Dangerous Curves

by Pamela Britton

  Shit!

  “What?” she said next, her voice tinged with disbelief and shock. “No. That can’t be.”

  Cece reached for her—Shit! Where was her weapon? She’d taken it off when she’d felt herself getting sleepy, which meant—oh, balls, it was in the flippin’ family room.

  And then the voice said, “No. I’ll take care of it,” sounding dead calm.

  Take care of what? Cece stood motionless with indecision.

  In the end she couldn’t risk letting Matty Tanner go.

  She stepped out from behind the door and froze.

  Grandma Matty had a gun.

  If Cece hadn’t seen pretty much everything during her career with the FBI, she would have found the sight of a little old lady holding a gun ludicrous. But she had seen everything, and so when Matty Tanner began to turn in her direction, when that gun quickly followed suit, Cece reacted out of instinct. She dove to the ground.

  Bam.

  Holy shit, the old bat just tried to kill me!

  Cece rolled beneath the table. “Run!” she yelled at Blain as, on all fours, she crawled toward the other end of the table. Black pant legs stopped near the table as Cece eyed the kitchen door, gauging the distance, wondering if she could push the chairs out of the way.

  Then the feet began to move around the long side.

  No time to think, Cece…move!

  “Put the gun down, Grandma Matty.”

  She froze again. Put the gun down?

  A glance at the legs revealed they weren’t moving. Actually, what they did was face the other direction, quickly and suddenly.

  “I mean it, Matty. Put it down or I’ll shoot.”

  Her weapon. Blain had found her weapon.

  Oh, thank God.

  Cece closed her eyes in relief, only to have them pop back open again. The safety was on her gun. Did Blain know that?

  “You bastard,” Matty said. “You knew, didn’t you?”

  “I knew they’d taken Lilly into custody for questioning, yes, but I didn’t think it was my place to tell you.”

  “Liar,” the woman said, and something about the way the legs were flexing, the way they rocked back a bit…

  “Blain, look out!”

  “Matty,” Blain warned.

  Boom!

  Cece charged Matty’s legs.

  Boom, boom, boom.

  She shoved at the chairs in her way. Unfortunately, they didn’t move. Pain slammed through her right shoulder. A chair tipped.

  Matty’s legs were gone. What the—

  Blain flung away the chair she’d crashed into. “Cece, are you all right?”

  “Go after her,” she ordered through lips gone taut with pain. What the hell had she done to her shoulder?

  The front door slammed.

  “Damn it, Blain, go after her.” Cece realized she couldn’t go after the woman herself; she’d dislocated her shoulder.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  “You’re hurt,” he said, gently pushing her back down when she tried to get up.

  “It’s nothing, and she’s getting away.”

  He set the gun down. Cece tried to get up on her own, which was hard to do with only one arm, especially when the other one was in agony.

  “Damn it,” she cursed. “Don’t let her get away.”

  But then she looked into his eyes—and saw that terror had drained the color from his face.

  “You’re not going to go after her, are you?” she asked.

  “No,” he said.

  She tried in earnest to move then.

  “Are you shot?”

  “No, I’m not shot. Let me go. I have to go after her.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Did you hit her?” she asked.

  “I wasn’t trying to hit her.”

  “You what?”

  “Wasn’t trying to hit her.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I…couldn’t do it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  SO SHE GOT AWAY.

  Cece didn’t know what pissed her off more—that Blain had forced her to go to a hospital (because he refused to let the paramedics reset her shoulder), or that Agent Ashton showed up right after they’d fixed her shoulder so that he saw her at her absolute, crack-the-mirror worst: eyes red (okay, so she’d shed a few pain-induced tears), hospital gown gaping open, hair hanging half up, half down (because really, it was hard to fix one’s hair when you only had one arm).

  “Agent Blackwell,” he said, stopping at the foot of her bed.

  Jeesh. Just what she needed. “Agent Ashton,” she said, trying hard to appear dignified in a light blue, flower-spotted gown that allowed suspiciously cool air access to her backside. “What brings you here?”

  Okay, so she wasn’t exactly being nice, but she was furious that Grandma Goofball had gotten away, and that ten minutes after bringing her to the E.R., Blain had trotted off with the local police to answer questions.

  “I see we’re still as outspoken as ever.”

  She gave him a drop dead look, and she didn’t feel guilty about doing it, either. The man had single-handedly blown this investigation more times than she would wager Agent Ashton could count. Cece was fed up. She’d hit the wall. Jumped off the pier. And she was ready to call it quits.

  “You’ll have to excuse my bad mood, Agent Ashton. In less than twenty-four hours, I’ve been put on administrative leave, shot at and hospitalized. I’m not exactly feeling social.” Especially toward you. But she didn’t say that last part.

  Agent Ashton moved around the end of the bed. Cece’s eyes narrowed. Almost…almost, she put her foot out to stop him, but she didn’t want to suffer the further indignity of having him see her bare toes.

  “Look, Cece…”

  Cece?

  “I came here to make sure you’re all right.”

  “Ah, shucks, boss, that’s so sweet of you.” Too sarcastic? Cece didn’t care.

  He didn’t say anything for a second, and something about the way he looked around the perimeter of the room, at the floor, out the window, at the walls, made Cece squint at him.

  “And to tell you we need you back on the case,” he added.

  She thought she’d misheard him. “I beg your pardon?” she said, tipping her head, which made yesterday’s hairstyle shift even more to the left.

  “Look,” he said, grabbing one of the blue visitor’s chairs and sitting down. “I’m taking some heat about the way the investigation has gone.”

  She had to stop her brows leaping skyward.

  “And frankly, Barry Bidwell has asked that you be put back on the investigation.”

  The president of NASCAR wanted her back on the case?

  “After this morning’s incident at Sanders’s residence, the pressure’s on. I don’t think I have to explain to you that it looks bad for us that you were on hand and we weren’t.”

  “It was just a coincidence that the real perpetrator stopped by the morning you were apprehending her daughter.”

  And to her absolute shock, Agent Ashton looked somewhat grateful for her defense. “I know, but it doesn’t look that way to the press.”

  “It’s on the news?”

  “Sanders is outside talking to broadcasters right now.”

  So that’s where he was.

  “Bottom line, we think Matty Tanner is on her way to Atlanta Motor Speedway.”

  Cece sat up—bad move. Pain radiated down her arm.

  “We have a jet standing by to transport us.”

  “Let me get dressed,” she said quickly, not about to let this gift horse kick her in the teeth.

  He nodded, and when he got up and left, Cece saw him pause at the small table opposite the bed. He left her badge behind.

  Hot damn. She couldn’t stop herself. She smiled.

  BLAIN WISHED HE COULD be as enthusiastic. When he came back to Cece’s room, and noticed the FBI badge back in place around her neck, his stomach turned as if he was on the l
ast lap of a race.

  “What’re you doing?”

  She looked at him without a hint of sorrow. “I’m going to Atlanta. Agent Ashton seems to think Matty Tanner is on her way there.”

  Matty Tanner, a killer. He still couldn’t believe it. Nor could he believe that Cece was all set to go tearing after her.

  “But you’re injured.”

  “It was just a dislocated shoulder. A little bruising, some soreness, but I’ll be all better in a few days.”

  She was going after Matty. Matty, who’d tried to kill her earlier that day.

  “Cece, do you think that’s wise? What if you can’t draw a gun?”

  She rolled her shoulder, trying to convince him that she was fine, but she couldn’t hide the resulting wince. “Just a little sore, Blain. I’ll be fine.”

  No, he thought. She wasn’t fine. And he couldn’t believe the FBI would call her back to duty after she’d just been hospitalized. “I thought you’d been fired.”

  “Not fired, just suspended. They reinstated me today, thanks to Barry Bidwell.”

  “Barry?”

  “He demanded I be put back on the job.”

  Of course he would. With a big race going on today, Barry wanted to appear as if he was doing everything he could to apprehend the suspect. “What he should do is cancel the race.”

  Cece shook her head. “Too late for that now. It starts in less than two hours. The stands are already filled.”

  “And you’re heading off into danger.”

  She couldn’t have looked more shocked if she’d tried. “Of course I am, Blain. That’s my job.”

  He knew it was.

  And yet seeing her on the floor earlier—wounded, him holding a gun in his hand and pointing it at someone—had suddenly changed things.

  “You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” he said, but he couldn’t help thinking that it was a lie.

  She smiled, stepping toward him. “Then I’ll see you when I get home.” She pressed a kiss against his check. “Hopefully with Matty Tanner in custody.”

  If Matty didn’t kill her.

  Because Cece hadn’t seen the look in the old lady’s eyes. She hadn’t seen the fury that had tightened her lips right before she’d turned and pointed the weapon in Cece’s direction.

  He didn’t move when Cece stepped away, and she looked momentarily puzzled.

  “Be careful,” was all he felt capable of saying.

  I love you.

  Don’t die.

  “I will,” she said, smiling. And with one last kiss on his cheek, she turned and walked out the door.

  Blain felt as if she took his heart with her.

  IF CECE WORRIED something might be wrong with Blain, she didn’t have time to think about it. The minute she hopped into Agent Ashton’s car, she was briefed on what they knew so far—and it surprised the hell out of her.

  Matty Tanner had hitched a ride to Atlanta on a private jet. Apparently, she’d called up a driver she was close to and asked for a ride. She’d shown up at the Concord Airport toting two pieces of luggage. There’d been reports that she’d gone to the racetrack after landing in Atlanta, but there was no way to confirm that just yet. The green flag had dropped on the Atlanta 500 a half hour ago and the teams were a little too busy to be questioned.

  “So what’s the plan?” Cece asked after being ushered into a waiting helicopter.

  “We try to determine if she’s at the track to kill someone, or as a way to cover her trail while fleeing the country,” Agent Ashton said, his glasses reflecting the flash of the sun as he put on a pair of headphones. Cece did the same.

  “But if she’s fleeing the country, why not leave as soon as she landed at Atlanta International?” Cece asked.

  “That’s what worries us,” Agent Ashton said.

  And it worried Cece, too, but for one more reason than Agent Ashton knew. When her cellphone rang five minutes after they’d landed at the track, her worry tripled. It was the call she’d been waiting for.

  “Blackwell here,” she answered, Agent Ashton shooting her a look as they headed for the black sedan that would take them to the infield.

  “Cece, it’s Bob.”

  Bob, her boss from San Francisco. She wasn’t surprised to hear from him after all the calls she’d placed to his office this weekend.

  “Talk to me,” she said.

  “You were right,” he said, verifying that he’d been brought up to speed. “Three weeks ago Matty Tanner bought herself a light anti-armor system,” Bob said. “And the juice to go with it.”

  “A LAW rocket? Crap.”

  “You going to break the news to Ashton, or should I?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Roger,” he said, hanging up.

  Cece decided not to mince words. “Four weeks ago, our San Francisco office got a report that someone who stood out a bit was trying to buy themselves a rocket launcher.”

  “Let me guess,” Ashton said, leaning against the cloth seat. “She was an old lady.”

  “Our undercover op confirmed the ID two minutes ago.”

  Silence. He looked out the window at the racetrack, which rose up like a giant bull ring.

  “We need to stop the race,” Cece said, following his gaze. “Matty Tanner may be an old lady, but it doesn’t take much more than a shoulder to balance a LAW rocket.”

  “We can’t stop the race,” Ashton said. “It’s too late. The fans would panic. Plus it’d take hours to evacuate a hundred thousand people, not to mention we don’t even know if she’s here or if she’s fled the country.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  “We find her,” Agent Ashton said. “Fast.”

  THEY BROKE UP INTO TEAMS, wearing ball caps and T-shirts with various team logos so that they blended in better. But these shirts had Velcro strips on the back that when reversed, read FBI. Badges and weapons were concealed, to be pulled out when needed. North Carolina agents mixed with their Georgia counterparts as they were rapidly briefed.

  As quickly as he could, Agent Ashton updated them on all aspects of the plan. But really, Cece found herself thinking, if Matty was at AMS, there were only a few places she could hide out with a rocket launcher. If she were to use the top of a hauler to site her target, someone would see her. Ditto somewhere in the garage. So they would search rest rooms, infield buildings, crew member parking—everywhere someone might be able to hide out and point a weapon at the same time.

  They came up with nothing.

  Around them the race went on, but none of the agents paid any heed. They were too busy trying to figure out where the hell Matty Tanner had gotten to.

  “If she’s here, she has to be in with the fans,” Cece reasoned aloud.

  “Yeah, but she’d be just as noticeable there as here,” Terry Thurman said.

  “Not if she were in a private suite,” Cece said, her eyes catching on the row of windows at the very top of the homestretch grandstands. They were mirrored, revealing vague outlines of what must be people in the seats near the front.

  Terry lifted a brow and within seconds radioed Agent Ashton. They had approval to check it out, one of their helicopters overhead moving in for a closer look, too.

  There was a good chance Matty Tanner was up there, maybe even looking down at them as they frantically searched the infield.

  The crowd roared. Both she and Agent Thurman turned. Smoke came from turn three. Cece’s heart stopped. And then, at the far end of the track, looking like it skated along the roof of the garage, a car slid toward the infield.

  Just a wreck.

  She and Agent Thurman looked at each other. No need to say what the other was thinking. When they turned, their steps took on new urgency as they met up with the rest of their team, and Cece took comfort in the familiar faces. A night spent working by their sides had proved that she could trust them if things got sticky. The problem was how to keep the situation from getting sticky. They had forty-fo
ur boxes to search, Cece knew. Forty-four rooms where a killer might hide. Forty-four rooms where fans might be mingling with said killer, or held hostage by her.

  But was Matty Tanner a killer?

  So many things didn’t make sense, Cece thought. Why take the trouble to plant explosives and then detonate when no one was around? Why use a LAW rocket on race day when you’d had a perfectly good grandstand to blow up the day before? What the hell was going on?

  That was the expression on some of the fans’ faces as Bravo Team emerged from the tunnel and burst into the concession area, badges pulled from beneath their shirts now, the chrome catching the light as it was meant to do.

  “We’ll check the suites one at a time,” Agent Thurman told them. “Standard search and seizure, but I want caution, people. Nobody’s going to be expecting us, and if our suspect isn’t there, I don’t want people staring at a gun pointed in their faces.”

  The ride to the VIP suites was a long one, though it gave them time to attach bold letters proclaiming them to be FBI on their shirts, and to pull out their weapons. The elevator doors opened. Before them stretched a long corridor, metal louvers on the right flinging a zebra pattern of shadows on the floor. And as they looked down the bank of doors, the pitfalls of their task became apparent. There were forty-four suites on two levels. Doors were opened by private keys, which meant they would have to knock or force each one open. Thurman radioed down for a pass key, which made it only slightly easier. After searching two suites, they realized it’d take them close to an hour to do it right.

  The clock ticked.

  “Son of a bitch,” Agent Thurman said after searching the fourth. “This is going to take forever.”

  Cece couldn’t agree more. So many suites, all of them occupied, the roar of the crowd reminding them that lives could be in danger.

  “Maybe we should break up into two teams,” Cece suggested. “A few of us can do the suites above while you guys continue searching down here.”

  “Good idea,” Terry said. “You—” he pointed to a younger agent Cece had never met before “—and you,” he said, motioning with his thumb to another man she recognized from Blain’s house. “Go on up with Cece. If you find Tanner, pin her down and wait for reinforcements to arrive.”

  “Roger,” Cece said, turning to follow. On her back she could feel her FBI ID flap around a bit. She ignored it, the adrenaline surge that had been pumping since the moment they’d landed causing her nerve endings to almost burn. Matty was here. Cece knew it. No place else made any sense, because with all the fans running around, she would have been seen. But here, in the halls leading to the suites, hardly anyone stirred, race fans barricaded in their private boxes equipped with bathrooms, kitchens and a whole host of other amenities that made leaving the suite unnecessary.