by Cassie Miles
He stopped in front of a casement window, which he managed to crank open. A breeze swept into the warehouse. Only a few blocks from the river, the air felt damp.
“Take off your backpack,” he said.
“Will I have to leave it behind? There are things in there that I need.”
“We’ll take it, but you can’t carry that much weight.”
As soon as she slipped the straps off her shoulders, she felt better—not much stronger but lighter. She watched him use the carabiners to secure the woven blue rope around a pillar beside the window. After it was fastened, he tied a knot near the end.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Making a loop. Stick your toe into the loop, and I’ll lower you down.”
“That’s a long drop. I could break my leg.”
“Which is why I will lower you,” he said. “Let me help you climb onto the sill.”
The window opening was wide enough for her to pass through. From downstairs, she heard the rumbling squawk of the freight elevator as it descended to the first floor. Woodbridge was coming closer. She stuck her foot into the loop. “Now what?”
“Put your weight on your foot in the loop and slip through the window. Hold tight to the rope, and I’ll let you down gradually. Brace yourself against the side of the warehouse.”
Peering down, she stared at the narrow sidewalk between buildings. The drop was only about thirty feet but seemed as deep as an abyss. This window was strategically placed on the only side of the building that wasn’t exposed to public view. The loading dock was in the rear. The front opened onto the street. And the opposite side looked down on the flagstone courtyard.
Though she tried to prepare herself for the descent, her hands trembled. Her bruises throbbed. She was so weak! How the hell was she going to jump out a window and climb down the side of a building like a spider?
“I can’t do it,” she said. “Do you have a plan B?”
“We’re out of time.”
Woodbridge and his men were calling to each other as they made their way through the storage units. Rafe was right, again. There wasn’t a spare moment for hesitation or logic or fear. She climbed through the window, used the loop to support her weight and held the blue woven rope with all the strength she could muster. Slowly, he lowered her. Her leg began to buckle, and she kicked against the wall.
Above her, Rafe offered encouragement. “You’re almost there.”
She looked down. Not that far from the ground, she hesitated while he lowered her another few feet, and then she swung her free leg until her foot touched the sidewalk. She’d made it.
Gasping, she collapsed on the ground, unfastened the toe loop and watched as the blue rope snaked up the side of the building toward Rafe. He leaned out the window and dropped her backpack. Quickly, he climbed into the window frame.
She noticed that he was wearing black gloves as he held the woven rope. He braced his feet against the wall and climbed down. His descent looked easy, almost graceful.
“We made it,” he said.
“We did.”
For the first time, she thought of them as a unit. They were no longer him and her—their escape had turned them into we. He had saved her and protected her. Was he, finally, the one person in the whole world she could trust?
He hoisted her backpack to his shoulders. “Come.”
From the window above, she heard voices. Looking up, she didn’t see anyone peeking out, but Woodbridge and his men were on the move, coming closer. She had no time for questions or planning. No time to handle the situation in the organized manner she preferred. All she could do was run down the alley behind Rafe. Usually, she was fast and agile. She prided herself on staying in shape with workouts, sprints and three-mile runs twice a week. But now, she stumbled on every other step. Exhausted. Clumsy.
When they got to the street, two blocks down from Café du Monde, Rafe grasped her arm and rushed her along the sidewalk. He stopped beside a motorcycle, took a helmet from the luggage carrier and handed it to her. “Put it on.”
Not her favorite form of transportation, but she wouldn’t argue. They had to get away fast; these streets were too vulnerable. He fastened her backpack onto a rear luggage rack and helped her climb onto his bike. Before he got on, he flipped up the visor on her helmet, stared into her eyes and asked, “Are you strong enough to hold on?”
“I can make it.” Though she’d agreed to let him take the lead, she didn’t want him to think she was a wimp. “There’s no other choice. Turning myself over to the cops is no guarantee of safety, not with a US marshal on my tail.”
“About Woodbridge,” he said. “No more secrets.”
“The same goes for you.”
“A question, cher.” He stroked his jawline and massaged the dimple in his chin. “May I ask why these guys are really after you?”
“It’s got to be revenge,” she said. “My testimony got one guy a life sentence and prison terms for three others.”
He leaned closer. His gray eyes were mesmerizing. “Tell me why a US marshal in New Orleans would care about the prison term for thugs from Chicago.”
Breaking eye contact with him, she glanced over her shoulder. “We should get moving.”
“If they want you dead, why not hire a sniper to shoot you on the street?”
“They don’t want my death to be easy. They want to hurt me. That’s the only thing that makes sense.”
She refused to think about the other possibilities and unknown dangers that had haunted her ever since the FBI came knocking on her door asking for her testimony. Her old boss, Max Horowitz, had been a fence who owned a pawnshop. While working for him, she’d entered millions of dollars—receipts and billing, payments and expenses—into her neat ledgers. She was aware that a certain level of danger was attached to handling that much money. The FBI asked a million questions about the balances.
“It’s possible,” Rafe said, “that you have something they want.”
“Not your problem.” The moment of trust had passed. She returned to her normal, suspicious attitude. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to be dropped off at a hotel. The address is—”
“I’m still in charge, cher. You go where I tell you.” He put on his helmet and mounted the bike. “Hang on.”
Alyssa wrapped her arms around his torso. His body was lean and muscular, radiating with heat. That warmth comforted her, even though he was being deliberately contentious. He cranked the bike, and the engine roared to life, sending shivers through her body. She tightened her hold and leaned against his broad back, rubbing her cheek against the supple leather of his jacket.
Though perfectly capable of taking care of herself, she had to admit that she liked being with Rafe. What had Sheila Marie called him? A former fed who was tall and dark and pretty. He was protecting her, and that level of concern felt unfamiliar to her. Mom had done her best to take care of Alyssa, but Mom was flighty—more attuned to playing games and having fun than providing a safe environment for her daughter. Alyssa’s aunt Charlotte had never been someone she could turn to for wisdom or help. Mr. Horowitz was kind, but he was only her employer. There had never really been anyone who was dedicated to defending Alyssa. Not when she was growing up and certainly not now.
As the motorcycle swerved around a street corner, she leaned into the turn. The breeze wove around them, and she was glad to be wearing her denim jacket and jeans. Before she could get her bearings and figure out which street they were on, Rafe yanked the handlebars to the right and drove the bike into an alley. Where was he taking her? When they emerged from the alley, she heard jazzy music and laughter from a bar on the corner. The sign above the bar identified it as Hurricane Harry’s, named after a signature rum drink with a cherry and orange slice garnish. A woman dancing on the sidewalk looked like Sheila Marie...or maybe not.
He
r memories blurred with glimpses of street scenes. When Rafe drove on the long, open stretch at the river’s edge, she gave up trying to determine their destination and closed her eyes. Images from the parade flashed through her mind. She remembered the skeletons. Why did they come after her? Rafe’s question had been perceptive. If they wanted her dead, why not just shoot her?
After dozens more twists and turns, he exited the street and drove up a driveway. She opened her eyes as he parked on the breezeway beside the house—the same house she’d escaped from only a few hours ago. “We’re back here?”
He climbed off the bike and removed his helmet. “I told you I used to work for the FBI. You remember?”
She nodded.
“I know how to set up a safe house. You need surveillance, weapons and secrecy. Done, done and done. I have cameras, sound and motion detectors, infrared vision—all the bells and whistles. There’s plenty of weapons, the more high-tech the better. And nobody knows this hideout exists. You’re more protected here than in a hotel.”
“What about your client? He must know the address.”
“Let me worry about him.”
When she dismounted from the motorcycle, her legs were rubbery. Too exhausted to think, she’d ask other questions in the morning. Right now, all she wanted was sleep.
* * *
AFTER RAFE GOT her settled in bed and activated the security systems that turned this plain little house into a digital fortress, he sat at the kitchen table and took out his cell phone. He’d told Alyssa that he could take care of his client, and it was time to make good on that promise. The conversation would be difficult. Rafe had been hired by Davidoff to protect Alyssa, which didn’t mean that the Chicago gangster had good intentions. By reputation, he was smooth but ruthless—much more dangerous than a rogue federal marshal like Woodbridge. Why was Davidoff so interested in this young woman?
Davidoff had fired off four more text messages, each more demanding that the one that came before. He went from the first polite inquiry about Alyssa’s whereabouts to a demand. The last one, received at 3:17 in the morning, said, Where R U? Call me. Now.
Another benefit of Rafe’s safe house security was a cybershield that made it impossible to trace his computers and cell phones. It was now 3:34. Rafe put through his call on the phone number Davidoff had given him. Audio only—he didn’t want to show a glimpse of the house.
“Why, why, why...” Davidoff spat the words, rapid-fire like a semiautomatic. “Why did you take so long to call back?”
“Prior engagement.”
“A woman? Is that it? Did you ignore my text because you’re getting laid?”
“I have been with a woman this evening,” Rafe said truthfully. “But tonight was about the celebration of Día de los Muertos, Day of the Dead. I had hoped to contact my pirate ancestors.”
“Your voodoo games and your sex life don’t interest me. Tell me about Alyssa.”
Though Rafe had never actually met Viktor Davidoff, aka Davis James, aka Diamond Jim the owner of six used-car lots in Chicago, he’d done plenty of research before accepting this job. Photos showed Davidoff to be heavy-set with shoulders like a bull and a thick neck. His head was shaved, and his black beard was neatly trimmed into a goatee. Though he had a reputation for being well dressed, Davidoff had the strong hands of a peasant, with thick, blunt fingers.
If Rafe expected to learn anything from this client, he needed to ask the right questions and avoid giving away too much. “When do you think Alyssa went missing?”
“After her shift at the restaurant, she didn’t return to her house.”
“She might have a date.”
Davidoff scoffed. “You’ve been watching her. Does she have a boyfriend?”
“Tonight, there are parties in the street. She could have arranged a casual meeting.” Rafe shifted the direction of the conversation back toward the other man. “Do you have someone watching her house? Who told you she wasn’t at home?”
“Should have been you!” Davidoff fired his accusation like a bullet. “I’m paying you good money to watch over the girl. And don’t get me started on your so-called expenses.”
Setting up the bedroom to his client’s specifications had been costly, but Rafe turned the focus back on Davidoff. “Have you hired someone else to handle your business in New Orleans?”
“Why the hell would I do that? I’m not made of money.”
“Who told you Alyssa was missing?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but it was the FBI agent who recommended that I hire you as a bodyguard.”
“That was Jessop, yes?”
“I never said his name.”
“But I’m correct.” As soon as Davidoff had contacted him, Rafe had his FBI computer whiz do a search, and he’d found a link. “Your contact in the FBI is Darren Jessop, n’est-ce pas?”
“I don’t have to tell you a damn thing, Frenchie. You work for me, got it?”
“But of course.”
“I want to know where the hell she is.”
Rafe decided to let this fish off the hook. “She’s spending the night in a safe location. I can guarantee that she won’t be harmed. Tomorrow at noon, I’ll send you a photo of her.”
“Thank God.”
His relief sounded genuine. “She’s important to you. Why?”
“Let’s just say that I knew her mom well.”
Davidoff didn’t seem like the kind of man who took a sentimental journey. There had to be another reason for him to be invested in Alyssa’s safety, and it probably involved money. Rafe probed, “In her job for the pawnbroker, she handled money. Is there some sort of payoff?”
“I’m done talking, Frenchie. Send me her picture tomorrow.” He paused. “Maybe it’s time for me to come to New Orleans myself. Alyssa will be happy to see me.”
Rafe had his doubts. “Does she even know you?”
“We’ve met.” He gave a sinister chuckle. “You might say I’m the most important man in her life.”
“Why is that?”
“Let’s just say that without me, she would never have been born.”
Davidoff was her father?
Chapter Seven
The next morning, Rafe woke up thinking about the Chicago gangster with the thick neck and stubby fingers. If Davidoff truly was Alyssa’s papa, he had a good, even noble, reason to hire a bodyguard to watch over her. But his claim was hard to believe. According to Rafe’s internet search, no father was listed on her birth certificate. No man had claimed to be her parent, not in Chicago or in Savannah, where she’d lived with her mama for a few years.
Last night before she fell asleep, Alyssa had spoken about her family. She’d told him that her papa stepped out of her life when she was five years old. She never knew his name. Her mama said he was dead, and she had no reason to think otherwise.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, Rafe stretched and yawned. The early light of dawn crept through the window blinds. It was only a few minutes past seven, which was early for him and most of the NOLA night owls, but three and a half hours of sleep would have to be enough. He knew Alyssa was an early riser.
If Davidoff was her papa, why hadn’t he come forward before now? After her mama died, Alyssa had no other family. When she’d witnessed a murder, she’d almost been killed before she was taken into protective custody. What kind of father would abandon his daughter when she so desperately needed him? Diamond Jim was a powerful, dangerous man who wielded great influence. Maybe he thought he was doing Alyssa a favor by distancing himself. If his enemies didn’t know of her existence, they wouldn’t go after her.
If those were the true circumstances, Davidoff could be considered gallant. But Rafe didn’t think that was so. More likely, Davidoff was after the so-called payoff—a mysterious stash gleaned from the accounts of Alyssa’s boss. When Special Agent Je
ssop referred Davidoff to Rafe, he’d mentioned that Alyssa was not only pretty but might have access to serious money. Rafe should question Jessop and dig out more information, but he had reservations about contacting the feds. Yesterday, Jessop had reported to Davidoff that Alyssa was missing. Had he also betrayed her WitSec location? Très suspicious, n’est-ce pas? Agent Jessop could be hooked up with the US Marshals. It might be wiser to keep the FBI in the dark.
Without turning on the light, he got out of bed. If he’d been alone, he wouldn’t have bothered with clothes. But Alyssa was here. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and shuffled barefoot into the kitchen. First order of business: brewing a pot of chicory-flavored coffee.
After he set the coffee to perk, he checked his surveillance cameras and alarm systems. All clear. He hustled down the hallway to the single bathroom in the house. The door was locked. From inside, he heard water running. Alyssa had gotten there first, which shouldn’t be a problem. He knew from observing her that she typically hopped into and out of the shower in less than fifteen minutes, even when she washed her hair.
Back in the kitchen, he poured himself a mug of coffee. His brain would work better after a hit of caffeine—maybe then he could figure out who was after her and why. This morning, Alyssa ought to be more willing to share information. Hadn’t he saved her cute little buns last night? Surely her opinion of him had changed.
Last night at the storage facility, there had been a moment when she let down her guard and trusted him. He needed that attitude to continue. Acting as her bodyguard was hard enough without having to worry about her sneaking out windows and taking off on some improbable scheme. He considered his plans for the day. If she agreed to cooperate, he could leave her safely tucked away in this house, where the security was top-notch. But he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure that no one could track her to this location. If the bad guys found her, she didn’t have the skills to defend herself. Therefore, he had to bring her with him when he left the house.
