She awoke in the early evening, sitting up sleepily to see him standing rigidly, with his head cocked to one side, listening.
"Dirt bikes," she said.
He spun around to look at her. "What?"
"In that empty lot. Two kids who live up the street a couple of blocks. They bring their dirt bikes down here and race them up and down the side of the little hill behind us. They're here almost every day. They've worn a path all the way down to the highway."
He relaxed then, at least as much as he could with her looking at him with eyes still wide from sleep, her hair slightly ruffled around her face.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, turning away.
"A little. I suppose it's out of the question to send out for pizza?"
He looked at her over his shoulder, then turned away again, but not before she saw the tension in his face.
"I was only kidding," she said softly. "I don't even like pizza." He didn't answer or look at her. "Look, if you don't get over feeling guilty for me being involved in this, it's going to be a very long … whatever it turns out to be."
She heard him let out a disgusted breath.
"There's not a thing you can do about it now, anyway. If you're going to worry, worry about something you can do something about."
He turned to look at her then. "Don't spin my wheels?"
She smiled as she recognized her brother's oft-used words. "Exactly. Stop feeling guilty, will you? Can you?"
He could stop feeling guilty about getting her into this; he hadn't really been himself when he'd somehow found his way to her door. What he couldn't stop was feeling guilty about the thoughts that kept sneaking into his mind the minute his guard was down, about that damned dream that had haunted him every minute since he'd awakened from it. Still… "I'll try," he offered.
"Good. What's for dinner?"
It turned out to be a big can of stew poured over the instant rice she'd thrown in at the last minute; it was surprisingly tasty and more than filling. They fixed it together, in companionable silence, and when they'd finished he got up without a word and cleaned up.
It was late when, after a long time spent pacing restlessly around the loft, he dropped down on the couch beside her. He saw that she had flipped on a light and was scanning the latest issue of the same magazine that had carried her sail on the cover.
"If the navy let women go on full sea duty, I get the feeling you'd be there."
She set down the magazine with a laugh. "I had delusions about that once. I used to think about being the first woman in a combat zone." She shrugged. "Then I had to grow up and realize it wasn't going to happen, at least not in time for me. But it was just as well. By then I realized that I didn't really like anything but sailboats."
The look in his eyes unsettled her a little. "Everybody has to make adjustments here and there, don't they?" she asked. "Or is this where you started out to be?"
He laughed, a little harshly, a little ruefully, rolling his eyes upward. "Not me. I was going to be an attorney. A prosecuting attorney. Clean the slime off the streets. Until I began to realize it didn't work that way."
"It didn't?"
His words were choppy, coming in unpracticed spurts. "Case after case. I saw people walk who were so dirty they smelled up the courtroom. I saw cops who blew their brains out because they just couldn't take it anymore."
He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. "Everybody in my class was aiming for defense attorney. Or civil. Where the money is. To hell with justice. Just collect your fee, no matter what's right. Or who's guilty. It made me sick, but I kept on because I'd worked so damned hard for the scholarship. But I knew before I even graduated I couldn't handle criminal law."
He stared at her suddenly, as if she were someone he'd never seen before. He looked shaken.
"Con?"
"I never…" He stood up, turning his back on her. "You and your brother," he muttered. "I never told anybody all that, except him. And now I blab it to you."
She wanted to ask him why, wanted to know why he was so cut off from the world. Whoever he worked for, he must have time off when he could forget it, leave it for a while.
"Con—" She broke off when he threw up a hand. She could almost feel his sudden tension, the rigidness of every muscle as he cocked his head toward the roof. She held her breath.
He swore softly, viciously. He turned on her suddenly. "Get in the truck. Stay there." He pulled out the gun he had stuck in his waistband at the small of his back. "Now," he snapped, pulling her toward the Blazer when she didn't move. "Don't start it until you're sure they know we know they're here. Have the opener ready." He grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him. "When I yell, or if you hear a shot, you hit it. I want you to be burning rubber getting out of here. Don't stop for anything. I don't care if you have to run over them, don't stop. Got that?"
"Con, why—"
"I mean it, damn it! You just get yourself out of here and don't stop for anything."
"But—"
"Just keep going north. I'll find you. Don't make me worry about you, too!"
"I won't," she finally got in. "I just wanted you to take this." She held out the .45. "You might need the extra rounds."
He stared at her for a second, something warm and almost wistful in his eyes. What a ridiculous time to realize just how blue they are, Shiloh thought. Then he took the gun and the extra clip she held out to him.
"You've got the other one?"
She nodded, moving the revolver he'd taken from Moose's partner from the seat to her lap. She could hear them now, moving along the roof, toward the vulnerable skylights. She knew he was right, that the last thing he needed was to be thinking about her when he had who knew how many killers to deal with, but…
"Get in."
She climbed into the driver's seat. It took every bit of control she'd worked so hard for all her life to be able to speak at all. "You damn well better not get yourself killed, McQuade. I want that gun back."
He grinned suddenly, dimples flashing. "You'll get it, Green-eyes."
Then he was gone. She could tell which way he went by the fact that he hit the switch and plunged the loft into darkness. She heard a familiar creak and knew that he was climbing the ladder up to the rafters where the finished sails were stored until they were delivered. She realized he was going to try to ambush the intruders from there.
And maybe, just maybe, she could add to their confusion if she timed her exit exactly right. She heard the distant sound of breaking glass far above her and knew it had begun. She lifted the small revolver in her right hand, her left clutching the door opener and the steering wheel. She waited.
Her eyes had adjusted now to the eerie glow of moonlight through the glass in the roof. Not this skylight, then, she thought, and looked at the next. And there they were, three—no, four—dark, menacing shadows.
More glass broke, and the shadows moved. A rope uncoiled through the opening, and one, two, three of the shadows started down, sliding, aware they were at their most vulnerable point. Nothing happened. They were ten feet down from the ceiling, and Shiloh felt panic begin to rise. She fought it down.
And then things began to happen so fast that she had no time to think. She heard two shots in rapid succession. The .45 caliber shells echoed like cannon fire in the enclosed building. Incredibly, the three shadows and their severed rope plummeted the last ten feet to the floor. A very unprofessional scream issued from one of them as he slammed into one of the cutting tables. A third shot, and the fourth shadow at the skylight went reeling back.
One of the shadows on the floor got up, and Shiloh saw the muzzle of his gun flash as he fired. Upward. They knew where Con was now. Without a second thought she hit the door opener, then squeezed the trigger on the .38 she held. She fired once, twice, three times. She heard the distinctive twang of a ricochet and a hoarsely shouted curse.
She shifted the gun to free her right hand and started the Blazer, sparing a split second to glan
ce at the door; it was almost high enough.
She saw one of the shadows running toward her. Before she could switch the gun back, the .45 boomed again. The man fell forward as if hit by some giant, unseen fist.
Shiloh threw the Blazer forward, burning rubber as Con had asked. Her last glance back showed her a lean figure pulling himself up to the broken skylight. She realized what he was going to do and scrambled for the door opener she had carelessly tossed. She found it, hit it, just as she cleared the door.
More shots. More glass breaking, somewhere close. Something stung her cheek, her neck. She could smell the tires, could hear them squeal as she made the turn out of the loft. A thud and a scream. She kept going, Con's words echoing in her ears.
Headlights flashed on as a car on the street pulled up, blocking the driveway. She yanked the wheel around and jammed the accelerator to the floor, praying she had enough room. She ran up over the curb, felt the Blazer shudder as metal clipped metal. Then she was clear, on the sidewalk and heading up the hill. She heard the roar of the other car and saw the headlights swing in an arc as the driver tried to turn to come after her.
Then he had done it, and the lights were closing in fast. With a whispered prayer to no one in particular, she threw the wheel to the left. The Blazer's wheels thumped, bit. Then she was over the slight embankment. She barely heard the crash behind her; she was fighting the wheel every foot of the way as the truck careened down the path worn by the dirt-bikers.
With a thump that severely tested the suspension, she went over the curb and down onto the roadway. She sat there in the bike lane, peering back over her shoulder, not daring to believe that that malevolent pair of headlights had not followed her down. A shadow broke from the building to her left, and her foot twitched on the accelerator. Then something about the way it moved warned her, and she backed off.
"Slide over, Green-eyes," he said, pulling open the door.
She did, and he slid in beside her. He eased the Blazer out onto Coast Highway
and proceeded at a decorous pace. Shiloh sat in silence, trying to stop the shaking that threatened to overcome her. She wouldn't, she insisted silently, clamping her trembling hands between her knees. She would not get hysterical.
Con's eyes flicked constantly from the road to the rear-view mirror. A sheriff's unit passed, going swiftly the other way, but the deputy didn't seem to look twice at them. Con waited until it was out of sight, then ducked onto the first side street, then onto another, then another. He eased the Blazer to the curb. Shiloh squeezed her hands tighter.
"Shiloh."
His voice was soft, her name a caress on his lips. She looked up. "You've got to help me again. Where are we?"
She looked out the window. She was almost afraid to try to talk, afraid her terror would make it impossible. She swallowed and tried.
"Almost to the harbor."
She blinked in surprise; she hadn't sounded nearly as bad as she'd expected. She shifted her gaze to him. He looked strained in the faint glow from a distant streetlight.
"Damn it!" He hit the wheel fiercely. "It's a stacked deck. Every hand, they already know what's been dealt. Whoever the connection is, he's got access to everything. There isn't a place in the damned state to hide."
"What about out of it?"
He turned to look at her. He'd known she was on the edge, had resisted the urge to comfort her, afraid it would send her toppling over. But she was steady now, the shaking he'd noticed gone, her eyes meeting his evenly. God, she was incredible.
"What do you mean?"
"A boat."
He looked at her, his mind racing. "What boat?"
"It belongs to a friend of mine. He's in Europe. He gave me the use of it in exchange for keeping it up for him." She leaned forward and dug through the canvas tote that had wound up on the floor in her crazy slide down the hill. In a moment she came up with a set of keys. "I didn't know what to do with these, but I didn't feel right just leaving them."
He moved toward her, arms out as if to hug her, but stopped himself. "Green-eyes, you have all the instincts of a natural. Where is this boat?"
Warmed by his words, she pointed toward the harbor. "At the yacht club. Wayne's a high roller."
She gave him directions, and in less than ten minutes they were pulling into a parking lot. Con could see row upon row of boat slips stretching into the distance, laid out in different directions on each side of a small bridge. There were lights on, and the sound of music coming from the building on the edge of the water, but the parking lot seemed empty of people.
"This is it?"
She nodded, gesturing toward the docks. "She's right down there, on G dock."
After a moment, he nodded. Then he wheeled the Blazer back out of the lot. Shiloh looked at him.
"I'm going back to that restaurant we passed," he said, for once answering her question before she could voice it. "We'll leave the truck there. It's busier there and it won't stand out so much."
She nodded and said no more as they drove to the waterfront restaurant. He pulled the Blazer into a dark, isolated spot and sat for a moment, looking around. The parking area was concealed from the road by a high, thick hedge, but he waited, anyway. When nothing happened, he shut off the motor and opened the door.
Shiloh glanced at him curiously when he walked over to the front of a car parked a few spaces away, knelt, and fiddled with something for a moment. Then, carrying something she couldn't see, he came back and knelt at the back of the Blazer, then went to the front. She didn't realize what he'd been doing until he stood up with the Blazer's license plates in his hands. She slid out of the front seat and walked back to confirm her guess; he had switched her plates with one from a nearby car.
"It might slow them down a little," he said when he saw her look. "I only took the front plate from the other one, so hopefully they won't notice it right away."
After a moment, Shiloh nodded.
"I'll see what I can salvage of the food that's still here," she said, climbing into the back. When she came out again she found him standing by the driver's door, staring at the lower corner of the windshield. She had known it was broken, from some rock thrown up on her trip down the hill.
Her thoughts stopped abruptly when she caught a glimpse of his face. He looked utterly bleak.
"Con?" She followed his gaze, only then seeing the small, round hole in the center of the starburst of cracks.
A bullet hole. So that was what she'd heard. She stifled a shiver, but that look on his face made her go on as if she'd known all along.
"Come on," she urged. When he didn't move, she thrust the bag of groceries she held into his arms. He took them reflexively, and it seemed to be enough to get him moving. She went back for the other bag, then returned for her suitcase. He took it from her without a word, and she reached into the truck and pulled out the canvas bag.
He followed her silently down to the dock, holding the other bag while she unlocked the gate at the top of the gangway. She led the way to one of the slips near the end and put the bags on top of a set of steps built onto the dock.
In the dark he couldn't tell much more than that the boat was about thirty-five or forty feet long, so when he followed her down the steep stairway into the main cabin and she flipped on a light, he looked around in surprise.
Minus what he'd learned from her, what he knew about sailboats could fit on a matchbook. But even he could see that this was something special. He could stand up to his full height of six-one and still clear the ceiling by enough to be comfortable. Wood gleamed, warm brass shone softly, and there were cushions of rich green velour that looked luxuriously inviting. The cool sheen of marble glowed unexpectedly from the countertops.
"Whew," he whistled softly as he watched Shiloh poking around in the cupboards in the galley.
"Isn't she beautiful?" Her voice echoed oddly from the cubbyhole she was reaching into. She looked back over her right shoulder at him. "She's a Hans Christian. Class all the
way, and she sails like a dream. You could take her around the world, if you wanted."
"I'd rather not, thank you." It was a beautiful boat, and larger than he'd expected, but around the world in anything less than the Queen Elizabeth II was too much for him.
She laughed, the light, cheerful sound of someone back on home ground after a sojourn into nightmare. Suddenly weary, he succumbed to the invitation of the thick, soft cushions and sagged down on the bench seat across from the main table.
"I'll check the supplies, but Wayne always believes in keeping her stocked in case he wants to take off at a moment's notice."
"And who is this Wayne who's so obliging?"
"Wayne DeWitt. He owns an electronics company, hence all the gear." She gestured over her shoulder.
Con looked in the direction she indicated, toward a small cubby with a built-in chair, which contained what had to be every electronic device known to man. He recognized the basics, sonar, radar, barometer and radio. Two radios, in fact. He filed that away in his head. The rest was a conglomeration he didn't even speculate on.
"He's starting to export to Europe, so he's there to set things up. His company is really taking off. I'm glad for him. He's worked very hard."
Con glanced around at the rich, expensive-looking vessel. "And plays hard, too, I gather."
"He's earned it," she said from the galley, a little sharply. "The company almost went under, and he pulled it back up with sheer determination and backbreaking work. He bought the Phoenix when he'd doubled his original worth."
He shifted uncomfortably on the seat, taken aback by her spirited defense of the man. Admiration for her loyalty warred with a rather unkind curiosity about what DeWitt had done to deserve it. Irritation he didn't understand rose in him again, but he only muttered, "Sorry."
"It's okay. It must look like that if you don't know."
She left the galley and came to sit on the curved settee that wrapped around the teak table across from him. He was studying his battered tennis shoes as if he'd never seen them before, engrossed in a futile battle to halt an anger he couldn't figure out.
"We're in good shape," she said. "Plenty of everything that isn't perishable. There's even beer in the fridge."
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