Locke looked down at her dark pants and suit jacket. “I blend.”
“Yeah—provided the crowd’s all FBI agents. You want to trail someone on the street—especially if you’re a hot-looking babe—dress down, skeeve up a little. Jeans and T-shirt. Sneakers. No makeup. And how the hell did you expect to keep up in those shoes?”
“I was doing fine.” That was a lie. She wasn’t doing anything close to fine. She was hot and exhausted and distracted and thinking of Tyra—waiting for her pager to go off or her cell phone to ring.
“Feet hurt?”
She hesitated only slightly as she looked into Starrett’s neon blue eyes. “Yes.”
He smiled, and for once it wasn’t one of those Boy Howdy cowboy grins. It was a real smile. He gestured with his chin just down the street. “You want me to wait while you run into the drugstore and pick up some Band Aids?”
She blinked at him. “Wait?”
“You’re following me because you think I know where John Nilsson is, right?”
She didn’t answer. No way was she telling him that.
“Naturally you can’t admit it, but we both know I’m right. Which means that even when we shake hands and say, ‘So long, have a nice day,’ you’re going to keep on following me. FYI, I’m walking all the way to that fancy toy store—it’s probably still about four blocks down. My niece’s birthday is next week and since I’m not going to be able to visit, I’m so screwed.” He laughed. “I’m going to have to send her the entire damn store. After maxing out my credit card, I’m heading all the way back to the hotel, stopping at as many bars as possible along the way. Your feet’ll be bleeding by then if you don’t get Band Aids.”
“You have a niece?” She couldn’t help asking—she couldn’t imagine it.
“Briana. She’s going to be four. She’s my older sister’s kid. Lives up in Boston.” He knew what she was thinking and he gave her another of those real smiles. “Imagine that. I have relatives who don’t live in a trailer park. I was thinking of getting her a collection of toy guns so she could shoot all those awful Teletubbies.”
Locke had to work not to smile, too. What was wrong with her? Or maybe she should ask what was wrong with Starrett? What was he up to, anyway? Aside from that initial rude comment about naming the time and place, calling her sugar, he was actually being . . . friendly . . . ?
“I don’t suppose it would help if I stated again—for the record—that I do not know where John Nilsson is,” he said.
She just looked at him.
“Right.” He laughed. “Come on. Go grab those Band Aids, and we’ll try this again. You know what they say—practice makes perfect.”
Starrett sat down on a bus stop bench, and as Locke went toward the drugstore, she glanced back at him. He made a “go on” motion with his hands.
So Locke went inside. It took about ninety seconds to find the Band Aids and pay for them. She went back outside and . . .
Starrett was gone. The bench was empty.
“Damn it!”
Her cell phone rang. She flipped it open. “Locke.”
“Mistake number two, angel face. Don’t let the suspect out of your sight.” It was Starrett.
She should have known. She should have suspected that his being so freaking nice was just the setup for this particular assinine punch line. She could hear him laughing at her. “You’re such an asshole.”
“I couldn’t resist,” he said. “I’m sorry. I was sitting there, and . . .”
“Where are you?”
He laughed even harder. “Nice try.”
She flagged down a cab. He’d said he was going to that toy store. She’d simply get there first.
“I don’t supposed you’d want . . . Nah, forget it,” he said. “If I asked you to have lunch with me, I’d be having lunch, but you’d just be having some up close and personal surveillance. That would kind of ruin it for me, you know what I mean?”
“I don’t need to meet you for lunch to find you,” she said. She covered the mouthpiece and leaned forward to speak to the taxi driver through the slit in the clear plastic shield. “There’s a toy store a few blocks down . . . ?”
“You only found me after I disappeared in the Micky D’s because I let you find me,” Starrett countered. “If I don’t want to be found, you’re not going to find me. Let’s get that straight. The first thing you need to do, lesson number one, dear heart, is to learn your place.”
Locke laughed in disbelief. “Which, according to you and some of the other Neanderthals you work with, is on my back with my legs spread, am I right?”
Starrett was silent. “Shit,” he finally said. “I’m momentarily stunned by the picture that brought to mind. Don’t do that to me, Locke, I have a vivid imagination. My brain’s likely to explode. Among other body parts.”
“Fuck you.” She heard herself say it and wished she could take it back. What was it about this man that always brought her down to his degradingly foul level?
“Why, thank you,” he said. “Fuck you, too, babe. The sooner the better—you’re way too uptight. Hey, I bet that cabdriver would do you if you threw in an extra twenty bucks.”
Shit. Shit! Locke turned around to look out the back window. Wherever Starrett was, he’d been watching her get into the cab.
“Of course, we both know you’re saving yourself for me,” he continued, laughing again.
“Yeah, in your dreams.”
“What I meant by you learning your place was that you’ve got to lose this James Bond mentality. Humility, Alyssa! You haven’t earned your license to kill—not yet. You want to be a great FBI agent? Sign up to train with the SEALs. You could probably even get into some kind of modified BUD/S program—modified because you’re FBI, not because you’re a woman. Don’t start making those insulted noises at me. Jesus, you do need to learn to relax. What do you say tonight, my hotel suite? Hmmm? You and me—we could do a little stress management exercise that I highly recommend. We’d have the place to ourselves, because, you know, John Nilsson seems to have disappeared.”
Locke made a strangled sound.
“No? Too bad.” Starrett said. He sighed. “In that case, so long, sweet thing. Have a real nice day.”
Eleven
THE CLOCK ALARM went off a few minutes after six.
The heavy curtains kept out the light of the late afternoon—what little light there was. The day had turned gloomy and overcast, the clouds threatening rain.
Meg had checked into this rundown motel a little after noon. She’d reached her limit and had to sleep. She’d tried pulling off the road and sleeping in the car, but it was too bright, she was too worried about someone seeing Razeen in the backseat. And she desperately wanted to use a real bathroom.
Osman Razeen was still asleep on the other motel bed, his arms stretched uncomfortably over his head. Meg had had to position him that way, using the handcuffs to lock him to the wooden headboard.
She was going to have to dissolve another handful of sleeping pills into a glass of water and pour it down Razeen’s throat, praying that she didn’t give him too many, knowing that she couldn’t afford to give him too few. She had to keep him completely out of it. And then she had to get him back in the car.
Meg stretched, wishing she had enough time to take a shower and—
Oh, God! She sat up, fumbling for her gun. The shadowy figure of a man had just stepped out of the bathroom.
“Freeze!” she said. “Don’t move! Who are you? What are you doing in here?”
Maybe it was one of the Extremists. Maybe they’d somehow followed her here. Maybe Amy and Eve were out in the parking lot right now.
She reached over and turned on the light.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered.
It was John Nilsson.
He glanced once at Razeen, then turned his attention back to Meg, taking in her messed hair and long-smudged makeup, her rumpled clothes, her gun.
Held with a shaking hand.
&n
bsp; Meg used her other hand to support it, aiming directly for John’s chest. Please, God, don’t let her shoot him by accident.
He looked as bad as she did—no, he looked worse. His eyes were rimmed with red, his chin covered with stubble.
“God damn it,” he said. “What were you thinking? I was so goddamn sure I was going to find you dead. Give me the gun.”
He took a step toward her.
“Don’t come closer!”
He stopped. Glanced again at Razeen. “Do you know who this is?” He was really angry. She’d never seen him angry before, she realized. Not like this. “This is Osman Razeen, a Kazbekistani terrorist leader. You don’t get to be a terrorist leader, Meg, by playing nice. If you give him even half a chance, he’ll slit your throat.”
“I know who he is.” She couldn’t keep her voice from shaking. “I’m trading him to the Extremists for my daughter and grandmother.”
“So you did lie to me. You fucking looked me in the eye and lied. The Extremists want the ambassador dead. Help me save Amy. I can’t do this on my own. Achub fi.” Save me. He shook his head, his voice getting even louder. “Jesus! I went out on a limb for you, Meg. On my good name and honor, I convinced both my CO and the FBI that you were telling the truth, that you were in trouble and wanted and needed our help.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Fuck sorry!” he shouted. He was actually shouting at her. He was livid. “Sorry doesn’t cut it when the bullshit you’ve been shoveling is way up past your head. You were just using us. You were using me. You know, Meg, when it comes to getting fucked by you, I would have preferred finishing what we started three years ago.”
Meg flinched at the harshness of his words, but she knew she deserved that. She deserved everything he was saying, and all of his anger, too.
He was breathing hard, and he drew in a deep breath, letting it out in a rush of air. He looked as exhausted as she’d felt when she’d stopped to sleep, six hours ago. “God damn you.”
“God doesn’t have to,” Meg whispered.
Some of his anger melted from his face, leaving behind . . . sorrow? “Come back with me, Meg. Please. Let the FBI find Amy.”
“I can’t.” He was inching closer. She couldn’t actually see him move, but somehow he was getting closer. “Stop it, John! Stay back.”
There was a sudden sharp crack, and Meg turned to see Razeen launch himself off the bed, directly at her.
He was awake.
It was a rather inane thought since of course he was awake—the man was in motion, in midair.
As the world went into slo-mo, the details were suddenly crisp and clear, but her ability to react was nonexistent. She was frozen in place.
The splintered wood from the bedframe exploded out. Razeen’s eyes were open and focused intently on her gun, his lips back in a snarl. He hit her hard, his shoulder against her right arm, and the gun went flying in a burst of pain.
He smelled like perspiration and urine and the garlic chicken he’d had for dinner, courtesy of the FBI safe hotel. His body was heavy against hers, pushing her back against the bed. He scrambled off of her, wrists still cuffed together, going after the gun.
She could see it, gleaming faintly, under the cheap motel desk that was attached to the wall. If Razeen got there first . . . “John!”
He was already there, already grabbing Razeen by the jacket, flinging him back to the other side of the room. But Razeen had grabbed the desk chair, taking it with him, turning and brandishing it now as a weapon.
Shrieking, Meg dove for the gun as Razeen swung—not at John, but at her. As her fingers closed around the cool metal of the handle, she braced herself. This was going to hurt.
She heard the sound of breaking wood, and turned to see that John had stepped directly between Meg and the chair. He’d caught the brunt of the blow on his shoulder and back, his arm held up to protect his head. It could have killed him. Couldn’t it have? A blow like that to the head?
She was screaming again, trying to get the gun up and aimed at Razeen, praying that John wasn’t hurt. Please God, please God . . .
But Razeen was left defenseless, holding a useless bit of wood, and, as Meg watched, John lit into him. Two quick punches and one hard elbow to the back of the man’s head, and Razeen dropped to the floor.
John turned back to Meg, breathing hard. “Are you all right?”
He was bleeding. A piece of the chair had cut him—he had a gash on his right arm, by his wrist. He glanced once at it, then ignored it.
“Oh, my God, the last thing I wanted was to put you in danger, too!” She couldn’t catch her breath. Perfect—now she was hyperventilating. She scrambled out from under the desk, gun in one hand, the other over her mouth and nose. “Stay back! I’m not kidding, John! I think you better just leave.”
“Meg. Jesus. I’m not going to leave. Not without you.” There were splinters of wood in his hair. “What if I hadn’t been here? What if I hadn’t found you? You’d probably be dead right now.”
How had John found her . . . ? Realization dawned and was joined by a rush of panic. “Oh my God, the FBI’s got this motel surrounded, don’t they?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, rolled both his shoulder and his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. If they were out there, I’d be talking to you through a bullhorn. They’d never let me come in here like this.”
Meg moved to the window, peeked out through the curtain. The parking lot was nearly as deserted as it had been when she’d pulled in at noon. There was one other car out there—one with Maryland plates. It had to be John’s. Was it possible the FBI was there, but completely hidden?
She looked at John. “How did you find me?”
“That’s not important.”
“Yes, it is. If it wasn’t through the FBI—”
“I just . . . found you, Meg. I can find you. I’m good at finding you, all right? Too good, sometimes. Shit.”
Why wouldn’t he tell her? He had to have used the FBI to track her. That had to be it. She was going to walk out that motel room door—either with or without John Nilsson, and within seconds she’d be down on her face in the gravel parking lot. Her guns would be gone, and Osman Razeen would be taken into custody.
And Amy and Eve would die.
Meg aimed her gun at Razeen’s head. “I think the FBI’s out there. So now I have no choice. Thanks a lot, John. Now I’ve got to kill him.” Her voice shook, her hand shook, her very soul was shaken. But if it were a choice between Razeen and Amy . . .
She looked at Razeen’s dark hair, imagined it matted with blood. All it would take was for her to tighten her finger on this trigger.
And this man’s life would be gone. Oh, God . . .
“Wait,” John said. “Wait. Meg. Okay.”
She hadn’t managed to convince herself that she could actually do this, but apparently she’d convinced John.
“WildCard—Kenny Karmody, remember him?” he continued, talking low and fast, as if he were afraid if he spoke too loudly, she’d be startled and pull that trigger. “He just developed this new tracking system, and Sam Starrett was helping him beta test. You remember them, right?”
She nodded. Starrett and Karmody. They’d been with John in K-stan, with Abdelaziz.
“It was purely by chance, but Sam dropped one of the test tracking devices into your jacket pocket. I’m the only one who followed you here. I swear to you, Meg. The FBI doesn’t even know about WildCard’s system.”
She lowered the gun. “I’m supposed to believe you came all this way all by yourself?”
He looked at the gun, looked at her, and she knew he was going to try to take it away from her. She aimed at Razeen again.
“Sit down,” she ordered John. “Right there on the floor. Right now.”
He sat. “Your turn, now. Lower the gun.”
She did.
“Thank you,” he said. “Jesus.” He took a deep breath, let it all out. “WildCard was supposed to come with me, but
he couldn’t get away. Sam was on duty. I didn’t want to wait for either of them. Meg, you’ve got to believe me about this. The FBI’s not out there. I’m the only one who knows where you are. You’re not in danger, there’s no reason for you to kill Razeen. Let’s get that established here, okay?”
Meg looked at her jacket. It was where she’d left it this morning, on the foot of the bed she’d slept in. She reached for it now, reached into the pocket and . . .
Found a curious, round piece of metal, about the size of a watch battery. It was slightly warm to the touch.
“That’s it,” John said. “That’s the tracking device. It worked really well. I think WildCard’s about to make a fortune with this thing. Wouldn’t that be a kick? WildCard a millionaire?”
She dropped it onto the desk, picked up one of her boots from the floor, and crushed it.
Meg could see from John’s eyes that he knew what that meant. She wasn’t going back with him. And he wasn’t going to be able to follow her any farther.
“Meg, please,” he said. “If you don’t come back with me, you’re probably going to die.”
“How can you ask me to quit?” she said, just as quietly. “I’ve come this far. . . .”
“I don’t want you to die.”
“I don’t want my daughter to die.”
“Meg,” John said gently, “you’ve got to know that she’s probably already—”
“Don’t say it!”
“Dead.”
No. She wouldn’t believe it. She’d pretend he didn’t say it. She had to get back on the road. And even though Razeen was still unconscious, she had to force-feed him more sleeping pills and make sure he stayed unconscious, this time all the way to Orlando.
The Defiant Hero Page 17
