This was the fight of his life. He wouldn’t give up on clearing his name. He couldn’t let himself or his family down. David had died while undercover, gathering evidence against a drug smuggling ring. Michael refused to let his parents lose another son. He smiled grimly at the limited menu and wondered why he thought he’d be able to get away when his brother hadn’t.
But David hadn’t had the miracle of dumb luck with which he’d been blessed. Lying in a hospital bed in Miami four weeks ago, shot through the diaphragm from left to right, he’d had enough internal injuries to make breathing, much less moving, painful. He’d just struggled into a sitting position, leaned forward toward the tray that held the latest issue of Sports Illustrated, when he’d heard the muffled sound of a shot against his pillow. He’d rolled off the bed, knocking over the tray, nearly knocking himself out from the shock of hitting the hospital floor. But there had been no second shot. He’d gotten himself up and gone to the door to look down the hall, but there had been no one. He was about to call Bill Pride, when Drew had walked in.
Michael still didn’t know why he hadn’t said anything to Drew. He’d let him think he’d gotten up to stretch, drawing his attention away from the ragged hole in the pillow, and talked sports, as if nothing had happened.
But Drew had asked questions, ones Michael didn’t like. That had been when he’d first considered the possibility that Drew wasn’t the friend he thought he was, and he’d decided to get away as quickly as possible.
From ingrained habit, Michael searched the diner for faces that looked out of place, anything that might spell danger. Survival instinct, one of his case managers had called it. He supposed it had saved him too many times to count.
Except that he knew Blair had saved him this time. Not once, but twice.
“Take your order, mister?” the diner’s waitress asked.
***
Blair spotted her rental car parked outside a shabby motel two hours outside of Emerald Bay. She pulled her neighbor’s truck up next to it and got out. Short of pounding on the doors of the four rooms closest to the car she knew Michael had driven, she didn’t know what to do. Drawing that much attention didn’t seem like a good idea. Readjusting her ponytail, she made for the small cinder block building that housed the office.
“Afternoon,” an older woman greeted.
“Hi. I’m looking for my husband. He checked in a few hours ago. Tall, dark hair.”
“You must mean that Vega fella. Good lookin’.” The woman, worn beyond her apparent fifty or so years, took a drag from her cigarette. “He’s in number two.” She blew out the smoke from her lungs, turned, and reached behind her, taking a key from a set of numbered nails. “Here’s another key.”
“Thanks,” Blair replied.
She knocked on the door to number two and waited. A minute later she used the key and turned the knob. The room was empty, the bed in disarray, Michael’s backpack, the one she’d given him when he’d left her at home, lay in a chair next to a scared wooden table. Beyond the bathroom door, an open vinyl shower curtain revealed a dripping shower head.
Michael had to still be here. Blair walked to the single window and peered outside. Across the highway stood a diner. A car turned into the motel parking lot and pulled up to the office.
With dawning fear, Blair watched the heavyset man get out of the car and walk to the office.
Eddie’s friend.
Heart in her throat, Blair moved away from the window. The motel manager would tell him where Michael was. She had to get away. One more look outside told her that the man was already walking toward the room.
She ran to the bathroom, trying desperately to find a way out or some place to hide. The window was too small to crawl through. The shower curtain looked so flimsy she discarded that as a hiding place. Back in the bedroom, the bed drew her attention.
With no time left to consider the wisdom of her choice, she shoved herself under the bed. The metal frame scraped her shoulder as she scooted toward the middle, anxious to be out of sight.
From the door came the sound of metal scraping on metal. One final movement put her in the middle of the bed, hair tumbling over her face.
After some more scraping sounds, the front door clicked open, then shut.
Eyes shut in fear and concentration, Blair matched the sounds of Eddie’s friend moving around with her picture of the small room.
He walked to the chair that held the duffel bag. Blair heard him tearing through Michael’s few things. He wasn’t even trying to be quiet. Had the old woman not told him about her?
Blair lay in the oppressive closeness beneath the bed, her breath too fast and too loud. Finally, she dared open her eyes. The man, wearing scuffed deck shoes, walked past the bed. Blair tried to slow her breathing as she watched the disembodied shoes walk to the tiny closet.
She heard the scraping of coat hangers as the man pushed them aside. She saw when he tiptoed to reach up into the upper shelf, saw him walk into the bathroom, heard him push the shower curtain open wider. Thank God she hadn’t chosen that as a hiding place.
He paused in the doorway of the bathroom, facing the bed. Blair’s scalp tingled, her fists clenched tighter. Her breathing sounded harsh in her own ears. She watched the deck shoes draw nearer. He’d seen her. She closed her eyes, prepared to run.
The bed shifted. He’d sat down. Blair held her breath. In the deathly quiet, she heard tiny rhythmic beeps and realized he was using his cell.
“Yeah. It’s me,” he said in a smooth, dark voice. “I found where he’s staying. He’s not here. I can’t find it.” After a long pause, he continued. “No, there’s nothing. Not a damn thing. He must have it on him.” The man stood; the movement shifted the bed slightly. “I’ll keep looking.”
Then, in the stillness, Blair heard the sound of a key turning the door lock.
Michael.
The man strode quickly to the bathroom and pushed the door partially closed, leaving only a crack open.
Blair’s breath caught. She had to let Michael know.
As she opened her mouth to yell out, it occurred to her that it might not be Michael who’d come in. She hadn’t seen him, couldn’t from beneath the bed.
No, it had to be Michael.
But just in case, she’d wait until she was sure.
Torn between wanting it to be Michael and not wanting it to be him, she bit her lip.
Keys jingled in the quiet. If he would come closer to the bed, she’d know.
She looked toward the bathroom. From her vantage point, she could see through the crack. Eddie’s friend watched silently, his arm down at his side. In his hand, he held a knife.
Blair’s heart stopped. Still unsure who’d come in, she waited, then she recognized Michael from the running shoes he wore.
He was at the bathroom door and everything happened so fast, she didn’t have time to warn him. But he’d known the man was there because he slammed the door back against him, knocking him out of sight. Blair heard him fall, saw Michael lean against the door.
Then they were grappling with each other, and Michael stumbled back into the room. The knife thudded against the thin carpet. Both Michael and the intruder lunged for it.
“Get back,” she heard the man say as he grabbed the knife. Blair froze in her attempt to get out from under the bed. After a pause, he added. “Now.”
The man stood, back toward her, the knife gripped firmly in his right hand, tilted upward, toward Michael.
“Make my life easier, man,” the intruder continued. “Where’d you hide it?”
Voice calm, Michael replied, “Hide what?”
“The flash drive.”
“What flash drive?”
“Don’t give me crap, Alvarez. You Feds are big on evidence. Where’d you hide it?”
“If you know about Feds, then you know I turned it in.”
“The hell you did. You got it somewhere.”
Michael backed further into the bedroom, the man f
ollowed.
“I’m a by-the-book sorta guy,” Michael replied. “I turn in all my evidence.”
The man laughed. “This time you didn’t.”
Blair shimmied out from under the bed, careful to stay too low for the man to see her. She was sure she’d been heard when her shoulder banged the bed frame, but he didn’t turn. She crouched, trying not to so much as shift quickly. In her peripheral vision, she saw a plastic ice bucket sitting on the night stand. Exhaling softly, she inched toward it.
“You got me all wrong,” Michael continued.
Afraid of what she might see, Blair didn’t look up, but she could hear.
“In that chair,” the man ordered, pointing to one by the door. “Let’s see how cooperative you are in an hour.”
Blair lifted the ice bucket, blood pounding through her body. As stealthily as possible, she walked up behind the man, sure the hammering of her heart would give her away. She could have sworn Michael didn’t see her, so intent was his look on the stranger.
Behind the man, she raised the flimsy bucket. He turned.
In a blur of movement so quick she didn’t see what happened, Michael raised his arm and the man lunged forward. Blair swung and hit the intruder on the cheek. The knife fell to the floor. Michael’s fist connected with the man’s jaw. He fell back, his head banging hard against the floor. Michael picked up the knife, then he looked up at her, his eyes blazing.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
The thunder in his voice matched exactly the anger on his face. To Blair’s relief, he didn’t come any closer to her, just stood stone still.
“I had to warn you.”
“No you didn’t. I can take care of myself.”
“Like you did on the island?”
“Damn it, Blair.” He seemed to be short of breath. “You need to stay away from me.”
“But—”
He cursed, but his next words were soft, almost as if he was talking to himself. “What would have happened to you if I hadn’t shown up just now?”
“He didn’t see me.”
“And you enjoyed being under the bed at the mercy of this son of a—”
“He didn’t see me,” she repeated, confused by his stillness.
“Jesus, Blair! Don’t you understand? He could have killed you and it would have been my fault. For a woman who couldn’t say goodbye fast enough six years ago, you keep hanging on!”
Chapter 8
The words hurt. Because they were true. She had hung on throughout the years. She’d never forgotten, never stopped secretly wishing for a second chance, and yet never had the courage to do anything about it.
“Get out of here before this guy comes to,” he said.
The breathless quality of his voice puzzled her. “Drew knows you’re here.”
Sweat trickled down Michael’s temple. “Did Drew tell you that?”
“Of course not. I overheard him. You have to leave. Now.”
He glanced at the still-open door. “Your truck out there?” His words came too fast, his breathing choppy.
“Yes.”
“Drive straight back to Emerald Bay.”
“Don’t you understand? They know you’re here!”
“Damn it, Blair, I know that.” But there was no force behind the exclamation. He seemed out of breath. “I don’t know who the hell Eddie’s friend is. But where Drew won’t hurt you, this guy will.” He glanced down at the fallen man.
Michael swayed and for the first time, Blair noticed the grip he had on his shirt-front, beneath his slightly open wind breaker. She stepped closer and opened the jacket. A dark, wet stain spread across the bunched cotton of his shirt.
Blood.
“Oh my God! What happened?”
As she asked, she caught sight of the knife in Michael’s hand. Blood covered the lethal blade.
“I need a towel,” he said quietly.
Blair ran to the bathroom and grabbed two towels. When she came back, Michael had closed the door and was making his way to the chair. He eased down, his hand pressed to his side, his head leaning back. Blood oozed from between his fingers.
On her knees in front of him, Blair made a pad of one towel and began unbuttoning Michael’s shirt. “Let me see,” she said, “let me get to it.”
He released his grip on the shirt and Blair pulled the shirt open. She had to wipe away blood to see the wound, an inch over the waistband of his jeans and well over to his left side, over the still healing surgical incision. She pressed a striped towel down on his warm flesh and looked up. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“Get out, Blair.”
“You are a complete idiot!” A rush of fear made her blurt out the words. “What were you thinking, trying to get rid of me?”
He closed his eyes. “This guy’s going to wake up.”
He’d been thinking of her. Trying to protect her at his own expense. She had to pull herself together, think for them both. This wasn’t about second chances. This was about his life. Pressing against his side, she asked, “Do you have your gun?”
A weak laugh, followed by a gasp, came from Michael. “I didn’t know you were blood-thirsty.”
She didn’t either, but at this moment, if that man regained consciousness and she could get her hands on a gun, she was pretty sure she’d use it.
She lifted the towel. The cut hadn’t stopped bleeding. It had to be deep. He had to have stitches. “We need the gun for protection.”
“I have it,” he said.
“We need to go.”
Sweat covered Michael’s ashen face. “Get me to the car.”
“You need help. A doctor. I’ll take you.”
“I can’t go down to the local emergency room.” The words, deep and slow, rumbled from his throat.
Blair looked down at the towel, now soaked in blood. “You’re losing too much blood.”
Michael raised his head off the back of the chair, held the wet towel away from the wound, and stared down.
“It’s too much blood,” Blair repeated. “We have to get you help.” She grabbed the second towel and pressed against him as his head fell back onto the chair again.
“Remember John’s airfield?”
Blair looked up at him. “Yes.”
“Can you get there from here?”
“Will going there help you?”
He nodded.
“Then I’ll get you there.” If it meant help for him, she had to.
Michael was already standing. With blood-smeared fingers, he took a gun from his back, placed it on the chair, and began undoing his brown leather belt.
“What are you doing?”
“Grab the backpack.” He pulled the belt free.
When she stared, he prompted, “Hurry.”
She snagged the blue bag, turned back, and found that he’d made a thick pad of the second towel and was wrapping the belt around himself to keep it on his wound. He wobbled, unsteady as he walked to the bathroom and washed his hands.
“What in the world are you doing?” She hurried to his side.
“Can’t go out with blood all over me.” His breath was coming quicker now. He turned, nearly overbalancing himself.
Blair grabbed his arm in an effort to steady him.
“Get me a clean shirt,” he said in a whisper, balancing himself against the wall.
Somehow, they got the bloody shirt off and a clean shirt on him. Blair had to fasten the buttons because Michael was busy holding the towel tighter to his side. He insisted she put his bloody shirt and the towel in the plastic bag from the trash can, then place both inside the backpack. Once he got his jacket back on, he grabbed his gun.
“Let’s go,” he said, slipping the gun beneath the shirt into the back of his jeans, on the other side of his wound. “Bring the bag.”
Terrified, Blair did, then grabbed his right arm.
“No.” He pulled free. “On my left.”
She wasn’t going to be able to do this. W
hat made her think she could help him?
Stepping behind him, she took his left arm and they made for the door.
“Mrs. Vega?” The female voice from beyond the closed door nearly stopped Blair’s heart. It was the clerk.
“Yes?” she replied, throwing a quick glance at the man still unconscious on the floor.
“Can I talk to you?”
Michael opened the door enough for them to see the motel manager. “Something wrong?” he asked, holding on to the doorframe and blocking the view of the room.
“No, no. Just wanted to—” She paused, catching sight of Blair. “You goin’ with your brother?”
Confused, Blair replied, “My brother?”
The woman squinted at her. “Fella I sent your way.”
“No,” Michael said, “she’s not going with him.”
Blair felt a tremor run through Michael’s body.
“I don’t normally meddle, you know.”
Michael nodded. Blair couldn’t understand how he kept himself upright.
“So I didn’t know what to do,” the manager continued.
“About what?” Michael asked.
“I told that man which room you and your wife was in. He said he was your brother-in-law, worried about you, he said. But he was nervous and, well, after this phone call I just got, I thought I’d better see what’s goin’ on.”
“What phone call?”
“Marv O’Neil from over the Sheriff’s office called. Said they’re looking for a fella who’s on the run.”
“What did you tell him?” Michael asked.
“I told him I’d go check to see if the fella I talked to was still here.” She moved her head to one side, trying to see around Michael. "Was that your brother-in-law?"
“Yeah, but he left. We won’t trouble you anymore.”
“Thank you,” Blair said, hoping to hurry the woman along.
“You take care. You never know what kind of trouble you can run into.” She gave then both a long hard look, one Blair was afraid would reveal Michael’s bleeding side, but the woman turned and walked down the row of rooms, away from the office.
Against the Wind Page 9
