Covert Evidence

by Rachel Grant

  Her voice held a new edge of desperation. She wasn’t ready to accept that her plans to search for ancient tunnels had been derailed. There would be no expedition south, no Lidar survey. Given that this was the focus of her studies, he imagined this meant there would be no PhD.

  He could tell her Hejan was dead so she’d know this wasn’t some random mistake. But she was too busy grappling with denial. The truth could break her—and deepen her well-founded suspicions of him.

  His only option was to abduct her. It would be for her own safety, but she’d never believe that.

  John had explained they were taking an SDR—Surveillance Detection Route, he clarified—to the police station, which was why they twisted around on the narrow streets of Van for at least forty-five minutes. Cressida fought nausea as they took sharp, quick turns. This had to be the strangest, most awful twenty-four hours of her life.

  She was riding in a car—when did he rent a car?—with a man who appeared to know the city as if it were his hometown, who had at least one too many coincidences as far as she was concerned, and who carried a gun. She was a fool for getting in the vehicle, but she hadn’t felt like she had a choice. The concierge didn’t speak her language and, according to John, wasn’t eager to give her another hotel room after she’d broken her first one. He said he wouldn’t give her a new room until after the police report had been filed, so she’d packed her bag and gotten in the car with John.

  He’d saved her at the train station. And he let her keep the gun.

  That means he’s one of the good guys, right?

  A nighttime view of the streets of Van would normally excite her, but today she’d been attacked on every level that mattered: financially, academically, and physically.

  The map Hejan had translated for her had been taken. Without it, heading east toward Iran was useless. She had no landmarks to match up terrain, and no historical data to cross-reference. She rolled her shoulders, a feeble attempt to shake off the tension that had gathered there. That area had been a long shot anyway.

  Her best lead was still south, near Cizre, close to the Syrian border. That map had been in English from the start, and she’d stared at it until the image was imprinted upon her brain. She’d left the map in Tallahassee on purpose. Bringing it to Turkey would have been risky—she didn’t trust her fellow grad students, who all wanted in on her potential discovery.

  Had the thief been after her prized map? If so, score one point for paranoia.

  She couldn’t believe one of her fellow grad students was behind this, but who else would have a motive? The historic tunnel—if it existed—was destined to make headlines. Maybe it wouldn’t make her household-name famous, but she’d be known in archaeological circles, certainly.

  But she still clung to the theory that this was all some horrific mistake. It had to be.

  The roads were busier in the heart of the downtown area, even at this time of night. Cars drove erratically, not overly concerned with traffic laws. In spite of the fact that John was a skilled driver, she was tense from the unexpected movements of the other vehicles.

  “Shouldn’t we be there by now? I mean, Van isn’t that big.”

  “I think we’re being followed.”

  She jolted upright. “What?”

  “Relax. Don’t draw attention.”

  “Relax. Right.” She tugged on her seat belt to make sure it was secure. “Which car?”

  “Third one behind us. Blue Opel Astra sedan.”

  She started to turn, and he dropped a hand on her knee. “Don’t look—you present a target.” He flipped down the visor on her side and opened the mirror flap. “Use the mirror.”

  She adjusted the visor until she could see the car. The Astra just looked like any other car. She couldn’t see inside the dark vehicle. “How long have they been following?”

  “Since the hotel. He was farther back for a while. He moved up after I took a few quick turns. He doesn’t want to lose us.”

  “How are we going to lose him?”

  “Simple.”

  Without warning, John twisted the wheel and wove through oncoming vehicles. Cressida held her breath against a scream. She was going to die. In a violent car accident. And if she survived, she was going to kill John.

  “Hold on,” he said, his voice calm and even as he threaded the needle between an oncoming bus and a man on a scooter.

  Back in the proper lane, he took a sharp right, down a tight alley, and they wove between carts and garbage, finally coming out the other side. He zipped into a gap in the speeding traffic, and they were off, heading in the opposite direction from where they’d started.

  “Did you see what happened to the car following us?”

  She pressed a fist to her racing heart. “I assume they died in a fiery collision with the bus.”

  “No. He couldn’t make the turn and ran off the road. Tail gone.” He sounded so smug and satisfied.

  She slumped down in her seat. Slowly—very slowly—her heart rate returned to something resembling normal. The city disappeared behind them as dwellings spread out. “Where are we?”

  “On the road to Kurubaş.”

  She bolted upright again. She’d studied enough maps of the area to know that was a small town south of Van. “What? I thought we were going to the police. In Van.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  The nagging fears and doubts that she’d been trying to ignore surged to the surface. Her breathing became shallow as the full import of her situation sank in. Her body flashed into full-blown panic, no passing Go, no two-hundred-dollar payday. She was in deep shit. And it was her own stupid fault for trusting John Baker. “You.” She gasped for breath. “Are.” Another heave. “Abducting.” She hiccupped at the end of that word before choking out, “Me.”

  She grasped at the door handle. She could throw herself out of the vehicle. But the door was locked, and in the moment it took for her to fumble with the mechanism, he’d sped up. Diving from the vehicle would maim or kill her.

  His hand landed on her knee. “No, Cressida, I’m protecting you.”

  “Get your fucking hand off me.”

  He lifted his hand. “Sorry. It’s just—you’re panicking.”

  She sucked in another gasping breath. “Don’t you think I know that?”

  The car slowed. He pulled onto the narrow shoulder and stopped. She reached for the door handle.

  Stupid. She should have grabbed the gun, which she’d set on the floor at her feet.

  Instead, he grabbed it, but he didn’t point it at her. He released the clip, which fell into his lap, rendering it useless as anything but a club.

  She grappled for the door handle again. He reached for her, but his hand stopped short. “Cressida, I’m not abducting you. I’m protecting you. You can’t flee. You don’t know the language. You don’t even know where we are.”

  She froze. John was right; she couldn’t flee. Her suitcase was in the backseat, and they were stopped on a road in the middle of nowhere in freaking Eastern Anatolia. She curled her fingers around the handle but didn’t pull it. “You aren’t abducting me. Right.” She met his gaze. His jaw was tense, but his eyes…they said something else. “And if I open this door and get out of the car, what will you do? Will you grab me? Pull the other gun and threaten me?”

  “I’ll try to talk you out of it, but I won’t stop you.” His voice was low, almost pleading. “My company has a safe house on the outskirts of Kurubaş. I’m taking you there. We can regroup. Figure out what to do.”

  “We? As in you and me, or you and Sabal?”

  He leaned back against the driver’s seat and closed his eyes. “I don’t know what happened to Sabal. I can’t reach him. That worries me.”

  “He was supposed to take the guy with the knife to the police. He was going to file a report for me…” Her voice trailed off. If Sabal hadn’t gone to the police, then no one knew she’d been mugged. No one—except Berzan, who might not even exist—even knew th
e name of her hotel. Not that it mattered since she wasn’t there anymore, but she hadn’t called Trina yet, or Suzanne.

  No one who cares if I live or die knows where I am.

  She was a cipher. Invisible. If she disappeared, no one would have the slightest clue where to start looking.

  “You weren’t safe at the hotel. I had to get you out of there.”

  “Why didn’t you take me to the police?”

  His hands curled into fists. “Remember the phone call I made while you packed?”

  She nodded. She’d shamelessly eavesdropped, but he’d spoken in Turkish. For all she knew, he’d called his wife and said good night to his kids.

  Where the hell did that thought come from? She had no doubt John was hiding things from her, but she had no reason to think a wife and kids were among them. And even less of a reason to feel a tinge of pain at the mere idea.

  She was seriously whacked. Abducted for five minutes and already suffering from Stockholm syndrome? She was an overachiever in the psychoses department.

  And nice to know her track record for picking the worst men imaginable remained unbroken.

  “I was talking to my boss—reporting what had happened. He did a little checking, and apparently, there’s a warrant out for your arrest in Antalya. A man was murdered in your hotel room last night.”

  Chapter Eleven

  As far as lies went, it wasn’t a bad one. Especially since it was damn close to the truth. Ian congratulated himself for coming up with it and thereby securing her cooperation, because he couldn’t take the catch in her voice when she’d panicked.

  Except now she let out a choked shriek, which was sort of worse, actually. “Todd or Hejan?” she asked, her voice cracking on the second name.

  “What?”

  “Was the d-d-dead man Todd Ganem or”—she struggled for breath—“Hejan Duhoki?”

  “The second one. Duhoki. Who is Todd Ganem?”

  She shocked him by flopping against his chest. Apparently, her need for comfort was greater than her fear of him. Ian wrapped his arms around her and stroked her back, telling himself it was what John would do, but knowing he held her because he wanted to, not because it was his damn role.

  “Okay, forget Ganem. Who is Hejan Duhoki?” His quick lie was even better than he’d hoped. He could question her, finally.

  “My translator.”

  “You mean the guy who set you up with Berzan, the mugger?”

  “We don’t know Berzan was my mugger.” She pulled away from his chest and swept back a lock of long dark hair, tucking it behind her ear. “I barely knew him, but his death must be my fault.

  “How so?”

  “My last night in Antalya… Jesus, was that just yesterday?” She rubbed her temples. “Please. Let’s continue on to the safe house. I can tell you on the way. I need a bed.”

  He nodded and put the car in gear. “What happened yesterday in Antalya?”

  She got her emotions under control enough to tell him about Ganem showing up first at the bar, then her hotel room door. She briefly described Ganem’s arrest, followed by her own, and the fact that Ganem had fled the US with the aid of his powerful uncle in Jordan.

  He pulled into the carport of the safe house. The neighborhood—old, run-down, and largely abandoned after the 2011 earthquake—was quiet.

  The house itself was little better than a shack; half of it looked to be on the verge of collapse, but the support beams were solid, making it the ideal hideaway.

  “Is this where you take all your clients?” Her tone was skeptical.

  He laughed. “No. This is a fallback position, in case something goes wrong, and we need to hide the CEO of Microsoft. No one would ever think to look here.”

  “Is the CEO of Microsoft your client?”

  “No, random example.”

  He stared at her, trying to decide his next move. Too risky to leave her in the car while he checked out the house. No choice but to enter together. He kissed her, a brief press of his lips to hers. “Please don’t shoot me,” he said and dropped the Sig and magazine into her lap, then pulled out his own pistol.

  Cressida followed John into the run-down house, hardly able to believe the place was habitable and longing for either of the two hotel rooms she’d paid for in the last two nights. The interior was as dilapidated as the exterior, but the tidy rooms smelled of cleanser.

  Even as she willingly followed the man who may have abducted her into the house—although the fact that he gave her back the gun argued against abduction—she wondered if her trip could possibly be salvaged. Her academic career had ridden on success here, and her universe, her essence, everything she’d worked for since she was seventeen years old had been entirely based on academic success and the respect it could bring.

  She would never be rich, but she’d have a career that made her happy, because she knew from her mother’s example that happiness wasn’t to be found in relationships. Now, with a Master’s degree under her belt and well on her way to a PhD, she was still the bastard who craved acceptance and respect. A shrink would have a field day inside her brain.

  But everything had changed in the last few hours. This wasn’t about academics anymore. She had reason to believe her life was in danger. And she didn’t know if John Baker was her savior or her warden.

  Fight him, or work with him?

  Run or stay?

  The US Embassy was too far away. Even the nearest consulate was several hours by car. If she had a car. Or could get through the checkpoints without ID.

  She was exhausted but strangely wired. Maybe she could figure out what to do if she had a cup of coffee. Coffee fixed everything. She made a beeline for the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?” John asked.

  “I need coffee.”

  “You don’t need coffee. It’s almost midnight after a hellish day. You need sleep.”

  She turned and glared at him. “You may be my warden, but you aren’t my mother. I can have coffee at midnight if I want to, dammit.”

  He shrugged. “There’s some Nescafé in the cupboard.”

  She hated instant coffee, but it would have to do. In minutes she had a warm bowl-shaped mug cradled in her hands. She lifted it to her mouth and breathed in the aroma.

  When she was a little girl, she’d get up early to join her mother in the kitchen for alone time. If a man lived with them, he inevitably slept late, because Sarah Porter was never in long-term relationships with men who worked regular, daytime hours. The smell of coffee brought back those moments—one-on-one time with the only person in her world who mattered and a slice of happiness for an attention-starved girl.

  Sarah was a smart woman. Her fatal flaw was the need for the love and affection she’d never received from her own parents. A fatal flaw Cressida shared with her mother, but triggered by different circumstances. Cressida was all about the daddy issues.

  At best, the adult men who’d populated Cressida’s childhood were takers—selfish pricks who preyed on her mother’s weaknesses. The three worst had been predators, emotionally or physically abusive. One, Two, and Three had needed to dominate and control.

  During the reign of Two, Cressida had done a stint in foster care, but she’d worried about her mother, fearing Two’s violence would escalate without Cressida there to protect her. Cressida snitched a gun from her foster family’s arsenal, and ran home. The end result was Two moved out—in a hurry—and Cressida was no stranger to pulling a gun on a man. Now the question was, could she pull the trigger?

  “Where did you go just now?” John asked, breaking the spell cast by the scent of hot coffee and bitter memories.

  She took a sip. The brew had a richer flavor than she’d expected. She met John’s gaze over the mug. “I was wondering if I could shoot you.”

  He cocked his head; one corner of his mouth crooked in a faint smile. “What did you decide?”

  “I haven’t yet.”

  He stepped toward her. “Can we start over?
Or at least go back to where we were after I saved you at the train?”

  “You mean when I was terrified of you?” She shrugged. “Sure.”

  “No. I mean when you looked at me like I’m Superman.”

  “I can’t do that.” She pushed off the counter and entered the tiny living room. “So, what’s the plan from here? We threaten each other, then form an uneasy alliance, or should we skip the drama and you let me go?”

  He touched her arm, and she turned to face him.

  “I think,” he said, “we’ll go with the threatening and alliance thing if those are the only options. It’s not safe for you on your own.”

  She felt every millimeter of his hand on her bare arm, and the tempo of her heartbeat increased. She didn’t trust him. But his touch wasn’t harsh or violent. And in her mind, she saw his face in that moment beside the train. And later, in the elevator. She shivered at the memory of his hot kiss.

  He didn’t scare her. Far from it. John Baker turned her on. And that scared her.

  She glanced around the living room. “Tell me something that will help me trust you.” She set her mug on a low end table. “What is this place?”

  “This area was hard hit during the 2011 earthquake. The neighborhood was abandoned. They’ve only just gotten electricity back. The locals were more than eager to sell my company several houses in the area.”

  She glanced at the canted wall that separated the living room from the kitchen. “What sort of idiot company would pay for this wreck? Who do you work for?” Christ, why hadn’t she asked him that already? What was wrong with her?

  He glanced at her sideways. “I guess you never read my card. I work for a company called Raptor.”

  Shock filtered through her. “Raptor?”