by Angi Morgan
He hadn’t seen her.
Throwing the sunglasses in the trash, she headed for the door and pulled on the black ball cap to just above her eyes. She was tempted to throw away the FBI earpiece, but it might prove better to know where the agents were and what they were doing to find her.
“I know you can hear me, Jane. Let me help,” Steve pleaded.
The microphone would give her position away since they could hear everything around her. So she wrapped it in the note and shoved it in her pocket. Pulling the strands of the long red wig closer to her face, she joined a small group of bored teenagers headed in the direction of the Alamo’s east exit.
Two men dressed in phone company shirts watched the gate. Probably FBI. She pushed her hands in her pockets and stuck close to the family ahead of her, turning toward the parking lot on the opposite corner.
She flattened against the parking garage wall and covertly returned the earpiece to her ear. When she heard that the agents didn’t see her leave through the gate, she circled the block and entered the Menger.
“Palmer, running is not the answer. Give us the boy and we’ll get you the help you need.”
“McCaffrey, get off this frequency. This is my op.”
“You’ve lost her, Woods, and your badge.”
“I didn’t hear a fat lady sing, McCaffrey.”
Steve’s anger made Jane flinch. He was in a lot of trouble, but once she got Rory, she’d turn herself in and make things right. She replaced the earpiece in her pocket.
One of the oldest hotels in the South, the Menger filled an entire city block. It was easy to gain access through one of the specialty shops that faced the street. An elderly man and woman sat with their drinks in the lobby and didn’t glance twice at her when she walked to the desk.
“May I help you?” a young man in a hotel vest asked from behind the counter.
“Yes. I believe you have a message for Rhonda Fraser?”
The clerk pulled a letter-size envelope from beneath the counter and slid it to her without a word.
“Thank you.”
Following the sign to the restroom, Jane locked the door to the single stall. She took the first calm breath since leaving the building across from the Alamo where the FBI set up that morning.
What was she doing? Trying to outsmart the FBI? Her? No, she was a mother determined to get her son back. And if that meant running from the U.S. Marine Corps, she would.
Rory was the single most important thing in her life. She couldn’t let him down. Her hands were shaking when she withdrew the earpiece again to listen.
“The perp must have left her a disguise, sir.”
“Woods isn’t answering, sir. He left our line of sight at the east exit.”
She couldn’t recognize the voices. She ripped the end of the envelope and took another deep breath before unfolding the paper.
A ticket floated to the floor.
Ripley’s Believe It or Not Wax Museum.
Mother Goose Exhibit.
NOW.
“Check every taxi, car, truck,” McCaffrey commanded.
“We don’t have the manpower—”
“They aren’t far. Lanning, I want them back in custody within the hour. Find them.”
Listening only long enough to verify they weren’t outside the door, she hid the earpiece in her pocket again. The ball cap went into the trash can before she headed back to the clerk in the lobby.
“Can I help you, Miss Fraser?”
“It’s getting so sticky outside.” She pulled the wig’s long hair off her neck. “Do you have a couple of rubber bands?”
“Sure. No problem.”
“Thanks.”
Pulling the wig into two sections, she braided the strands to hang on either side of her face. She headed across the street, downstairs from the very building she’d begun her journey from that morning. The wax museum was just below the offices utilized by the FBI. She waited until a man in a suit, obviously an agent, exited a tour bus before she entered. He didn’t look back and walked onto a second sightseeing bus which hid the Alamo from her—and her from the agents still interviewing bystanders.
The noise in the lobby of the wax museum was phenomenal. Arcade games clanged and beeped. Indistinguishable music piped into the open lobby. People spoke louder to be heard. Jane placed her hand over her jeans pocket to muffle the noise. The line wasn’t too long, only taking a couple of minutes to gain entrance to the exhibits.
The dark didn’t give her comfort. In fact, the eerie way John Wayne’s eyes followed her made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Someone watched her in the winding hall. She hurried through, trying not to stare at the lifelike images. A flash from a camera sparked the darkness, causing her eyes to have to adjust again.
The Three Stooges. Elvis. Redford and Newman in a scene from The Sting. Marlon Brando. But no Mother Goose. She walked as fast as the patrons allowed her. The line bottlenecked at a sales counter and the Wizard of Oz display.
It was so tempting to pull out the earpiece and whisper to the agents where she was. Fear for her son’s safety kept her mouth shut and her feet moving through the next set of doors.
Then she was in the wonderland of Mother Goose. She stopped so fast a guy bumped her from behind.
“Excuse me,” he said politely.
“I’m sorry, it was my fault.” Was he the kidnapper? She scanned his homely face suspiciously. He stepped around her and looked at the opposite display.
Nursery rhymes came to life with the Old Lady Who Lived in a Shoe and Jack Be Nimble jumping over a candlestick.
A woman with a small child pointing at the Dish Running Away with the Spoon stood at the end of the room. Was she the kidnapper? Did she hold the Brant child in her arms? No. The man who had bumped into Jane draped his arm around the woman and gave the child a kiss.
“Daddy,” the little girl said with glee.
Stop overreacting and think. There must be a message here somewhere.
Her eyes desperately searched for a note and caught sight of a mailbox in the exhibit. That had to be it. After the family in front of her moved into the next room, she leaned over the rail and retrieved a note addressed to Rhonda Fraser.
Mittman and Dilworth.
SW Corner House.
If her knees hadn’t been locked, she would have landed face-first on the worn black carpet. How was she supposed to get there? The kidnapper had made certain she didn’t have any cash, credit cards or identification when she left Dallas. And even if he hadn’t, no one with the FBI would give her cab fare.
Beg, hitch a ride, hot-wire a car? All the book learning in the world still required money or a set of keys to get from one point to another. Or maybe she should wait for Steve at the Hilton. Involve him further? Trust him? Could he help her without letting the rest of the FBI know what was going on?
Get to some light, make sure the envelope is empty. Then she would make a decision. Following the path, she ventured through another set of doors and there he was.
Leaning against the frame of an emergency exit, his legs crossed at the ankles, one hand on his hip, Steve’s smile waited along with the rest of him.
Something snapped inside her. She literally saw red for the first time in her life. How dared he stand there looking smug in his knowledge that she hadn’t avoided him as she’d hoped?
Well, he wouldn’t stop her from following the kidnapper’s instructions to the letter this time. She ran full force at him, barreling into his body with every bit of her strength.
The scream seemed far in the distance, but she realized it was hers as it suddenly cut off when her breath was knocked from her chest. They fell through the door to the outside sunlight and the scream was replaced by an alarm.
“What have I done?” she asked herself as people began running toward them. “I need money for a cab.”
“We’ve got to get out of here. Fast. Did you get another note?” Steve asked. “You’re not going alone.”
Steve took her hand and hauled her to her feet. The look on Jane’s face when she’d laid eyes on him was unforgettable. Fury. Plain and simple. It was good to see a strong emotion from her. He just hadn’t planned on it shoving him through the fire exit.
They ran through the alley away from the Alamo. Steve’s only hope was to get lost on the River Walk in the crowd. They could emerge several streets south by the convention center and catch a cab to wherever the kidnapper had instructed her to go.
Their getaway was cut short.
Stubblefield—and the Glock she pointed at Steve’s chest—caused him to jerk to a stop, pulling Jane with him.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, looking at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her slowly turn and look.
“Put your hands where I can see them,” Stubblefield said.
Stubblefield was alone, jacket off, gun in her hand. To get Jane away, he’d have to overpower his former partner and risk being shot. And he had no doubt that she’d shoot. But he couldn’t just give up.
“We’re not armed.” He raised his hands into the air. Jane followed his lead. “Give me this one, Selena. It’s Jane’s son. I need to find him.”
His former partner raised her brow, obviously wondering what he was up to since she’d verified Rory was dead. But she kept the gun at her side, no longer pointing it at anyone.
“We have an audience.” She nodded behind them. Employees from the wax museum and onlookers had backed to the opposite end of the alley when Selena had showed her weapon.
“Then I’ll just have to force you to let us go.” He smiled as cheerfully as he could fake.
Jane looked from him to the gun to the people behind them and back to Stubblefield.
He shoved Jane to the side, then leaped toward his FBI team member.
She fired a shot wide and into the brick. Stubblefield didn’t miss unless it was intentional.
He took as much of the force as he could from the tackle and fall to the pavement. “Why are you helping me?”
“I’m giving you a chance, Steve. Don’t louse it up.”
“Run, Jane. I’m right behind you,” he shouted, and she took off without a word. With the crowd growing, he’d lose her in a matter of seconds.
“You need to make this look real. My cuffs are behind my back,” Stubblefield said. “Don’t take too long, cowboy. Call me on my cell.”
“Will do. Thanks. I owe you.” He snapped the cuffs around her wrist and hauled her to a nearby car, locking the other metal bracelet around the steering wheel. Then he took off like a bull out of the shoot.
He caught Jane at the next intersection.
“Ditch the wig and earpiece in a trash can.”
Removing the red eyesore, she hit him in the chest with it. They crossed the street and took the steps down to the River Walk. It would be very easy to lose a tail along the winding maze of sidewalks lined with restaurants and shops for the tourists of San Antonio.
“Where are we headed?” he asked, dumping the wig in the garbage along with the earpieces. Replacing those would probably come out of his last FBI check.
“I have to go alone.”
“I said…” He grabbed her arm, causing her to come to an abrupt stop. “Where are we going?”
“I need money for a cab, Steve. That’s all. The note said to come alone.”
“I know it’s a risk, but there’s no f—” He grimaced, took a deep breath, let go of her arm and she fell into step beside him. “There’s no way I’m letting you go on your own. Get used to the idea. So if you want a cab, tell me where we’re going.”
“The southwest corner house at Dilworth and Mittman,” she said.
“Did they give you a time limit?”
She shook her head.
“There are plenty of cabs at the convention center. I suppose they’ll know how to get there.”
“It’s approximately three miles from here.” Her eyes closed as she barely paused to retrieve the rest of the information from her extraordinary brain. “Mittman runs north and south, the intersection is approximately one-point-six miles from Interstate 37, which is approximately point-eight miles from the convention center.” She spoke the information as if everyone in the city should know how many eighths of a mile they were from the interstate.
“When did you take a look at a city map?”
“This morning at the Bureau. There was one on the wall. Don’t worry, I can extrapolate the information up here—” she tapped her head “—and actually use it.”
He didn’t doubt her. Any moment he expected a small army of .45s to be aimed at them. He kept one eye on the rock pathway that wound around the river and the other on the street level wall.
“You going to share those notes now?” He slowed down behind a line forming for lunch at one of the many restaurants on the river. He stuck out his hand expecting Jane to place the kidnappers’ messages there.
“Are you going to tell me how you knew where I was?” She shoved her hand in her jeans pocket, stared at him a second, but turned and kept the notes.
“No-brainer.” He shrugged, placed his empty hand behind her back and hurried her along. “I followed you.”
The roasted peppery Tex-Mex smells from the restaurants tried to distract him. But he was concentrating on the notes, the kidnappers, Rory, bad guys, the Brant kid and Jane. How had the kidnappers known everything about their operation this morning? How could they have figured out where all their agents would be?
“So how did you get ahead of me? I would have noticed you passing by in the confining exhibits.”
“I didn’t. Pass by you, that is. I flashed my badge and went through the exit, then spied you at Mother Goose when the family ahead of you left the area. Now what do the notes say?”
Several minutes of silence went by as they walked along the river’s cobblestone sidewalk. They passed small groups of people wearing convention badges. Small groups of people intent on their conversations. Steve couldn’t see anyone watching them intently, or following—even at a distance.
“They gave directions on how to get by your friends. The last note said to get to Mittman and Dilworth.” She said the words as if all kidnappers deliver ransom notes in a wax museum.
Leaving the gathering lunch crowd behind, he adjusted his long strides to fit Jane’s pace. She was tired. The dark circles under her eyes weren’t smeared mascara. She’d been through the wringer. At least they were walking in the cool shade by the river.
“They told you where to go, but left no cash for you to get there?”
“No.”
Did the kidnappers want her to fail? Or walk. She said it was less than three miles. Maybe they needed time?
He quickened their pace and made it to the end of the river by the convention center. But before he took her the approximate two and a quarter miles to the danger zone he needed to know something. “Would you have met me at the Hilton?”
She looked at her feet. He knew the answer, but couldn’t understand why she was reluctant to say it. She’d come to him before, had said that she trusted him again. So what was the problem?
“I put Rory in danger. Now you’re in jeopardy of losing your career and we still may not find him.”
What could he say? Everything would be all right when he found Rory. He pulled her close, searching her eyes for a sign. A glimmer that she knew her son was more important than his job.
As if magnets pulled them together, his lips found hers and he kissed her for all he was worth. He could lose himself in the luscious, soft silkiness of her mouth. Why hadn’t he done this the moment he’d seen her? Nothing had changed between them. She kissed him back as if the past four years hadn’t happened.
Her warmth was different than the heat surrounding him. It didn’t drain him like the sun’s rays. It revitalized him, gave him energy to keep going.
Hot damn, she felt good.
This was where he belonged. Where Jane belonged. Things would be
set to rights again. She had to forgive him eventually.
Didn’t she?
“We…um…” Her hands frantically pushed at his chest. “We can’t do this now. Where’s a cab?”
Maybe the timing wasn’t the best in the world. If it were his kid missing, the only thing he’d be thinking about was finding the bastard that took him. But having her in his arms again felt completely right.
Chapter Seven
“Are you out of your mind, woman?” Steve asked the air while taking both steps to the porch in one jump.
Stick to the plan. He’d preached it for the past ten minutes in the cab. Stick to his plan. The plan where he burst in the door. A door she shouldn’t enter under any circumstances.
Sticking to Jane’s plan would get them killed. She was in the dilapidated house alone, ignoring specific instructions he’d given her. They didn’t know who or what was waiting where the kidnappers had arranged to meet her.
No one had answered her timid knock and she’d rushed inside…alone. Unarmed. Her plan was to have him stay out of sight on the opposite corner. He was out of position because of her enthusiasm and his cautiousness.
The screen slapped him in the butt as he stopped at a set of shoes—toes pointing toward the ceiling. An old lady was flat on her back, eyes staring blank at the ceiling.
“Jane?”
Hurried footsteps in one of the back rooms made him wish for his .45. He’d run the operation this morning so he could protect Jane, but McCaffrey had refused to release his weapon. He should have insisted. Then he wouldn’t feel so powerless. Jane ran into the room and he could breathe again. He hoped to high heaven that no one else was in the house.
For a split second he believed the boy in her arms was Rory. The way she cradled the toddler’s body close to hers was like an experienced mother. But it was the Brant child that turned to face him.
Thrusting the small sniffling child into his hands, Jane stepped over the dead woman and continued around the corner.
