But this female could make him jumpy with a flash of her green eyes or a snide remark in her throaty voice. What was it about her? Not just her curvy figure and snapping eyes, but something underneath. That sense of loyalty and support he wished he had from his family.
Guanajo. What a turkey he was. For now, he would simply follow her to protect her. Sooner or later she’d uncover a lead or decide to work with him. He had to be patient.
Patient, hell. He spat out a juicy Spanish epithet.
Keeping her old blue Sentra in sight, he looked around for suspicious vehicles. Nada. Now that Olívas’s men knew he’d made them, they would use a different vehicle, not the van. He’d sweet-talked Laurel in Intelligence into rushing the trace on the van’s license number. Stolen vehicle. No lead there.
At the York exit, more traffic poured onto the multi-lane interstate. All the extra vehicles, like fish in a school, helped to conceal him. He and Juliana breezed through the tollbooth with their electronic passes. When they neared Kittery, he pulled closer to her.
When she accelerated speed, he hung back so as not to crowd her. The moment he did, a black Lincoln swerved around him and pulled up beside her. Shit. Olívas’s men. Maybe Olívas too, the sadistic slime. He accelerated past an SUV. He had to catch up. If the bastards spotted him on their tail, maybe they’d ease off Juliana.
A solid chain of cars cruised by him in the passing lane and blocked his move.
Stuck behind a Volvo wagon, Rick slammed his hand on the steering wheel. It was like going backwards in slow motion. What were those bastards up to?
At last, his chance came and he yanked the wheel left to pull around the Volvo and make it three cars closer. Juliana glanced to her left. She immediately accelerated. Must have realized her plight.
Rick gunned it but a Chevy Silverado swerved in front of him. The pickup’s height and size blocked his view. He had no police radio or siren and no means of clearing the way. He stewed, as helpless as though bound and gagged. “What the hell!”
The pickup shot back into the right lane in time for him to see the Lincoln swerve in behind Juliana. In tandem, like racers on a one-lane course, Juliana’s Sentra and the Lincoln zoomed across the Piscataqua River Bridge from Maine into New Hampshire.
With Rick trapped two cars behind in the left lane.
The Sentra made an unexpected right and zipped out the downtown Portsmouth exit. Swaying on its shocks, the Lincoln made the turn, a couple of car lengths behind her.
Where was Juliana going? She hugged the exit curve like an Indy racer. Her Sentra had less power but more agility than the Lincoln. How the hell did she learn to drive that way?
Boxed in, Rick couldn’t make the exit. His last sight of both cars chilled him to the marrow.
Out of the Lincoln’s open window jutted a long black gun muzzle.
Chapter 5
Pops and thunks slamming into the car’s rear jolted Juliana against the shoulder harness. Hands clammy, she gripped the steering wheel. Her ears hummed and her heart raced faster than the Sentra’s motor.
Oh, my God, they were shooting at her!
More bullets rammed into the rear end. Plastic shattered. A bumper or a taillight.
Her stomach roiled. Her throat tightened, threatening to choke off air from her dry mouth. No, no, she had to pull it together. She could do this.
Think!
It was like on the racetrack. At least one of Molly’s men had been worthwhile. But her main advantage was that she knew the tangled, one-way streets of Portsmouth, and her pursuers didn’t. She hoped.
She yanked the steering wheel to make the hard right onto Deer. Then an immediate sharp left to High.
The black sedan dropped back. Still in pursuit but less aggressive.
Traffic in downtown Portsmouth bustled with tourists and local shoppers. More pedestrians than cars. A tour group crossed the street behind her. They blocked the sedan.
More random twists and turns, and she swung into a parking garage and out the other side. Then a left to Hanover and Maplewood.
She checked the mirror. No sign of the long black car. She rotated her shoulders and flexed her aching fingers. Trembling shook her all over but she could drive. The drug gang might know where she lived, but maybe she could make it before they caught her.
How stupid to have kept her eye on the red sports car. Just when she’d celebrated losing him, the black car appeared like a storm cloud overtaking her. Jordan’s mess was a hell of a lot more dangerous that she’d realized. Maybe Cruz was right.
Within minutes she reached her building’s parking lot. She raced up to the second floor and safety. She bobbled the key and nearly dropped it. Finally she made it inside and slammed home the dead bolt. Resting her head against the cool wood of the door, she listened to the drumming of her heart and choked back tears.
A fist pounded on the door.
Pulse in the stratosphere, she jumped aside. “I called the police. They’re on their way.”
“Good, saves me from calling them. Let me in, Juliana.”
Her heart slowed to mach one. She leaned against the wall and drew a deep, cleansing breath. Now she knew who owned the red sports car.
She flicked back the lock and opened the door. To conceal her relief at seeing him, she scowled. “Agent Cruz, what the hell did you think you were doing?”
“What I was doing?” He stepped inside and kicked the door shut. His dark brows bunched, and his black eyes blazed with fury. “Only sticking close to protect you. But you lost me and gave those guys their opening.”
She waved her arms. “Protect me? Protect me? You led them to me. They probably shot at me because of you! I . . .”
A Nor’easter of emotion hit her. She shook like a sapling in the storm, and tears fell like rain.
Without comment, Cruz pulled her to him. He wrapped his arms around her and held her to his warm, hard chest. He rubbed circles on her back.
“I’m s-s-sorry,” she blubbered. “I never c-c-cry. I don’t know what’s come over me.” When she tried to step back, he pressed her closer. A white handkerchief magically floated before her eyes. She wouldn’t think about how protected she felt and how good his arms felt or how she liked his minty scent.
“Happens when you’re not used to being shot at.”
“Oh.” After blowing her nose into the soft cotton, she looked up.
Rick Cruz wasn’t the handsomest man she’d ever met. Right. Okay, maybe he was. At the moment he wasn’t smiling. He gazed at her with candid concern. There again was that protective attitude. But he was just doing his job. She shouldn’t read anything into it.
“I’m all right now.” She edged from his embrace. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“You were scared.” He leaned against the door. “How did you learn to drive like that?”
She lifted one shoulder in dismissal. “A man I used to know worked at a race track. He showed me a few maneuvers.” She started to turn from the door toward the living room, but Cruz took her hands and held her in place.
“I don’t hear sirens,” he said. “Did you really phone the cops?”
“No, I just said that to scare off the jerks in that black car.”
“Then you ought to phone them now.”
“You’re right. Those men shot at me. There are bullets in my car.” The statement churned her stomach.
“Looks like they hit the gas tank. There’s gas running onto the parking lot. You’re lucky it didn’t blow.”
She tugged but he held her fast. “How can I phone if you’re holding my hands?”
“Have you looked at your apartment?”
He released her and she pivoted. The upheaval in Jordan’s flat couldn’t begin to match what a tornado had wrought on hers. Her vision distorted like a funhouse mirror. “Oh, God!”
Cruz guided her to a chair and gently pushed her into it. He picked up the phone from the floor and punched in 911.
“Now, Juliana, will you let me
help you?”
*****
“Whoo-ee, Macmillan’s not gonna like this.” Donovan drawled out a western-flavored expletive. Rick had phoned to inform his office of the latest developments. “He’s been kickin’ ass about the lack of progress on Operation Fish Truck.”
“Yeah, well, tell him the facts and get back to me.” Rick hit disconnect on his cell.
Juliana was still talking to one of the Portsmouth cops, but she kept casting glances at the disaster in her home. Probably anxious to put things away. She didn’t seem capable of absolute stillness. She twisted fingers together or tapped a foot or straightened something. The nervous energy humming around her fascinated him.
“I don’t know what else is missing, officer,” she said. “They might have taken my cat. I don’t see him anywhere.”
Possible, but the most likely outcome would be to find the creature’s mutilated corpse tucked away somewhere. Or maybe the cat was hiding. Shouldn’t be hard to search an apartment the size of a saltine cracker. Rick started in the bedroom. Even with furniture upside down and drawers and closets inside out, it was apparent she lived simply. Basic furnishings, plants, and books. A few butterfly knickknacks. Tiny TV, not the latest computer, older flip phone. Tight budget, this woman.
A new voice brought him from the bedroom. At the door stood a flashy female holding a cat the size of his year-old nephew. She handed the placid animal to Juliana. “Here’s Speedy, hon.”
Speedy? This brute? Rick rubbed a hand across his mouth to cover a smile.
“Oh, you’re safe, Speedy, you’re safe,” Juliana crooned into the cat’s fur.
The soothing tone and her doting expression darted prickles on his skin and sent heat south. He clenched his jaw.
“I found him sitting in the hall,” the woman said.
“Yes, ma’am.” The Portsmouth detective bobbed his head like a puppet on a string. Apparently he was stuck for more questions. All three cops could barely keep their tongues from hanging out at Juliana’s friend’s voluptuous presence in a black leotard wrapped with a slinky leopard-print skirt.
“This is my neighbor, Venice Aaron,” Juliana told them. “Thanks, Venice.”
“No problem, hon.” Venice’s eyes widened. “What hurricane hit this place?”
“Burglars. Speedy must have sneaked out when they broke in.” She deposited the cat on the floor.
With a disdainful meow, the animal strolled with regal grace to the bedroom.
“Burglars, huh?” Her dusky skin paled a shade, and her gaze darted around the room. “I knocked, but you weren’t home. Then I had a hair appointment.”
“Hey, Ms. Aaron,” Rick said, joining the group, “that hairdresser is worth whatever you paid. Very foxy.”
Venice preened and smiled seductively. “You’re looking mighty fine yourself. I’m Venice to my friends.”
Juliana swallowed the spurt of irritation. For all she cared, that man could follow Venice home. Never mind that in his jeans and khaki safari shirt he looked good enough to eat. Before she could return the conversation to the situation at hand, Cruz did it for her.
“Venice, what time did you find the cat?”
“Two hours ago. Everything looked normal.” She propped fists on hips. “You think those burglars were in here when I knocked?”
“Possible.”
The Portsmouth detective scrawled in his notebook.
“How did they get in?” Juliana asked. “The windows are okay, and the door wasn’t damaged.”
Cruz nodded as if in approval she’d noticed the lack of damage. “They picked the lock with professional tools that left only faint scratches. They knew you weren’t home.”
“And I guess I know how. The black Lincoln.”
One swift stride brought him to her side. He slid an arm around her shoulders.
She began to pull free, but the commanding spark in his eyes held her in place. Against her will, she absorbed comfort from his embrace.
“We lifted some prints,” the detective said, “but I don’t have much hope about that. We have all we need for now, ma’am. We’ll do everything we can to catch these burglars. Between us and the D—”
“We’ll contact you about the car,” Cruz said.
The detective tipped his head in agreement.
How could she have forgotten about the car? She couldn’t get to work and to class without it. She couldn’t search for Jordan. “My car, when will I get it back?”
“I’ll call you when we’re done with it. But that heap’s gonna need work before you can drive it again.”
She groaned, visualizing the dollar signs in the mechanic’s eyes. New gas tank. New taillights. Body work. Even with what insurance would cover, she couldn’t afford repairs and school. Her credit card was maxed out.
The detective turned to Venice. “Ma’am, we’d appreciate it if we could take your fingerprints so we can eliminate them from those we lifted in here.”
“You bet, Detective, sugar. You come with me.” On her way out, she said to Juliana, “I’ll come back and help you straighten up.”
“Not necessary,” Cruz replied smoothly before Juliana could. “She’s in good hands.”
“I can see that, doll.” Venice’s Cheshire-cat grin told Juliana that her friend missed none of what just transpired. Including the agent’s possessive arm around her.
Now that the others had left, she scooted away from him until she came up against the kitchen divider. “What was that all about?”
Dark eyes wide in feigned innocence, he ambled closer. “It seemed best if Venice thought I was your guy rather than DEA.”
“She already knows about my brother and the DEA.” His thoughtful gesture surprised her. Maybe she shouldn’t have spoken so sharply. He was trying to help. She stepped away, but he held her with that compelling dark gaze.
He wasn’t touching her, but she was locked in place as if he’d caged her against the counter. She shouldn’t be attracted to this man, with his effortless charm. He’d take and take and never give, just like Molly’s men.
But he met her eyes, as if willing her to trust. Maybe she could trust him, for the support and protection every cell in her body yearned for. A little. But no way would she trust the DEA with her brother’s life.
She turned away and knelt by the bookcase, gathering a few volumes from the carpet. Two she set on the top shelf, a third belonged on the next one down.
“If people think we’re together as lovers, it’ll be easier to protect you.” He lifted three books and handed them to her. “My boss thought it best if I protect you undercover. To draw out the bad guys.”
“It doesn’t make sense. Olívas must know the DEA is looking for Jordan.” He probably wasn’t leveling with her, but what did she expect? She set the books on the shelves.
“Perhaps. But the only way to find out the reason is to locate your brother or uncover what he knows.” He handed her three more books. “Alphabetical by author. You probably keep all your kitchen spices in the same order.”
Taking the books from him, she nodded. “Venice tells me it’s obsessive, but how else would I find what I need?”
He laughed and handed her the last. “My way’s looser. A pile here, a pile there. But I know what’s in every one.”
The day’s turmoil still churned in her system. “What do you think they were looking for? And why did they try to kill me?”
He slid a glass butterfly from her hand and placed it on the high shelf she was eyeing. “Those sleazeballs don’t miss. They were aiming low to frighten you.”
Only when he took her hands in his big ones did she realize hers were trembling.
“It worked. I’m scared to death.” And angry and violated and soiled, as if the searchers had defiled her personally. Without Rick’s strong, comforting presence she’d be a basket case.
“As for what they were after, either something they think Jordan might have given you or left in his apartment.”
“What?
A name? A list of their crimes?”
“We don’t have enough to go on yet to hazard a guess. I need you to tell me everything you’ve found out on your own. We’ll go from there.” He chafed her hands in his, warming more than her fingers. “Let’s finish here, and you’ll feel better.”
An hour later, they’d returned the living room and kitchen to a semblance of order. Juliana put the broken items—mostly plant pots, glassware, and a few ceramic butterflies—in a trash bag. She didn’t care about most of it except for the butterflies, mementoes from Molly’s travels, reminders to keep herself grounded.
“Why dump plants and potting soil all over the place? What would I hide there?”
“Anything from a microfilm to a microchip to a microtape. Who knows?”
When they reached the bedroom, they found the cat sound asleep on a pile of sweaters.
“Speedy, huh?” he said.
“For Speedy Gonzalez, the mouse in the cartoons.” She scooped up the quilt and sheets from the floor and piled them on the mattress.
“So you do have a thing against Latinos. Slow and lazy, like this cat, is that what you think?” He dropped a crumpled lampshade and a cracked bulb in the trash bag.
Dammit she’d have to launder everything. Then her brain registered his words. Her mouth rounded and her cheeks burned at the inference he’d drawn. “Oh no, I didn’t mean— It’s only— He was such a wild speed demon as a kitten that I—”
A glance at him silenced her fumbled apology. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
“Lighten up, Juliana.” With a wicked smile, he ran a finger along her chin. Tiny bonfires sprang up in his wake.
She jerked away and lifted a broken ceramic pot. “Well, pardon me if I can’t joke when everything’s gone to hell.”
“We’ll find Jordan. The gang wouldn’t be so worried if he was dead. And they may have yanked all your belongings from the drawers and closets, but only a few items got broken. They slit upholstery but not these luscious confections at my feet.”
Never Surrender (Task Force Eagle) Page 4
