by Pat Warren
Also by Pat Warren
Forbidden
Published by
WARNER BOOKS
“DO YOU KISS ALL THE WOMEN YOU’RE
ASSIGNED TO PROTECT?”
He almost flinched at that one. “No.”
She scooted off the bed, her bare feet cold on the floor, and hugged herself in a classically defensive posture. “No, of course not. Then you must have kissed me because I’m so beautiful.” She watched a frown appear and rushed on. “No, I thought not. You kissed me because you felt sorry for me. Well, I don’t need your pity, thank you very much.” She whirled away from him, choking back tears.
“Pity?” Luke got to his feet, grabbed her arm and swung her around to face him. Before she could react, he yanked her close and crushed his mouth to hers.
His mouth devoured hers and his arms molded her body to his with a ruthlessness just barely held in check. He drank from her, deeply, thoroughly, and finally felt her stunned response.
Just as abruptly, he wrenched his mouth away and let her go. “Did that feel like pity to you?”
Praise for Pat Warren’s Wonderful,
Award-winning Novels
“Ms. Warren melds chilling suspense and passionate romance into a marvelous amalgam of reading pleasure.”
—Romantic Times on’Til Death Do Us Part
“Captures the drama, action and passion that one has come to associate with the Montana Maverick series.”
—Affaire de Coeur on Outlaw Lovers
Copyright
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1996 by Pat Warren
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: November 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-56935-4
Contents
Also by Pat Warren
Praise for Pat Warren’s Wonderful, Award-winning Novels
COPYRIGHT
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
For Frank; first, last and always
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My sincere thanks to Gerald Shur, Senior Associate Director, Office of Enforcement Operations, Criminal Division, U.S. Department of Justice, Washington, D.C., for invaluable information regarding the U.S. Marshals Service Witness Security Program. And my heartfelt gratitude to Officer Mark Ruffennach, Community Affairs Unit, Scottsdale Police Department, for patiently answering my many questions about police procedure.
Additional thanks go to the ER staff of Scottsdale Memorial Hospital, North who so generously allowed me to question and observe. And specifically to Dr. James E. Roberts for sharing a small portion of his knowledge of reconstructive plastic surgery.
In all cases, I followed their recommendations as closely as fiction would allow. If there are errors, they are all mine.
And last, but certainly not least, to Chris Flynn and Jane Kidder, writing friends extraordinaire, for encouraging, editing, and for always being there, both personally and professionally.
PROLOGUE—
CALIFORNIA—MID-FEBRUARY
A cold winter wind rearranged snowdrifts in the large fenced yard, but the man wearing a ski mask, sturdy parka, and heavy boots scarcely noticed. Squinting, he glanced up into a sky sullen and gray though it was only four in the afternoon. But the stark whiteness of endless snow that covered the rugged mountain area kept visibility decent. He stepped closer to the protection of the cabin’s sidewall, taking a moment to catch his breath.
Removing his leather gloves, he shoved them into his pockets and bent his head to light a cigarette, drawing deeply. The trek up the mountain road hadn’t been easy, even for someone as physically fit as Nick Russo. How the old man had managed it, he’d never know. Driven on by adrenaline, Nick guessed.
He took another drag on his cigarette, pleased with his own cleverness. He’d sensed days ago that the old geezer would lead him to the girl, and he had. Some people thought Nick was irresponsible and a hothead. Today, he’d prove them wrong, prove he was cool and in control. Sam would be proud.
Nick glanced toward the gate he’d had to shove open after shooting off the lock. The old man lay there a few feet away, as still and lifeless as the two German shepherds Nick had wasted. Thank God he’d slipped the silencer on his .44 Magnum. Even in this howling wind, he knew that sound could travel. And the man guarding the girl had sharp ears and keen instincts.
For all the good it would do him this time.
Turning his attention to the cabin, Nick hoped the old guy hadn’t led him astray. There were no markings, no number plate or mail box. Still, he’d marched to it like a homing pigeon. Nick could see a light on in a small high window, probably the kitchen. Neither the commotion at the gate nor the barking dogs had alerted the two inside. Good. He’d have the element of surprise on his side.
Taking a final pull on the cigarette, Nick tossed it into the snow. His fingers tingled as he reached inside his jacket for the Magnum, and it had nothing to do with the cold. At last, he was going to even an old score and at the same time get rid of the woman who was standing between his brother and freedom.
With a dark smile of anticipation, Nick made his way to the cabin’s back door.
CHAPTER ONE—
ARIZONA—the previous October
The day had been much like any other, Terry Ryan was to remember later. A bit hot for autumn in Phoenix with the sun spreading warmth since dawn, then around six silently slipping behind Camelback Mountain to the northeast of the downtown area. There’d been not the smallest sign throughout the busy workday to hint of what was to come when she stepped through the double doors of the Phoenix Gazette onto the sidewalk.
“It’s the sort of story that can make a reporter’s career,” Don Simon said as he pushed his small, rimless glasses higher up on his nose.
“That’s great, Don,” Terry told him. “You’ve worked really hard.”
Don took his friend’s arm, guiding her across busy Van Buren Street toward the parking garage they both used. “Can I help you carry some of that?” he asked, indicating her armload.
Terry held her two art folders and a zippered case close to her chest as she adjusted the strap of her leather bag more comfortably on her shoulder. “Thanks, but I can manage.” A light evening breeze tossed her long, blond hair about as she hurried across.
“I stumbled on this almost by accident, you know,” Don went on. “And here I thought the police beat was for rookies. Talk about being in the right place at the right time.” Impatiently, Don shoved a lock of curly hair from his forehead, a habitual gesture. “But you could have blown me away when Cy told me to follow through. I was sure he’d want to put someone more experienced on such a hot story.”
Terry knew that Cy Werner, the managing editor, could be difficult at times. “You’ve been with the paper five years. That sounds like a lot of experience to me.” She stepped up onto the curb as a city bus rumbled by, spewing dark fumes. “You discovered it, you deserve it.”
Terry both liked and admired Don Simon. He’d gone to school with her oldest brother, Sean, and had hung around the Ryan house since their h
igh school days. Last spring, when she’d mentioned that she was thinking of trying for an interview at the Gazette, Don hadn’t hesitated in arranging an appointment for her and giving her a glowing recommendation. Though he modestly denied it, Terry was certain Don was at least partially responsible for her becoming the youngest political cartoonist on staff.
At the elevators, Don pressed the button, then checked his watch. “I’m meeting with my source at nine tonight. I sure hope he hasn’t changed his mind about talking.”
Terry glanced over her shoulder and saw no one else around, but lowered her voice nonetheless. “Aren’t you a little worried, getting involved with underworld characters, policemen who’ve taken bribes, setting up clandestine conversations about money-laundering schemes?” She’d been shocked when Don had confided earlier some of the details about his possible big scoop. “These are dangerous men. Maybe you shouldn’t be meeting one of them alone.”
Don followed her into the empty elevator and waited until they were moving before he spoke. “We’re meeting in a public place.” It was a seedy bar in South Phoenix, but Don saw no reason to mention that. “And he’s a cop.”
Terry’s eyes widened. “What made this man decide to blow the whistle on his fellow officers?” Years of listening to her policeman father talk about loyalty within the ranks had her wondering if Don’s informant wasn’t fabricating the whole thing. Cops ratting on cops rarely happened. “I mean, what’s he going to get out of it?”
“Immunity, he thinks. Of course, that’s not up to me.” Don checked the area to make sure no one could overhear them. It was after seven and the place was almost deserted. “I hesitated mentioning the whole thing to you, because of your dad and all.”
“Dad’s been retired from the department over a year. But he’s got a lot of friends still on the force. Lord, I hope none of them are involved.” Terry sighed, knowing how awful morale would be around the Central Precinct when all this hit the fan.
“Yeah, me, too. This guy swears he’s got proof positive tying the mob to several top cops.” His eyes shimmering with excitement, Don stopped behind his red Nissan and smiled at Terry. “Wish me luck. I may get a bonus for this one.”
“Let’s not count our Pulitzers before they’re typed,” she said with a smile. “Good luck, Don. And please, be careful.”
“Thanks, I will. Catch you later.”
Terry walked on to the last space against the wall, where she always parked her tan Volkswagen. The car was only three months old and she hoped to keep it from getting banged up for at least the first year. She’d noticed that people drove like they were trying out for Indy on the sloping garage ramps.
Shifting her bundles, she dug around in her jacket pocket for her keys. Just as she reached her car door, the pile she was balancing in one hand slipped to the cement floor. “Damn,” she said aloud, then smiled as she bent to retrieve her things. Her father hated hearing her swear and made her hand him a quarter every time she let loose around him with a four-letter word. Last time she’d visited her parents, John Ryan had collected three over the course of the evening and told her his penalty jar was getting full.
As she reached for her folders, she heard the squeal of tires from a vehicle roaring around one of the bends. Not Don, she was certain, for he tended to drive like a little old lady out for a Sunday outing.
Terry slid the second folder onto her pile as she heard the approaching car screech to a halt nearby. She stretched to retrieve her zippered case from beneath the car. Before she could straighten, car doors flying open froze her in place. Then the sound of a gruff voice sent a warning shiver up her spine.
“Simon, this is for reporters who stick their noses where they shouldn’t.” The remark was followed by two dull pings, which, to her horror, Terry recognized immediately. The unmistakable sounds of gunshots muffled by a silencer.
Heart pounding, blood roaring in her ears, Terry flattened herself, then peeked beneath the Volkswagen and down three car widths. What she saw nearly had her gasping out loud.
Don Simon lay in a twisted heap with three sets of legs standing over him. Scooting lower and peering upward, she didn’t recognize the short, swarthy one holding the gun or the well-dressed taller man beside him. But the third man was as familiar as her father: Police Sergeant Fred McCarthy, better known as Mac, a man who’d been a lifelong friend of the Ryan family. Dear God, Terry thought, afraid to breathe.
Shocking her further, the gunman leaned down toward Don’s dreadfully still body, checked his pulse, then straightened wearing a cold, satisfied smile.
“He won’t be writing anything ever again,” the man said. He turned then and looked around. “Where’s the girl he came in with?”
The sound of a car traveling overhead had them glancing up. “That’s probably her now,” Mac said. “Let’s get out of here.”
The bitter, metallic taste of fear clogged Terry’s throat. Unable to look away, she watched the three men climb back into a waiting gray sedan with tinted windows. Just before the doors closed, she caught a fleeting glimpse of another man inside the car, but only from the knees down. The next sound she heard was the sedan taking off, wheels squealing as it turned the corner on its way out.
Terrified beyond belief, Terry lay where she was, wondering if her legs would hold her. She saw no one else, heard nothing else. Quickly, she scampered upright and found her keys. It took three tries before she managed to unlock the door. She tossed her things in, climbed behind the wheel, and shoved down the lock. Again, she had difficulty inserting the key, this time in the ignition, with her hand shaking so badly. At last, the motor turned over. Her system cried out for a cigarette. She dared take the time to find one in her purse and light it. Inhaling deeply, she backed out.
Where the hell was everyone? she wondered, changing gears. The garage operated on a monthly basis, drawing on office personnel in the busy downtown area. How was it that not a single soul had happened by and witnessed what she had?
There had to be a watchman around somewhere, or did he only work nights? Maybe there was an office with a phone. No, she’d be better off getting far away and then calling.
Cruising to just behind Don’s red Nissan, she stopped, staring out the window where his body lay sprawled on his back, his white shirt bright with his blood, his broken glasses beside his head. Minutes ago, he’d been so excited, so alive. And now…
Fighting nausea, Terry started toward the exit ramp. Please, God, she prayed, don’t let the gray sedan be anywhere in sight.
Flipping on her lights, she emerged onto Van Buren into light evening traffic. She paused, checking in both directions. No gray cars. The trembling was back or maybe it had never left her. What should she do? Call the police? But Mac was the police, at least at the nearest station, Central Phoenix Precinct. Stopping at a light, looking about fearfully, Terry considered her other options.
She could call Andy Russell, a friend she’d dated sporadically awhile back. Andy had recently made detective and worked out of the Mt. Shadows Precinct. Or maybe she should call her father, tell him everything, and see what he’d advise. John Ryan had instincts she could always trust, especially about police matters. Yes, that’s what she should do, Terry decided as the light changed.
Impatient, she couldn’t wait until she drove to her parents’ home. Up ahead on the right, she spotted a Circle K convenience store. Lights, people, safety. Terry drew on her cigarette, trying to calm herself as she pulled into the small lot. Her eyes scanned the area, but she saw nothing threatening. She grabbed her bag, stubbed out the cigarette, and hurried to the outside pay phone.
Her mother answered on the second ring, but when Terry asked to speak to her father, she told her he was out.
“Have you forgotten? Dad bowls on Fridays,” Emily Ryan said in explanation. “Is something the matter, Terry? You sound out of breath.”
Terry swallowed hard, ordering herself to sound cool and collected. “No, nothing, Mom. I… I just had somet
hing I wanted to ask Dad.”
“You could come over and wait for him. He’ll be home in about an hour. I’ve got pork chops made.”
The thought of food had her stomach roiling. “Thanks, but not tonight, Mom. I’ll call back later.” She hung up as a man wearing a grubby shirt and soiled jeans came out of the store tearing open a pack of cigarettes. He glanced over, gave her a tobacco-stained smile, and started toward her.
Terry hurried to her car and climbed in as the man gave a throaty chuckle.
“Where you going, honey? I just want to use the phone.”
Jumpy with nerves, Terry carefully backed out into traffic. In the right lane, she cruised along, considering where to go. She had to get to a place where she felt safe, where she could figure out who to call about Don. The picture of him lying in his own blood swam into focus in her mind’s eye, and she struggled with another wave of nausea.
She’d go home, Terry decided, to the apartment she shared with her cousin. Lynn Hartley was solid as a rock, as sensible as her widowed mother, Julia. They’d figure out what to do together. That decided, she felt better. She turned on her left blinker and checked the rearview mirror before changing lanes. And her heart leaped to her throat.
The gray sedan with the tinted windows was right behind her.
Sandra Porter stepped off the second floor elevator in the Van Buren parking garage and smiled up at Curt Gervaine. Tall, dark, and French, he intrigued her. Finally, after working together at the Arizona Bank for six months, she as teller and Curt as assistant manager, he’d asked her out. Dinner, dancing, and who knows what to follow. It was only seven-thirty. She took his arm. “Why don’t I follow you to the Hyatt?”
Curt walked with her toward their cars on Row Four. “That’ll be just fine.” He paused as they reached his sleek Infiniti and squeezed her hand. “See you in a few minutes.”
