. The back seat, to be exact. Someone h
ad taken the time to strap him in, albeit awkwardly. So he didn’t think he was truly being held against his will. Which was good.
Still...
The whole thing was as puzzling as it was encouraging, and he didn’t think he should just jump straight up.
Moving cautiously, he brought his hands back to the seat belt. He searched for the latch, found it, then depressed the latch. An audible click made him wince, but there was no reaction from anywhere else in the car, so he slowly sat up. His body hurt more than it ever had in his life, but it seemed insignificant at the moment. And another glance around only added to the strangeness. The car where he sat appeared to be in the middle of the forest. Tall trees were visible on either side of the vehicle. The windows were open, letting in a light breeze that brought with it a woodsy scent.
What the hell...
Rush sat up a little straighter. His new position confirmed it; he was definitely in a car in the forest. The fresh line of vision made more sense of it, too. It looked like whoever had driven the vehicle to its current spot had used one of the ATV trails. The why was still a mystery.
Rush started to move again, this time to reach for the door handle. He froze, though, when the wind whipped in, and a masculine voice carried with it into the car.
“Come on, Munchkin,” said the unseen man. “Open your eyes for me.”
Munchkin?
Even more confused and more cautious than before, Rush adjusted again, his gaze scanning the area for the source of the strange comment. Then he spotted it. A shadow-shrouded figure, crouched down and slightly hidden behind an enormous fallen log. The figure shifted, extending an arm downward. Rush followed the motion with his eyes, and as he caught a glimpse of what was on the ground below the man, every protective urge he had roared into high gear. Because what he saw was the undeniable glint of red hair, catching the minuscule amount of sunlight that pushed through the thick foliage overhead.
Alessandra.
Then things got worse. The shadowy figure lifted its head—his head—and looked straight at Rush. Recognition flooded in. The figure was no stranger. It was the man who’d tried to kill them at the cabin.
Instinct took over.
Rush grabbed the door handle and pushed out. He obviously couldn’t catch the gunman by surprise, but he was also sure that waiting wouldn’t do any good, either. So he leaped from the car. Ignoring the everywhere-pain, he charged forward with the intention of doing nothing more than knocking the other man straight to the ground. He held on to the hope that the outright attack would be unexpected. The hope grew as he got nearer because the man made no move to get out of the way. When the guy lifted his hands and put them on his head, though, Rush faltered.
The slight hesitation gave him a moment to take in a few more details. Like the fact that Alessandra’s head was propped up on a folded coat, while her body was tucked under a blanket.
Rush stumbled to a stop, and he snapped a glare back to the gunman.
“I need you to tell me what the hell is going on.” His voice was harsh with the residual effects of the smoke from the warehouse.
The man’s hands didn’t move from their secure spot, and his penetrating blue stare didn’t waver as he replied, “Alessandra’s fine. Just had a bit of a shock.”
“She damned well better be fine.”
“I promise you, she is.”
“Oh, you promise, do you?”
“I wouldn’t have dragged the two of you to safety if I were just going to kill you, would I?”
“Can’t say I’ve ever understood what goes on in the minds of unhinged criminals.”
“All we can do is wait for her to wake up and confirm it.” The man studied him for a second. “You’re Atkinson’s kid, aren’t you?”
The statement—like any mention of his father—made Rush’s chest compress, but he kept his reply as even as the other man’s had been. “Goes to reason. Since I’m Atkinson, too.”
“More specifically, you’re Sergeant Ken Atkinson’s son. Now that I’m looking at you, I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.”
“If you’re trying to trick me into saying something, you should give up now.”
“Your dad was a bit prickly, too. I don’t think he really cared much for working with the unhinged criminal himself.”
Something about the way the man said it—like it was fond memory—struck a chord with Rush.
“Who are you?” he asked, his tone now more curious than angry.
“I’m Randall Rivers. Lessie’s father.”
Chapter 18
This time, consciousness didn’t seep in. It roared. And it was accompanied by the statement Alessandra already knew to be true.
Lessie’s father.
She opened her eyes and silently stared at the two men standing a few feet away. Even if she’d been able to speak, she wasn’t sure what she would’ve said. How did someone greet the father they’d believed was dead? How did a person even begin to acclimatize to the idea that he was still alive?
They don’t...that’s how.
Her brain didn’t want to deal with it at all. So instead, it focused on the conversation.
“You expect me to believe that?” Rush was saying.
“Doesn’t matter what you believe.” Her father’s reply held a shrug. “Still true.”
“And you here in Whispering Woods is what...a happy accident?”
“Of course not.”
Rush sighed. “You have fifteen seconds to convince me.”
“Fifteen seconds isn’t much time,” Alessandra’s dad pointed out.
“Twelve seconds.”
“Fine. What can I tell you? Her birthday is on Christmas, but she pretends it’s in July. She loves the ocean, and when she’s mad, her eyes go the same color as the sea hitting the shore. I taught her to fire that same old gun you stole from me, and her mom didn’t talk to me for a week because of it. Any of that ring a bell?”
The air was silent for a moment, and then Rush said, “Start at the beginning. And don’t leave anything out. I want to hear it all.”
As her dad began to talk, listening became less of a distraction from thought and more of a genuine interest in what he had to say. Alessandra closed her eyes to listen.
First, he explained some details she was already familiar with—that before he met her mother, he’d lived a shady life. Petty crime, mostly, but interspersed with some things he was more ashamed of. He told Rush how meeting his wife changed everything. It gave him a new purpose and a reason to go straight. So he did. Adding Alessandra to the mix only reinforced that it was the right thing to do. And he stuck by his right-side-of-the-law lifestyle for years.
His first relapse—as he called it—came when their little family was hit with a massive hospital bill. Alessandra was about three at the time, and she vaguely recalled the days her mother had spent recovering from an illness they never did define. She also kind of remembered her dad being unusually pensive, only because he was normally so jovial. But it made sense now, hearing him say that he’d taken a job running some stolen goods, and how unhappy it had made him. Once it was done, he swore he’d never go back. But then came the first round of blackmail. If he didn’t join his buddies, they’d turn him in. And the threat became a recurring event. A year would go by. Sometimes two. Once even four years passed. Then the crew would “need” him.
But he finally had enough, and he went to the police on his own. He expected the worst—an arrest and conviction. It didn’t happen. Instead, three cops who were working on a big bust requested a meeting. It turned out that they’d been chasing a particular man for a year. He was an overseer of some kind. Always behind the scenes, but in charge of a whole whack of other small crews, which included the one that was blackmailing Alessandra’s father. The three cops were putting together a case, and it was very hush-hush. They wan
ted an inside man. Her dad leaped at the chance. Not only would it get him off the hook for the crimes he’d committed, it would also let him give back. A little bit of instant karma. But then things went wrong.
Someone figured out his confidential informant status and tried to kill him. They sent someone to the Riverses’ family house to perform a home invasion that was supposed to result in Alessandra’s father’s murder. But the timing was off. No one was home, and the would-be murderer was caught in the act. So the three officers came up with a new plan. The big bust was only a month away, and they’d keep Randall in witness protection until then. But that didn’t work out, either. On the way to the safe house, another vehicle ran him and the officer driving him—a man posing as a cabbie—straight off the road.
At that, Alessandra almost gasped. The accident he was describing was the one that had supposedly killed him. She could recall the grief of it like it was yesterday. The urgent call down to the high school office. The policeman standing there, trying to look stoic, but just seeming sad as he explained. Her father, who was supposed to be heading to England for a monthlong course, had perished in a crash.
But the course was a ruse, she realized. A cover for the witness protection.
“They took advantage of it,” her dad told Rush, his voice tinged with regret. “They used my ‘death’ to pursue the final bit of their case.”
“But it was a setup,” Rush replied. “Garibaldi told me about it.”
“That’s right,” her father agreed, his anger audible.
Then Rush cleared his throat and asked a question that was on Alessandra’s mind, too. “Why didn’t you go back to your family after that?”
Undercover Refuge Page 19
