She was aware she wasn’t as gorgeous as her sister. Since she had been a baby, she’d been compared to her sister, and Kit did not rank on any magazine’s list as hot or tempting. At some point, looks wouldn’t matter as much, and someone would recognize her genius. But in this space and at this time, looks mattered; brains didn’t. Maybe when she and Marissa were in their sixties, someone would finally stop snapping pictures of Marissa long enough to realize that Kit was smart.
Kit didn’t blame her sister. Marissa was a good person with a warm heart, but the media cared only how she looked, what she wore and where she partied. Kit and her sister were both underestimated.
The man started toward her. Kit slid off the stool. She checked that her dress was pulled down in the back and tried to flee. It was juvenile, but she didn’t want to have an actual conversation with a handsome man or fend off a joke about her.
Kit didn’t get far. With her ridiculous borrowed shoes, she had to walk like a clopping horse. The roof was too jam-packed, and unlike her sister, who strode through a room and parted the crowd, Kit had no such effect on the people around her.
The man reached her and smiled. The smile shifted his looks from handsome to drop-dead gorgeous. Her knees locked and her breasts tightened and she cursed her body’s complete overreaction. Maybe this was how men felt when they looked at her sister. If so, she understood their obsession with Marissa a bit more. Standing in front of this man, it was hard to look away.
“You’re Kit Walker, right?” he asked.
Kit blinked at him and then looked behind her. He’d said her name, but was he actually looking for her? She could think of only one reason why he would. “If you are trying to meet my sister through me, Marissa doesn’t make a mockery of me by allowing men to use me to get to her.” It had happened at least five times in the past. It was humiliating for Kit, having a man pretend to like her only to flat-out ignore her once he was in Marissa’s presence. Marissa hated it. Kit wasn’t a fan, either.
“I have no interest in your sister,” the man said. His voice was deep and slightly gravelly. Like the voice of a man who was used to being in charge and in control. Maybe an actor, then. Or a director.
“You’d be the first and only man on the planet.” She laughed so she didn’t sound completely bitter, but it wasn’t funny. It was true and painful. When she was younger, she used to imagine a man would come into their lives and see something in her that made her more attractive than Marissa.
“Is there a place we could speak in private?” he asked.
“I don’t sneak off to closets with strangers,” she said.
He frowned, and she mourned the loss of his amazing smile. His eyes were flat and serious. “I have no plans to put you in a closet. I do have something important to speak with you about. It’s a sensitive matter. I am familiar with your work.”
Her stomach dropped. His voice gave away he wasn’t referring to her job at the florist. It had been four years since she had worked as a computer scientist, and she had put the past behind her. Though she sometimes woke in the night in a cold sweat, nightmares about her previous work hounding her, Kit had built a safe life for herself.
Kit held up her hands and backed away. “Stay away from me.” How had anyone found her? She had been exceedingly careful.
She turned to flee and he grabbed her wrist, preventing her escape. The party went on around her as if no one was aware of what was happening to her. Being socially invisible might get her killed. “If you don’t let me go, I will scream. My sister has a security team here. They will...tackle you.” Kit had seen her sister’s bodyguards grapple with or hit men who lunged at her sister either trying to cop a feel or take a picture up her dress. It was comical how easily her bodyguards kept pests away.
But this man was more than a pervert with a mission. This man was a threat. He wouldn’t be flicked to the side.
He released her. “Shade sent me.”
The words came on a whisper, carrying a heavy message. Shade, a name from her past, ancient history. Shade was known for being ridiculously principled and scrupulously ethical. Shade was a topnotch hacker and a class act. “Is she in trouble?” Kit’s question confirmed she knew Shade. But if he knew about Shade, he knew too much already. Theirs was a small and discreet community.
“She’s safe, but she sent me because she is worried about you. Problems are coming your way.”
Kit wasn’t interested in a cloak-and-dagger routine. “I don’t do that type of work anymore. I work for a florist. If Shade was worried about me, she would have sent me a message directly.” Online. Over the phone. Sending a messenger did not seem like Shade’s style.
“You’ve been hard to find.”
Her pride flooded through her. At least she hadn’t made it painfully easy for her enemies to locate her. Shade was a friend, but to keep herself safe, she’d had to hide from everyone, and that had meant creating a new online identity. “Yet here you are,” Kit said, wondering how he had located her. If he had found her, then her enemies could, as well.
“I went through a lot of trouble to locate you. Thousands in bribes, hours on stakeouts and hacking the United States’ civilian records,” he said.
The records the government kept to allow them to track almost anyone. Library cards, credit card bills and facial recognition from streaming video feeds made hiding next to impossible. Kit had believed knowing how the government could track her meant she could be untraceable. She had been mistaken.
“Coming for you in person allows us to protect you.”
“Us?” She looked around. She could spot a military man from fifty paces. This man had the look of someone with service experience, but no one else jumped out at her.
“I work with a team, but I am here alone.”
“You work for Shade?” she asked.
“With her,” he said.
He didn’t like to be submissive. Definitely military. “I’m fine here. My family is close, and if you haven’t noticed, my sister hired a dozen security guards for this party.”
The man arched a brow. “Your family and some guards for hire can’t protect you. You have dangerous enemies.”
“Maybe you’re one of them,” she said. She lifted her phone to snap his picture. He snatched it from her hands before she could capture his image and send it with an SOS to her safety net, a list of computer hackers who would take his picture to the authorities if anything happened to her.
“I’ve heard a computer in your hands is as dangerous as a weapon.”
A compliment. “You heard right. I’ll do what’s needed to protect myself and my family.”
“Like calling in an air strike?” he asked, sounding amused.
“That was a joke,” she said. When she had been on the project years ago, she had ordered an air strike against a general who had pissed her off. She’d known the military had safeguards to prevent friendly fire, but it had been a clear warning not to screw with her.
“Not everyone is amused by your sense of humor,” he said.
“I’ve been told it’s a little warped. Give me my phone.”
He handed it to her. “I need to take you somewhere safe.”
He could be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. If he had found her and knew about Shade, he could be masquerading as friendly but working with her enemies. “I can protect myself.” Or at least, she could run and disappear.
The music stopped dead, and the lanterns and bar lights on the rooftop flickered before going out completely. Kit glanced at her phone, confused to see the red warning icon that she had no cell service. Panic flared, and she sensed something bad was unfolding.
He said, “Not from—”
The rat-tat-tat of gunfire cut him off. The man grabbed Kit and held her against him, sheltering her with his body and forcing her to the ground.
“Please stop that,” he said.
She stilled her hands. “Are you wearing a vest?”
“Of course I am,” he said, reaching for one of his weapons and shoving her behind him. He pivoted on his heels while staying in a squat.
Lights from adjacent buildings, the moon and the city below were the only illumination.
A man with a large gun swung it in a wide circle around him, eliciting more squeals of fear and pleading. Two others were at his sides. They wore clear plastic masks, distorting their faces, and black clothes. Between their disguises and the darkness, Kit couldn’t tell anything about these men.
“We’re looking for a woman. If you stay calm, no one will be hurt. Kit Walker, come forward or we’ll kill every person on this roof.”
Kit tried to push the man off her. He didn’t budge.
“Stay down. I will get you out of this.”
“Not at the expense of everyone here.” Kit couldn’t see her mother’s, sister’s or brother’s face, but she guessed they were terrified and confused. She was the nobody in the family. They must have been wondering who would barge into a party, armed, and attempt to kidnap her.
He stood, jerking her to her feet, turning her to protect her with his body and bringing a gun to her temple. “If you want her, you’ll have to fight me for her.”
He had lied. He was here to hurt her.
Every person on the roof was looking at them. Her mother screamed. Marissa was pointing from her bodyguards to Kit, perhaps begging them to do something. Kit tried to pull free. Including the one holding her, four madmen were after her. How far would she get, especially in these shoes?
She had known her history would catch up with her. She had been warned that she couldn’t walk away from the Locker and start over as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn’t been key in creating a system that protected the United States and threatened other countries in subversive and catastrophic ways.
But darned if she hadn’t tried.
The liar dragged her through the crowd, gun poking her. “Shoot anyone and she dies,” the liar said to the man at the door.
Party guests were cowered on the ground. The shooting had stopped.
If she made it out of here, the liar would probably kill her when he realized she wouldn’t work as a traitor to the United States. She was worth more alive than dead, and that would buy her some time. She had refused to take part in the training about resisting advanced interrogation techniques, aka torture, but now she wished she was prepared. How stiff-lipped would she be when her loyalty to America was put to the test?
Kit had made bad choices in her professional career. Being involved with the Locker was the worst. One of the lead computer scientists on the project had suffered a stroke. The stress and the deadlines had gotten to him. The engineer who had masterminded the Locker had experienced a complete break with reality. He had behaved strangely for weeks, and then he had snapped. Both men had been removed from the project. It had been devastating for Kit personally, and the professional pressure on her had increased. She had worried that she would become ill, either physically or mentally, but she had held it together. Looking back, her naïveté had saved her. She hadn’t fully grasped the enemies she was making or the importance of her work.
“We can make an arrangement. We’ll pay double your fee,” the man with the assault rifle said. He had a mustache. She didn’t trust men with mustaches.
“Let’s take this downstairs.” That gravelly voice commanded respect. Kit wondered if she could get free of him. In movies and TV, spunky heroines broke away with a well-placed kick. But his grip on her was firm, and he was probably a very good shot. A man who owned a bulletproof vest wasn’t a novice with a weapon. How far could she get before being gunned down?
The liar dragged her into the stairwell, where there were fewer witnesses. Where were the police? Had they been called? The signal on her phone had gone out, but could someone else have contacted the authorities? Could they help her?
The probability of her dying was high, and Kit didn’t have much to lose. He could shoot her on the stairs and then throw her body down fifteen flights. She had a slim chance of surviving that. She would run the first chance she had.
“If you shoot me, make sure I’m dead before you toss my body down the stairs,” she said.
“What?” he asked. He sounded annoyed. She didn’t care if he was annoyed. If she had to die, she wanted some say in the matter.
“I don’t want to be paralyzed and brain-dead and a huge problem for my family while I’m in a vegetative state. Shoot to kill. Navy SEAL me—you know, one to the heart and one to the head.”
He swore under his breath. “Please just shut up.”
The other three men followed them down the stairs. They wanted to bring her in alive. The liar might want her dead. She was better off with the people who wanted her alive. At least it would buy her an opportunity to escape.
Though he was holding her firmly, he wasn’t hurting her or jerking her around. He was almost carrying her down the stairs. When they reached the ground floor, they stepped into the narrow alley between the buildings.
“If you’re prepared to pay me, then I’m prepared to give her to you,” the liar said.
A mercenary with no moral compass except one that pointed to the highest dollar amount. What a loser. She revoked her good thoughts about how attractive he was and replaced the word attractive with louse.
“Tell me the routing and account number and the money is yours,” the other man said.
The liar shouted out a series of numbers. Kit memorized them. If she escaped him, she would rob him blind. He would make a very, very large and untraceable donation to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital.
The mercenary put his gun in the hand holding her and took out his phone to confirm the money transfer had been made. The distraction could be a chance to run for freedom. She struggled against him, but his arm was unmovable. She elbowed him in the gut and hit only his vest and the muscle beneath. He didn’t flinch or make any noise of pain. At least that would have given her some satisfaction.
“Thanks for the payout,” he said. “Trust me,” he whispered into her ear before he pushed her to the other men.
She stumbled in her heels, but one of the men grabbed her. He dragged her toward a car at the opening of the alley.
More gunshots, and Kit ducked. Were they killing the mercenary? It would serve him right. Would-be murderers had it coming.
A man with curly hair shoved her against the car and pulled her to the ground. He wasn’t moving, and he was heavy. It was hard to breathe with his weight pinning her. Several seconds passed before she realized he was dead on top of her. She kicked at him, trying to move him off her. Now was her opportunity to run for freedom.
The body gave way, and then the mercenary was hauling her to her feet. The other men were dead in the alley, blood pooling around their bodies.
Hysteria and panic clawed at her. If he would callously kill these men, he would kill her. Three more men entered the alley. They advanced on her and the mercenary. He nudged her farther down the alley in the opposite direction.
He was already shooting at the others. “Run, Princess. Get out of here.”
Confusion morphed into self-preservation. He was letting her go. She started to run and then stopped to look over her shoulder. He was fighting the three men, landing punches but taking punches, too. She wanted to run, but something held her feet in place.
Before she could decide what to do
next, the mercenary had knocked out the three men. He raced toward her. “Come on. I told you to run. You need a better sense of survival.”
“I was worried about you,” she said.
He grunted. “Don’t worry about me. Focus your energy on living through this.”
He threw her on the back of a motorcycle and then climbed on. He handed her a helmet. She didn’t have it snapped and he was already taking off from the alley. As the cycle lurched, she grabbed his shoulders to steady herself.
She had too many questions. Was he planning to sell her or kill her? He had already sold her, but then had saved her. Why? What did he need her to do? What was his connection to the Locker?
The motorcycle drew to a stop on the side of a quiet street lined with boutiques closed for the night. Kit’s legs were shaking with fatigue, and her body was trembling.
He helped her off the motorcycle and she collapsed against him, unable to stand. Her dress was torn and dirty, and based on the way it was twisted, she must have looked indecent. She’d lost a shoe, and her foot hurt.
“I think there’s something in my heel,” she said, lifting it and trying to get a better look.
He set her on his motorcycle and knelt on the ground. Though his gaze dodged left and right, he examined her foot with surprising gentleness. “A piece of glass is in it.”
“Pull it out,” she said.
He held up his finger and reached into a bag on his bike. He removed a first aid kit. “Your shoe is the most impractical choice.”
“I wasn’t planning to run away from armed killers tonight,” she said.
She flinched when he removed the glass. Then he squeezed her foot and cleaned it with alcohol wipes. She held her teeth together to keep from screaming.
“It’s not too deep. We’ll have a doctor look at it later.”
What were his plans for her? If he took her to a doctor, could she find help? “Why did you save me?”
“I was sent to retrieve you.”
A Baby for Agent Colton Page 24
