Opposing Forces

by Adrienne Giordano

  He dialed the number, then shoved the card in the side pocket of her purse. “Make sure you commit that number to memory and put the card somewhere safe in case your purse is searched.”

  She smacked her palm against the steering wheel. “You had to say that?”

  “Sorry, babe.” He went back to the phone. “I got voice mail here.”

  Never a break. Jillian listened while he left a message then gunned the gas. They cruised down Skokie Boulevard while she frantically checked her mirrors because, well, yes, her paranoia had reached record heights.

  “You’d make a rotten spy,” Jack said. “Nobody is following us. I’ve been checking.”

  “I never said I wanted to be a detective. This whole thing is crazy. My boss tossed himself off a balcony, we’ve got phantom shipments, my house was bugged and I got my head bashed in. Now, we’re stealing medication for the DEA. And we know nothing. None of this makes any sense to me.”

  He reached across the console and touched her arm. “We need one thing to break. That’s all. We have a lot of pieces, but not the one that connects everything.”

  She shoved her sunglasses up and accidentally bumped the spot where the stitches held her face together. A stinging pain shot through her cheek. How had her life come apart so quickly? “Hopefully that missing piece is in the vial.”

  “Exactly what I’m thinking.”

  She dropped Jack at his office and circled the block a few times until he called to tell her he was pulling out of the Taylor Security garage.

  Her nerves were shattered. She’d have to make it work for her and channel her remaining energy into getting the tote back to the warehouse and talking her way through why she went to get it.

  No problem.

  She glanced in her rearview and spotted Jack’s Mercedes, the one he didn’t want—and what kind of imbecile didn’t want a Mercedes?—two cars back.

  I’m not alone.

  “I’ve got this.” She gripped the steering wheel tighter. Moisture slicked the surface of the leather and she swiped one hand against her slacks, then the other. She could do this. She knew she could. She jerked her head. One convincing gesture to seal the deal. “I’ve got this.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jillian stood at the warehouse door, holding the tote on one knee while she swiped her key card with her free hand.

  The green light on the keypad flashed and she pulled the door open. She didn’t bother glancing back to the parking lot. Jack was there. She’d watched him pull in behind her and park. Before leaving her car, she called his cell and confirmed the connection. Eventually, someone would come outside for a smoke and wonder whose Mercedes was parked in the lot, but for now he was a directionally impaired guy checking his map because only crazy people or drug lords drove hundred-thousand-dollar cars in this neighborhood.

  Once inside, one of the guys loading a truck in bay one spotted her and jogged over to grab the tote.

  “I’ve got it,” she said. “Thanks.” Chances of her handing this tote over were nil, but he couldn’t know that. “It’s the tote from Ryder Medical that wound up in the wrong shipment. I need to figure out where it belongs. I’ll take care of it.”

  She climbed the steps to the first landing, the one where her original office was. Mr. Ingrams’s secretary glanced up at her and smiled. “Hi, Jillian.”

  “Hi, Meg.”

  No time for small talk. Gotta run and hide the fact that I stole a vial. She turned right and entered the stairwell to the second floor.

  Sweat seeped from her hands onto the surface of the tote and she gripped it tighter. Last thing she needed was to drop the thing and send it bouncing down the stairs.

  On the second floor, she strode to her office, set the tote down to unlock the door then shoved it into the office with her foot. The only noise was the scraping of plastic against the linoleum floor. She tried to embrace the quiet and use it to settle her skipping nerves.

  She swung toward her desk, spotted her computer monitor and realized she could have stopped somewhere with Wi-Fi and logged in as Mary to peruse the database for a missing shipment of Baxtin. Idiot. Still, that would have delayed her and she’d have been forced to explain why the run took so long.

  “Good morning,” Ned said from the hallway.

  His booming voice destroyed any semblance of peace. She spun, smacked her hand on her chest and gasped.

  Ned threw his hands up. “Sorry!”

  “Holy cow, you startled me.” She coughed up a laugh. “It’s so darned quiet up here.”

  The two of them stared at each other for a long minute, each of them knowing about Jack’s visit the night before. The air filled with an awkward silence and, despite her nervous energy, Jillian forced herself to stand still. Would Ned bring it up?

  His gaze landed on her stitches. “That looks painful. Are you okay?”

  Oh, she was not going there with him. “Banged up, but functioning.”

  Ned nudged the tote. “What’s this?”

  She motioned at the tote and hoped Jack was paying attention. “That’s one screwy problem. When I came in this morning, Rick told me Ryder Medical received a wrong shipment. He couldn’t find any stray Baxtin in the system and since he was clocking out, I went to pick it up. I was just about to call Mary and see if she could figure out where it belongs.”

  Ned bent low, lifted the tote from the floor and set it on the edge of her desk. “It’s unsealed.”

  She nodded. “The customer opened it. When they went to unload the box, they realized it was mislabeled.”

  Another awkward stare ensued. “I see,” Ned said. “Did you check the boxes to confirm all the vials were there?”

  There went Jack’s grand plan. If she said yes and Ned checked the boxes, he’d know she took one of the vials. If she said no, she’d get in trouble for not following procedure and searching the individual boxes before leaving the clinic. Operation Nutcase.

  She pumped her fists. “Shoot! I was so caught up in figuring out where it belonged, I forgot to check each box.”

  Ned pressed his lips together. “Jillian, that’s the first thing. Always check the boxes.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  To Jillian’s horror, he flipped the lid off and went to work on the contents.

  Get out.

  No. She’d wait. Maybe he’d quit after the top row of boxes. If not, she’d have questions to answer, none of which she had answers for. Her knees wobbled and she leaned against the desk for support as Ned opened the first box and untied the polybag. After ensuring the vials were all in good condition, he placed it on the desk and moved to the next one.

  Jillian’s stomach dropped and sweat dotted her upper lip. She grabbed a tissue from the box on her desk and pretended to blow her nose. Anything to wipe that telltale nervous sweat. At the third box, his intentions to check the entire tote were clear.

  Time to go.

  She boosted off the desk. “While you’re doing that, I need to visit the ladies’ room.” She grabbed her purse and headed toward the far corner of the floor. From there, she swung a left and beelined to the staircase.

  “Goddammit,” Ned hollered from her office, his voice echoing through the cavernous space.

  Blood surged and her mouth watered like a bursting dam. Run. She blasted through the stairwell door and sent it crashing against the cement wall. Holding on to the metal railing, she flew over the steps. “I’m coming out,” she said, hoping to hell she hadn’t lost the cell connection to Jack.

  At the bottom, she threw the door open. Debbie stood on the other side and jumped back. Jillian shoved past her, skidding down the landing stairs while a couple of the loading dock guys paused to watch the crazy lady running toward the door.

  “Jillian,” Ned yelled from somewh
ere behind her.

  Don’t stop. Pushing herself, she picked up speed, shoved the entrance door open and ran.

  * * *

  No sooner had Lynx slid the car into gear did Jillian burst through the warehouse exit. Damn, she was moving fast. She tripped on the bottom step and nearly did a face-plant on the cement.

  “Ho!” Lynx hollered to no one.

  She ran toward the car and he drove to the end of the aisle, where she jumped into the passenger seat. At the warehouse’s entrance, a woman—maybe late twenties, blonde—saw Jillian and yelled. Whatever she said was muffled by the closing car door.

  Lynx lead-footed it. “You okay?”

  She bobbed her head, but her breaths came too fast. Panic. He reached for the back of her head and shoved it between her knees. “You’re about to hyperventilate. Deep breaths. In and out. Nice and slow.”

  He shot down the main road of the warehouse complex and turned onto West 35th street. “You okay?”

  Still doubled over, Jillian nodded. “I’m okay. Catching my breath. Ned went through the boxes. He must have seen the missing one.”

  It’s over now. After what they’d already put her through, if Ned figured out they took that vial, and if said vial was contaminated or stolen, they’d come after Jillian with the force of the U.S. military. He’d have to get her someplace safe. Her house was out.

  Even his place probably wouldn’t be safe enough. He needed to hide her somewhere.

  Jillian sat up and focused on the road ahead. No movement. Just a dazed stare out the windshield and the rise and fall of her chest as normal breathing resumed.

  “Who was that woman at the door?”

  “Ingrams’s secretary. She had to have seen me tearing out of the stairwell. I probably scared the hell out of her.”

  Or she’s in on it.

  Whatever it was.

  Jillian lowered her window a few inches and sucked the moist lake air like a claustrophobic freed from a vault. She needed reassurance. Reassurance that her life hadn’t gone to shit and that they’d figure this out. Together.

  Only she couldn’t go home. Or anywhere she normally frequented. In short, he was afraid to let her be found.

  He sat a little straighter in his seat and glanced in his rearview. They needed to get the hell out of this neighborhood before they got jacked. “Okay. Here’s the plan. We get that vial to the DEA for testing. Meantime, you can’t go home.”

  “But—”

  “Not yet anyway.”

  This news wasn’t what she expected, but she didn’t argue. His cell phone rang. Special Agent Boller.

  He punched the car’s Bluetooth button to put the call on speaker. “Thanks for calling back.”

  “What’s this about a vial?” Boller asked.

  Jillian leaned forward as if talking into a microphone. Lynx touched her arm and guided her back to her seat. She cuffed her palm against her forehead.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Relax.”

  “When I arrived at work this morning,” she said about four decibels too loud, “I was told one of our vendors received the wrong shipment. They got a case of Baxtin, but the tote was marked something else. Plus, there was no record of the Baxtin anywhere, so I—” she glanced at him, “—we went to pick up the tote.”

  A pause, then finally. “And you took one of the vials?”

  Jillian winced.

  On it, babe. “No choice,” Lynx said. “If she brought the case back to the warehouse, it would have disappeared and we’d have lost any chance at tracking what was in there. Now we have a sample that can be traced and tested.”

  He stopped at a red light and checked his rearview. No tail. At least he didn’t think so. At the green, he drove straight through the intersection, figuring eventually he’d hit Lake Shore Drive.

  “You are pushing the boundaries of probable cause,” Boller said, his voice strained. “I know you know that.”

  “Please,” Lynx said. “Lawyers and drug cops live and breathe in the gray area of probable cause. Test the vial and see what we’ve got. Worry about PC later.”

  Boller sighed. “If the test comes back in our favor, the defense attorneys are going to say you tampered with it.”

  “And the prosecution will say we didn’t.”

  Jillian held her hand up to stop Lynx from talking. No wilting flower, this one.

  “Can we be prosecuted for stealing?”

  “We can work around it. If we can prove the vial is a public safety issue, you’d likely be protected by the federal whistle-blower statutes.”

  She swung her head in his direction. “What?” she mouthed.

  Lynx shook his head. Mr. Flamboyant had just scared the crap out of her with that whistle-blower status. “Just test the friggin’ thing and see what we’re dealing with.”

  Another sigh. “Where’s the vial?”

  Finally some cooperation. “In my office safe. We’ll head there now and grab it. I’ll call you back.”

  He tapped the end button before Boller could respond. Now he had to talk Jillian off the ledge.

  “Okay,” he said in his best officer voice. “Plan A is in effect and—”

  Slam!

  Three things registered: his arm going sideways to block Jillian’s forward thrust, her head snapping to a painful angle and the poof of the airbags deploying.

  Something had most definitely crashed into the back of his car.

  The airbag slammed into his face, neck and chest like a giant soccer ball. Stinging needles of pain worked through his shoulders and he inhaled the powdery residue from the bag. With the airbag already deflating, he coughed once, leaned back and glanced at Jillian, who battled the airbag with both hands.

  The driver’s side door opened and someone grabbed his arm, hauling him from the car.

  “I’m okay,” he said. When his foot hit the ground, he noted a dull throb in his bad knee. Son of a bitch. It must have banged into the underside of the dashboard.

  “No,” Jillian yelled from inside the car, her voice urgent and breathy.

  Lynx glanced back and saw her smack at a dark-skinned man.

  Shit.

  He swiveled back to the guy dragging him from the car. Huge guy with jet-black hair and arms the size of tractor tires.

  Boom. Lynx rammed his elbow up and into the guy’s jaw, sending him sprawling backward. A car cruised around them and honked, but kept moving.

  The guy swung and his beefy hand connected with Lynx’s cheekbone. His head jerked sideways. Yow. Jillian had gotten hit with that fist. And somehow she was still walking.

  Jesus.

  “Get her in the car,” Tractor Arms said.

  Lynx spun back with a chop to the throat. A gagging sound erupted from Tractor Arms and he stumbled back, clutching his throat.

  “No,” Jillian shouted again.

  Lynx glanced over, saw her folded against the hood, the other guy holding her down. He jumped up, moved toward the front of the car but was flung backward again, his feet literally coming off the ground. He’d never win this fight on strength. The guy was too massive.

  Outmaneuver.

  Lynx ripped off another elbow shot, connecting with the guy’s nose. Crack. Blood spurting.

  “Stupid fuck,” the guy said and blasted Lynx with an uppercut that should have broken a few teeth.

  His vision blurred and he swung his head back and forth. Fuzzy. A whoom sound filled his head. Gonna pass out.

  Something hard connected with his bad knee and a shredding agony shot through his leg in both directions. Hot, slick pain consumed him and his knee buckled, sending him to the ground. He rolled and locked his jaw shut. A grunt rumbled in his throat.

  Goddamn, that hurt.

  He opened
his eyes and spotted the second guy standing in front of him with a footlong club.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. Police precinct not far.

  “Grab her,” Tractor Arms yelled.

  “Run, Jillian!”

  The smaller guy took off, chasing her down. Lynx rolled and shoved himself to all fours, but the knee gave out. Son of a bitch. With this fierce pain, his brain should have opened up and started bleeding.

  Sirens came closer and Lynx sucked air through his nose to clear the mess in his head. The big guy was just to Lynx’s left, but was busy watching Jillian and his partner. Lynx bounced up, held onto the car for balance and rammed the heel of his good leg into the guy’s knee.

  He went down, but recovered quickly as the sirens reached the next block.

  “Forget her,” he yelled to his partner. “Let’s go.”

  Two car doors slammed and an engine started. Lynx glanced at the black Lincoln, one of the small ones, making a U-turn. Too far to read the plate number. Maybe an S. And a three. He shook his head again and tried to put weight on his bad knee. Nothing doing.

  On the next block, the sirens went silent. Pisser, that. The cops were going somewhere else. Life on the South Side.

  He glanced to his left—no Jillian—then right. There she was. Running toward him, maybe twenty feet away, her gaze glued to his. “Are you all right?” she asked. “You look a mess.”

  He snorted. “Probably looks worse than it is. My knee is fried, though. Can’t put any weight on it.”

  Jillian scooted next to him and propped his arm around her shoulder. “That was them. The ones from my house.”

  “I figured.”

  “I’ll call for help. You’re going to a hospital. And don’t argue. We’ll be safe there and they’ll check you out.”

  A hospital. Where they’d give him painkillers.

  Perfect way to fuck up an already fucked-up day.

  Chapter Nineteen

  From his ER bed, Lynx stared up at one of three cracks in the faded white ceiling. The longest crack traveled about six inches and hooked at the end. Reminded him of a fish hook. Which was bizarre since he’d never been fishing. Not once.