I’d made my point, so I let the smile dim. “Frankly, I’ll take the answers I can get.”
“Ford?” The girl who’d been running the register since Ford had abandoned his post called out, sounding a little panicked.
He looked up and cussed. It wasn’t an emergency or anything, but the line had grown, leaving several people glaring at the hapless barista. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
I rose when he did. “Fine. Do you want to stop by my place when you get off? Or should I meet you at yours?”
His brows drew down. “Huh?”
“We’re having that conversation tonight, one way or another.”
“You need to stay here until I get off.” He pointed at the table. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“I was out of your sight all day.”
“Yes, you were on campus, where there is campus security. And I had someone—” He broke off, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
My stomach lurched. Matthew’s accusations—ones I’d been sure were baseless—rang in my head. “You, what? Had someone…. Did you have someone spying on me?”
“Not spying, damn it. He was looking out for you.”
“Who?”
“A friend.”
I held my breath and tried counting to ten. Now wasn’t the time to go off on him. I didn’t want to put any credence in what Matthew said, but the logical, unemotional part of me saw some room for multiple interpretations. I reached ten and kept going. After I’d reached sixteen, I said, “Fine. So we have a few things to talk about tonight. But I can’t just hang out here for the next few hours. I have things to do.”
“I have to finish my shift tonight. Two of my contacts are meeting me here, but I don’t know when. They can’t meet me anywhere else, and I—we—need this info.”
Contacts. Did normal people—like those not involved in drugs or organized crime or weapons trafficking—actually talk about contacts? I examined his face, looking for some sign that he was bullshitting me, but he seemed genuine. He reached up and ran his thumb along my cheek, a quick, nearly invisible caress that no one who wasn’t paying close attention to would notice. “Please.”
Shit. First that touch and then he had to go and say please? I surrendered. “Fine. But that means we have four things to talk about tonight. You’d better drink some coffee. You won’t be getting much sleep. And,” I said, plopping back into my chair, “the Wi-Fi here better not suck.”
He gripped my shoulder. “Thank you.”
One of these days, I was going to grow a backbone where Ford was concerned. Seriously.
I WAS on my second oatmeal cookie, and I’d switched from coffee to bottled water two hours later. The Wi-Fi wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but I wasn’t about to do any of my “special” research on an open network, so instead I spent the time tweaking my lesson plans for the rest of the semester. It was nearing closing time, but a last-minute influx of customers had Ford hopping at the front counter. Donnie had left half an hour earlier, leaving Ford and the girl—whose name I discovered was Shelly when I acquired my second cookie—to man the café.
I saved the last of my changes before packing away my laptop. He was too busy to notice me, so I decided now was the perfect time to ogle Ford. Who knew making espresso drinks could be so sexy? He looked so serious as he went about his job. He rarely cracked a smile, but the patrons didn’t seem to mind. He measured flavored syrups and steamed milk with an intensity that was, frankly, hot as hell. And the green apron, which should have been the antithesis of sexy, was actually damned attractive on him. The slight flare of fabric when he turned brought to mind Celtic warriors or Roman soldiers. Powerful. Commanding.
For crying out loud. Was I really romanticizing a fricking apron?
The little bells above the door jingled. The only reason I noticed was because now that the café was approaching closing time, the chimes had sounded less and less often. And, well, I wasn’t actively occupied in working on something else. The guys who came in were… not who I’d have expected to show up in a café in a small city in Wyoming. Even though they had Native American features, they reminded me more of some of the members of the Brazilian drug cartel I’d run into a couple of years ago. Stiff, nearly military in their bearing. Dark eyes moving through the room, no doubt cataloging every detail. Ford noticed them too and stepped out from behind the counter and met them halfway to the door.
While they wore puffy coats in defense of the cold, their hands were bare. At first I couldn’t figure out why that bothered me. Ford never wore gloves either, but I had no reason to care whether these guys froze their fingers off. Then I realized it was the deliberate way their arms hung straight at their side, without even the barest bend at the elbow. Neither of them had a hand in a pocket or arms crossed over their chest. It was the stance of someone out to prove that they absolutely, under no circumstances, had a weapon or illicit substances tucked into their pockets. When I was twelve, I hung around with a thirteen-year-old who was bad news. I didn’t like him, but at the time I was willing to hang out with anyone who didn’t treat me like a freak genius. Well, anyway, he carried himself the same way the time he—with me as an unwilling/unknowing accomplice—stole a pint of vodka from a convenience store while I bought a blue raspberry slushie. The boy’s name was Wyatt, and that had been the end of our friendship.
That had been the day I realized it was better to be friendless than to violate my personal principles just to be able to say I had a “friend.”
Anyway, these guys reminded me of Wyatt. Only older, more intense, and eminently more dangerous.
I narrowed my eyes, ice forming in my gut when one of the strangers reached into the front of his coat and pulled out a five-by-eight manila envelope, which he then handed to Ford. Ford folded the envelope and jammed it into the back pocket of his jeans. Then he clasped arms—one of those hand-to-forearm things macho comrades-in-arms tended to do—with the guy. And then, as if to prove the scene really could get worse, Ford passed over a folded wad of cash. Dread coiled in my stomach, mingling with the ice in a nauseous combination.
Fuck no. Matthew was right. Ford was a drug dealer.
Little reactions and his strangely conciliatory behavior suddenly made sense. It had all started after the guys had stolen my journal. I’d even asked Ford if there were drug dealers or gangs in Cody. That was when his interest in me—or at least in my situation—had developed. Then I thought of something else. It probably wasn’t drug dealers. I mean, Donnie had casually mentioned weapons traffickers and assassins. The guys who’d stolen my journal, which still seemed surreal, had assault rifles. Ford was probably involved with weapons trafficking. Which was just as bad, wasn’t it?
I must have made a noise. A squeak or mutter or something that matched my increasingly incoherent brain. Ford looked away from the visitors and met my gaze. He looked away and subtly adjusted his posture until his large form blocked my view of the strangers.
My hands shook when I picked up my shoulder bag. I had to get out of here. Get away from Buddy’s, from Ford, from this whole entire situation.
I strode across the dining room, making a wide berth around Ford and his “contacts.” Ford whipped his head from them, to me, and back to them. I could see the struggle on his rugged face. He wanted to stop me, to keep me from leaving, but he couldn’t move away from the others. The sentimental part of me—the part that remembered the way Ford helped me put my ransacked house back to order and listened when I told him about my grandfather—wanted to believe he didn’t want to draw their attention to me. The cynical part of me—the part that remembered Wyatt and what happened when I ignored my instincts in favor of companionship—figured he didn’t want to risk me going to the authorities. Not that the local authorities had been much help when I’d reached out before.
I glared at him, putting every iota of disgust, distrust, and anger I felt into the look. He stepped back, startled by the vehemence in my look. Good. He sho
uld have been taken aback. I only hesitated a second before charging through the door.
The bitter Wyoming cold doused the heat of anger—and, yes, fear—in me, stopping me two steps down the block. Along with the realization that I didn’t have a car, so I had no way to get home aside from walking the five miles between here and there.
And didn’t it fucking figure? It had started to snow.
I tugged my coat closer around my body and tried to tuck my chin behind the collar. Well, there was nothing for it. A little cold and a long walk wouldn’t kill me.
The damn bells jingled again, and I was 99 percent sure those bloody bells were going to give me nightmares. It was the bells, after all, that heralded the evidence of Ford’s criminality.
“Simon!”
My feet stilled and my heart pounded. I closed my eyes and resolutely resumed walking. I couldn’t deal with Ford face-to-face. Not now. Not when my heart was breaking.
I was rational enough to realize I wasn’t reacting rationally. Ford might be involved in dealing drugs and/or trafficking weapons, and here I was more worried about my crumbling emotional attachment than the fact that Ford was a criminal who could potentially instigate my death. In fact, he’d probably came after me to ensure my silence.
I spun on my heel to face him. “If you’re going to threaten me, get it over with.”
He ignored my statement, stalking forward. The stupid man hadn’t even put on a coat. “Where the fuck are you going? You need to get your ass inside right now.”
“Not happening.”
“It isn’t safe out here.”
“I’m pretty sure it isn’t safe in there either.”
“What the hell, Simon. What’s gotten into you?”
“I’ll tell you what’s gotten into me. I’m sick of the secrets. Tired of the mysteries. Tired of weird shit happening.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“Ha!” And, okay, that was a bit dramatic. “Want to tell me who those men were?”
His face tightened. “I can’t.”
I threw my hands into the air. Damn, I really was turning into a drama queen. That wasn’t normally my style. But a certain amount of leeway needed to be allowed given the situation. “See, secrets.” I really was leaving now.
“I’m trying to protect you, damn it.” He attempted to grab my arm, but I jerked away.
“Don’t touch me. In fact, don’t come near me again, or I’ll call the cops. The one I talked with was mostly useless—I’m assuming you and your group have Hudson in your pocket—but I bet there’s someone who’ll be willing to arrest you. Maybe the state police. Or the FBI. They’re always on the lookout for drug dealers and weapons traffickers.”
Ford stumbled back, a sight that was oddly gratifying. He choked and stuttered for a moment before finally asking, “Drug dealers and weapons traffickers?”
A fat snowflake landed on my eyelash, and before I could reach up to brush it aside, squealing tires and roaring engines appeared on the sidewalk next to us. Black SUVs. Three of them. “Friends of yours?”
Ford whipped his head around, nostrils flaring. Eyes wide, he gestured behind him. “Go, Simon. Quick.”
It was too late for me to run. I guessed they weren’t friends. With a sort of dread-induced paralysis, I watched as doors on each SUV popped open and men leaped out. Not that I recognized them specifically, but I highly suspected they were the same guys who’d held me up for my notes. It wasn’t much of a leap—they wore the same military-inspired uniforms and drove the same style black SUVs.
And no matter how much I wanted to obey Ford and flee, my feet were glued to the icy sidewalk. Not only could I not get the fuck out of here, I couldn’t help but pick up on all the little details—the way the fluffy flakes of snow settled, then dissipated on the hood of the closest vehicle, the swoosh and squeak of windshield wipers, the rhythmic fall of booted feet on the concrete. With my brain cataloging the little details, I almost missed the muffled pop of a gun. It didn’t sound like a regular gun—it was muted somehow. Next to me, Ford fell back, clutching at his chest.
Then I screamed.
Chapter Thirteen
THEY shot Ford.
On the sidewalk in front of a hole-in-the-wall café, they shot Ford. In the chest.
I collapsed next to his body and tried to push his hands away from the entry wound. I needed to see how badly he was hurt. He couldn’t be dead. I refused to even consider it. I knocked Ford’s arm away.
Rough hands grabbed at me, and I fought them. I forgot every self-defense move I’d ever been taught. Instead I flung my arms and legs with violent abandon, anything to be released from their holds. I whipped my head back, catching one of them in the face with my skull. He cursed but didn’t loosen his grip. My knee bashed into the concrete, sending pain singing up my leg. It didn’t stop me. A little hurt wasn’t going to make me surrender. They were trying to pull me away from Ford, and I couldn’t let them. Ford was hurt. Shot. Possibly bleeding out in front of me, and I couldn’t leave him.
I blinked down at my hands and Ford’s chest. Wait. There was no blood. No hot wetness soaked his black shirt. No red stained my hands. But he wasn’t moving.
It was in this moment of confusion that my struggles waned. Only for a moment, but that was all it took for the bastards I grappled with to gain the upper hand. I was held tight against one of the men, a gloved hand covering my mouth, silencing my panicked shouts. His other arm could have been a steel band across my chest, limiting my movement.
I wriggled and grunted, despite the punishing hold. I tried to yell past the hand over my mouth. It was late, but someone had to be around. Someone had to have seen this. Where the hell were those contacts of Ford’s? They wouldn’t just let him get accosted on the street. I kicked back, aiming the nearly useless heel of my red Converse high-tops for the knees of the guy holding me. I’d have settled for shins, but knees would do more damage.
One of the men with guns turned to me and my captor. I couldn’t see his face—it was covered by a black tactical mask—but I could hear the disgust in his voice when he said, “Jesus, stop playing with him and get him into the truck.”
“Knock it off.” My captor tightened his grip.
“Fuck off.” The words weren’t intelligible, not with the big hand covering the lower half of my face, but he got the point. And there was no way I was going to make it easy for some guy to drag me into the truck. Scary statistics about the survival rate of attack victims who were taken to other locations—a result of my unfortunate addiction to true crime shows and my excellent memory for details—appeared in my brain, reminding me not to stop fighting.
He pulled back on my head until my neck arched awkwardly and his masked cheek pressed into mine. “Stop drawing attention to yourself, or we kill your TA.”
My breath caught and my wriggling slowed. Two questions warred for prominence in my mind. First, how did the bad guys know Ford was my TA? And second, was Ford still alive? Clearly the second one was the most important question, but I filed the first away for later consideration. Survival statistics notwithstanding, I stopped fighting my abductor. If Ford was still alive, I needed to do whatever I could to keep him that way. Even if he was a possible drug dealer/weapons-trafficking shape-shifter of indeterminate origin.
The guy holding me didn’t wait to see if my lack of fight was actual acquiescence. He slipped something around my wrists and yanked. The distinctive sound and the tight plastic fit told me he’d bound my hands in front of me with a zip tie. He hauled me bodily back until he shoved me, feetfirst, into the back seat of the middle SUV. Within seconds, the rest of the men in black followed suit.
I craned my neck to see Ford. I prayed, even though religion had never played much of a role in my life, for someone to find him soon and get him medical attention. In the flickering neon of the Buddy’s sign, something glinted in Ford’s lax hand. It looked like… a dart? The red fluff at the one end reminded me of the darts used in
the field when tagging animals for study. So they’d shot him with some kind of tranquilizer, not a bullet?
The guy next to me—the same jerk who’d pushed me into the vehicle to begin with—yanked me back, ending my view of the café. Strange, I wasn’t as scared to be trapped in a car with mysterious men with dangerous weapons as I should have been. It might have been the relief at discovering that Ford was probably just knocked out on the sidewalk, rather than dead or bleeding out. And while it was still freezing out, and hypothermia was a real concern, at least blood loss was less likely.
The person in the passenger side of the vehicle turned his body to look at me. “I can’t believe you’re still spending time with him.”
Shit. I recognized that voice. “Matthew? What the hell is going on?”
He pulled the tactical mask off and glared at me. “You’re making me look like an idiot. Why did you have to be so stubborn?”
“I’m making you look like an idiot? I’m not the one running around in some souped-up Halloween costumes, shooting people, and abducting people off the street. Pretty sure that was your decision all along.”
“You were supposed to be a simple assignment. Get to know you. Get you to trust me. But every time I tried, you turned to him.”
I blinked stupidly at him for a minute. “Seriously? You’re jealous of Ford?”
“Enough.”
The cold voice coming from the driver’s seat was enough to shut me up. In fact, it was so frigid that I felt my balls crawling up into my body. It was a female voice, which really threw me. I realized, of course, that women could be bad guys too, but I guess I’d assumed the men coming after me with big guns were, well, men.
“But, Sonia—”
She hissed at him, a full-on angry snake hiss, and he snapped his mouth closed.
Chasing Thunderbird Page 14
