by Anne Stuart
The light was fading fast. She was tired, she was hungry, and she needed a bathroom. She looked up at the place, wondering if it came equipped with indoor plumbing.
“This is where we’re staying?” she asked, not moving.
“It’s safe,” he said grudgingly. “It might not be the Ritz, but it’s better equipped for our needs. Unless you have a better idea.”
She thought about it. “No,” she said. “This is about the last place anyone would think of finding me.” She followed him up the broken steps to the dented metal door.
That was when she noticed the locks. The trailer itself might be a disreputable pile of rusty metal, but the series of locks on the doors would have protected Fort Knox. And James held the keys.
She allowed herself a faint hope that the interior of the trailer might be similarly surprising, but the moment the smell of old beer, chili, and hot, stale air hit her, she knew that hope was in vain. She followed James into the darkened interior, but something made her stop for a moment, to look back over her shoulder at the place across the way.
There were no lights on in the afternoon dusk, but she could see the movement behind the windows, and a chill ran over her.
“Someone’s watching us,” she said, skittering inside.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Anybody out here is more concerned with covering their own ass than watching yours.” He pushed the door shut behind her, closing them both into the heat and the darkness and the smell. She couldn’t see him, but she could feel him, close, so close, and his arm slid past her face, and a sudden wild panic filled her.
Only to vanish as he switched on the light and then moved away.
She took a deep, calming breath. “It looks better in the darkness,” she said. The one bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling glared into the sparse interior. There was a kitchen at one end of the structure, a small living area in the center, and at the far end an alcove with a bed. One bed, with a bare mattress and a threadbare-looking blanket folded neatly at one end.
“All the comforts of home,” she said wryly. “Is there a bathroom?”
“To your left. The plumbing even works.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
The bathroom was minuscule, complete with rusty shower stall, rickety toilet, and a tiny sink. She didn’t care. She wanted that shower.
She heard voices as she was washing her hands. The water was rusty, brownish as well. She didn’t care.
She opened the door slowly, carefully, expecting God knew what. Only to find James stretched out on the sagging sofa, a cold beer in one hand, staring at a tiny black-and-white TV set.
She wanted to hit him. She wanted to take her fists and beat against him, to pound his head against the wall and demand some answers. Once more he looked like a different man. Like a good old boy, stretched out, watching a football game. But he wasn’t watching a football game, he was watching CNN. And this wasn’t the kind of place that would have cable.
“There’s food in the kitchen,” he said. “And beer.”
“I told you, I don’t drink.”
“I do.”
There was nothing she could say to that. He was stretched out on the sofa, his long, black-clad body seemingly at ease as he stared at the flickering images on the television set, but she could see the handle of the gun tucked in his waistband.
There was bottled water, cans of chili and beef stew and soup, ramen noodles and tuna fish. She settled for tomato soup and crackers, not bothering to offer James any.
There was no other place to sit but the old sofa. She perched next to him, as far away as she could manage, concentrating on the television as well.
“Anything interesting?” She made a belated attempt at sociability.
“Brush fires in California,” he said casually. “They think it started up in one of the canyons. Some old cottage caught on fire, and it spread from there.”
She stopped eating. “Did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Start the fire.”
“No. I think we can probably thank Carew for that. Covering up his mistakes.”
“What mistake did he make?”
“Letting us leave,” James said, draining his beer. “I’m going out. You stay put. Don’t answer the door, don’t answer the telephone.”
“There’s a telephone?” she asked in frank disbelief.
“A cellular phone in the bedroom.”
“What the hell is this place?” she asked again. “Where are we?”
“A bolt hole,” he said. “That’s all you need to know. We’re safe for the next couple of days.”
“You said that when we got to the cottage.”
“Yeah, but the only other person who knows about this place is Clancy. And he’s dead.”
There was absolutely no emotion in his voice or face. Either he simply didn’t care, or he was a phenomenal liar. She wasn’t sure which she’d find more reassuring.
“Where are you going?” She hoped her voice didn’t sound quite as forlorn as she felt. She didn’t want to be left alone in this strange place. He was little comfort, but he was better than nothing.
“Shopping.”
“For what?”
“Tequila. Food. Information.”
“All right,” she said, knowing he wasn’t asking permission. “I think I’ll take a shower and go to bed. Where do you want me to sleep?”
She must have imagined the undercurrent that shot between them. “You can use the bed again,” he drawled. “I don’t need much sleep.”
“I don’t suppose this place comes equipped with clothes?”
“You can wear some of mine. You’ll find them in the drawers under the bed.”
“You own this place?”
Once more he wouldn’t answer. “Lock the doors behind me,” he said. Slamming his empty beer can down on the cheap side table, he pushed off the couch, and a moment later he was gone.
She leaned back, staring sightlessly at the television set while she listened to the motorcycle start up with a quiet roar, then fade away in the distance. And she wondered whether he’d come back for her.
The black-and-white flames ate into the hillsides surrounding Los Angeles, and she blinked at the vision. It should have looked less threatening in black-and-white. Instead it looked even more hellacious.
“So far there have been only the six casualties, but officials are fearing the death toll may rise substantially. The four bodies at the house in the hills outside Los Angeles have yet to be identified, but the coroner expects the information to be forthcoming.”
Four bodies. They didn’t say which house in the hills, but it didn’t matter. She knew which house. She knew who one of those bodies was. Clancy, with the wry smile and the Vincent motorcycle. The man James stubbornly refused to mourn.
But who were the other three? And how had they died?
Maybe she didn’t want to know that either. She clicked off the television set and headed toward the shower. The water was hot, the rusty brown turned almost clear by the time she was finished, and she wrapped herself in a threadbare towel before heading into the tiny bedroom alcove.
The clothes in the drawers beneath the bed were serviceable. She pulled on a big T-shirt and pair of running shorts and climbed up onto the bed. Trying to ignore the boxes of ammunition that lay beneath the neatly folded underwear.
The bed was as hard and lumpy as it looked, the blanket thin and scratchy. She didn’t care. She didn’t care that her body ached from the endless ride over bumpy roads. She didn’t mind that her hair was wet and tangled as she lay on the pillow. She didn’t even care that there were four dead bodies in the house they’d left just that morning.
All she cared about was that she was alone. And she had no guarantee whatsoever that James would be coming back.
She switched off the light, lying in the darkness. The moon had risen, sending a faint glow through the grease-stained windows. The
rest of the decrepit little trailer was surprisingly clean for all its rust and decay, and she realized the windows were obscured for a reason.
There was a reason for everything James did, and the notion was far from reassuring. She still didn’t know who or what he was.
But she knew, despite her misgivings, that he’d come back for her. And he’d keep her safe. No one would get to her, no one would hurt her. James would see to that.
And she closed her eyes, sinking into an exhausted sleep.
Carew despised General Donald with his entire soul, and he was counting the days when he wouldn’t have to deal with him ever again. During the years he’d been working under Win Sutherland, following his mentor’s orders, he’d run afoul of the military, in particular General Donald. The man had done everything he could to interfere with the smooth running of the organization, and then, when Sutherland had been taken out, he’d been trying to horn in ever since.
Well, let him, Carew thought pettishly. If they could just clear up the few ugly loose ends, then the entire mess could be neatly covered up. There was little use for people like McKinley nowadays. Once things were cleaned up, Carew intended to devote his career to budgetary matters. Cloak-and-dagger stuff wasn’t nearly as exciting as money.
And people like General Donald never bothered with finances, except to ask for more. Carew had every intention of being in the position to tell him no.
“What the hell have you done with McKinley and the girl?” The General didn’t even wait until he could take a seat in the walnut-lined office. “I would have thought you could handle a simple matter like that. They can’t have just disappeared off the face of the earth.”
“I don’t know,” said Carew.
“And who the hell botched the fire? We’re not supposed to have civilian casualties. It gets the press too excited, and it’s even worse when they’re children. You’d think no child ever died in war,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ve always said this operation should be under military jurisdiction. But does anyone listen?”
“I don’t know that either, General.”
“Well, son, you don’t know a hell of a lot, do you?” The General rose, coming to loom over Carew.
Carew didn’t flinch. He was used to men like the General. Men who tried to use their size, their bluster, to intimidate. Carew wasn’t a man who was intimidated easily. He was a survivor. He had to be to have lasted this long, to have risen so far. He wasn’t about to let a petty bully like the General stop his forward advancement. “No, sir,” he said politely, looking up at his nemesis.
“You want a smoke?” the General barked, and Carew knew it was some stupid test of manhood. One he’d fail.
“No, thank you, sir. I don’t smoke.”
The General muttered something beneath his breath, glaring at him. “What do your people say? You talked to any of them? Some of them used to work with Sutherland, and with McKinley. They must have some idea where they could have gone. What about Hanover? Clancy? Paulsen?”
“Hanover and Clancy are dead,” Carew said carefully. “McKinley did Hanover when she came for him in Mexico. And I don’t know who did Clancy. It wasn’t us, and I doubt it was James. They went way back.”
“I doubt McKinley’s ever troubled by sentimental attachments,” the General snapped. “What about Paulsen?”
“If he knows, he’s not telling.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” the General exploded. “And you let him get away with that shit? I could get it out of him in five minutes flat.”
“I don’t think he knows.”
“Thinking’s not good enough, Carew. I want that information. I want McKinley, and I want Sutherland’s daughter. I want them taken care of, do you hear me?”
Carew glanced up. He almost wished he did smoke—he would have blown some in the General’s fat red face. “Why?” he asked calmly.
“They’re a danger. You know that as well as I do. McKinley should have been neutralized months ago. But you blew it, and now Sutherland’s daughter is caught up in it as well. You find where the hell they are, and I’ll take care of it from there. We can’t afford any more fuck-ups, Carew. Not if you want to keep your job. Not if we want to keep the organization going. You hear me, son?”
Carew rose. He’d hated his own father with an adolescent passion that had rejoiced in the bastard’s death in a car accident. It was nothing compared to how much he hated the General.
“I’ll talk to Paulsen,” he said in a deceptively mild voice. “I’ll handle it.”
“See that you do, boy. Because if you can’t, I can.”
And as Carew left, he once more mourned the death of Mary Margaret Hanover. If McKinley hadn’t gotten to her, she could have cut the General’s throat for him. The bittersweet notion gave him his first smile in days.
She wasn’t alone. The bed was hard, wide, and when she opened her eyes in the murky light she could see James stretched out beside her, seemingly sound asleep.
She started to sit up, but his hand shot out, clamping around her wrist. “Go back to sleep,” he said, his mouth barely moving, his eyes still shut.
“You said you were going to sleep on the sofa.”
“I said I didn’t sleep much. I didn’t say where I was going to sleep.”
She yanked her arm, but his fingers might have been a handcuff. She was tired, she was angry, and she was frightened. Without thinking she slammed her other hand against his chest.
His response was so fast it was terrifying. In less than a second she was flat on her back, and his hand was cradling her neck. It was no lover’s caress. His thumb pressed up underneath her jawline, and the pain was breathtaking. “Don’t,” he said in a mere breath of a voice.
As a warning it was completely effective. She couldn’t move, couldn’t nod her head or even speak. She simply looked up at him out of wide eyes, waiting for him to increase the pressure. To kill her. Or release her.
She really didn’t know which it was going to be. She suspected he didn’t either, at least for the moment.
And then he dropped his hand, rolling onto his back, taking deep gulps of air, as if he’d been running very fast.
It took all her fierce will not to try to bolt once more. He wouldn’t let her get far, she knew it, and this time he might kill her. She lay back beside him, her own breathing equally harsh, and waited.
“Don’t underestimate me,” he said finally, when his breathing had slowed to a reasonable rate. “I act on instinct, and that can be very dangerous.”
“What happened to those people?”
“What people?”
“There were four bodies found at the cottage. I figure one was Clancy. Who were the other three?”
He didn’t hesitate. “I don’t know.”
She was willing to believe that much. “What happened to them?”
“I killed them.”
The words, three simple ones, hung in the air. She waited for horror and panic to fill her. Nothing happened, and she understood why.
“I think I knew that,” she said quietly.
“No one ever said you weren’t bright enough. Aren’t you going to ask me why?”
“I assume they were trying to kill us.”
She darted a quick glance at him, and despite his expressionless face she could see a faint quirk of bleak amusement. “Logical as well,” he said. “Any other questions?”
He was being surprisingly forthcoming, and she racked her brain for the right question. The one that came out surprised her.
“How old was your wife when she died?”
“My wife?”
“When you started to work for my father,” she said patiently. “Your wife and child had died in a car accident, and you left east Texas and …” Her words trailed off. “Why don’t you sound the same? Where’s your accent?”
“Wouldn’t I have lost it after all these years?”
“You wouldn’t have lost it in a matter of days,” she said.
“You always had a faint Texas accent.”
“Did I? I’ve never lived in Texas in my life.”
She absorbed that as she would a blow. “And your family?” she persisted.
“You mean that romantic fantasy your father concocted? How’s your math, Annie? I joined your father twenty years ago. I’m thirty-nine. Do you think I had a wife and a baby?”
“No.”
“Bingo.”
“Then where did my father find you? How did he recruit you for his mysterious organization?”
“Let’s just say he offered me a job when I was in need of one,” he said evenly, pushing back against the limp pillows. He was watching her closely, and she wanted to move away from him. But she’d seen how fast he could move, and she didn’t dare. “You don’t need any more details.”
“In other words, you aren’t going to give me any more details,” she murmured. “Are you gay?”
She’d finally managed to startle him, and he smiled. It wasn’t a reassuring expression. “Would it make you feel better if I was?”
For a moment she didn’t respond. And then she shrugged. “It wouldn’t make any difference. What you are is sexless. A machine, a cipher, a good little soldier. Your sexual preference, even if you had one, doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
“Yes, it does,” he said.
The words hung in the air, heavy, weighted, profoundly sexual. She recognized it with a tremor that reached deep inside, and she no longer cared if he hurt her, killed her. She had to get away from him. From the threat of him.
She rolled off the bed and backed away from it. He made no attempt to come after her—simply lay there watching her out of hooded eyes.
“There’s no place to run to, Annie,” he said. “You’re only safe with me, and you know it.”
“Am I safe with your?” It sounded too damned plaintive, but there was no way she could make her voice stronger.
“As safe as you can be.”
“And how safe is that?”
He looked at her, and she knew he would tell her the truth whether she really wanted to hear it or not.
“Not safe at all,” he said.
And she nodded, believing him.
