CARRIE'S PROTECTOR

by Rebecca York

  He stopped her with a firm command. “No. I don’t want any evidence left around here.”

  “Oh, right.”

  He walked back to the passenger seat and sat down heavily, giving her access to the arm. Gingerly, she examined the wound. It looked as if the bullet had torn a path across his skin, leaving a deep canyon in his flesh.

  He turned his head and inspected the track. “It’s not bad. Which is good, because spending time in an emergency room could be dangerous.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s a logical place to look for me.”

  “How would they know you were hurt?”

  “I left some blood on the ground.”

  She made a low sound. She had been so wound up with getting away that she hadn’t even noticed.

  After opening the paper towels, she pulled a couple off, wadded them up and wet them with the water, then gingerly wiped at the dried blood on his arm, being careful not to start the wound bleeding again.

  She’d barely spoken to the man in the week she’d been with him. In the space of a few hours, she’d gotten to know him a lot better. Now she felt the intimacy of this encounter. He was half-naked, and she was tending to him with hands-on closeness. She might have tried to speed through the first aid. Instead, the situation made her want to linger. Too bad they were parked in the back of a shopping center, a location that wasn’t exactly private.

  “How did my father happen to hire you?” she asked.

  “He was looking for someone to guard you, and he got a recommendation from one of my former bosses at the CIA. I guess he liked what he heard.”

  “You quit the Agency?”

  “I got into a situation in Greece.”

  “What kind of situation?”

  “I got my partner killed,” he snapped.

  “It probably was as much his fault as yours.”

  “Her.”

  “Oh.”

  “I should have known better than to get involved with her.” The way he said it told her this was another subject he didn’t want to talk about. She wouldn’t press him. Not now when he was injured, although she couldn’t help wondering what had happened.

  She opened the bottle of antiseptic. “This may sting.”

  He answered with a tight nod.

  She poured the clear liquid onto his arm, hearing him wince as it pooled in the wound.

  When she was satisfied that she’d cleaned it well, she taped on the gauze pads.

  Next came the shirt, which she pulled out of the bag and unbuttoned. Reversing the process, she helped him get his arms through the sleeves, which turned out to be about an inch too short, so she left the cuffs unbuttoned.

  Before she finished, a blast from a car horn startled her, making her lose her balance and fall forward, pressing her breasts against Wyatt’s face. Quickly she pushed herself away. Turning, she saw a white Jeep with an orange dome light on top. A middle-aged man in a security guard’s uniform was leaning out the driver’s window, staring at them with narrowed eyes.

  “This side of the lot is for store owners and employees only. You can’t come back here and make out,” he said in a stern voice.

  When she started to object that they’d been doing no such thing, Wyatt put a hand on her arm.

  “Sorry, Officer,” he said.

  “Button up your shirt and move along.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wyatt answered.

  She’d never expected to hear him cave in the face of authority, and she knew he probably hated doing it, but she also knew he was avoiding any kind of confrontation, avoiding having the guy come over and see the bloodied shirt or the gun in the car. While Wyatt and the guard had exchanged pleasantries, she’d bundled the supplies back into the drugstore bag and thrown them in the backseat. Now she hurried around to the driver’s door. The security guy stayed where he was while she pulled away, then followed her to the parking lot entrance. She waited for the light to change and pulled out, heading down the road in the opposite direction from where they’d come.

  Wyatt had leaned back in his seat but now he sat up suddenly and cursed.

  Carrie’s gaze shot to him in alarm. “What?”

  “We have to get rid of that gun.”

  “Like throw it in the bushes?”

  “No. Like put it in the trunk.”

  He craned his neck to look at a road sign. “Turn off on a side road and look for a place where there aren’t any houses.”

  She followed directions, and they both got out. She blocked the view from the road while he stowed the weapon out of sight.

  Back in the car, he directed her to the Intercounty Connector. When they’d gotten onto the high-speed road that cut across the D.C. area, he said, “Get off at Route 29 and head for Columbia. There are a lot of motels over there. Find something that’s part of a midpriced chain.”

  When they reached Route 29, she slowed, and he looked at her inquiringly. “What are you doing?”

  “I have to call my father and tell him I’m okay.”

  “When we know we’re safe.”

  “He’ll be worried.”

  “We’ll be in Columbia in less than thirty-five minutes. If you were dead, he’d know it. The news stations would have already broadcasted it.”

  She winced.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes, and she took the highway he’d suggested, which turned out to be a toll road that cut across Montgomery County to Howard County.

  * * *

  ALTHOUGH THE SAFE house had been deemed an easy target, four men had been given the job of taking it down and waiting for Carrie and Wyatt to return. Now two of the men were dead and one was wounded. The guy who was still functional walked down the access road and into the woods, where he and his partners had parked a white van out of sight. The standard anonymous utility vehicle. In this case, perfectly suitable for getting rid of the bodies of three large men who’d been at the wrong place at the wrong time. And two terrorists who’d gotten themselves killed by taking off after the fleeing man and woman.

  The four-man team had caught the hired guards by surprise because the bitch they’d been minding had been out of the house, which was reason enough for them to relax. The unwanted visitors had disabled the security system at the safe house—as a further means of gaining access unawares. Nobody had been looking out the windows when they’d crept up through the fields and made the dash across the cleared land around the house. Only one of the guards inside had been on his toes enough to make it outside, and he hadn’t gotten any farther than the back steps. Too bad his body had alerted the guy with Carrie Mitchell that something was wrong at the house. And too bad he’d come sneaking up from the side yard. Apparently, he was an efficient and cautious fellow.

  The men who’d taken the house were named Harry, Sidney, Jordan and Bruce. Sid was the only one not wounded or killed.

  He wished he’d turned down the job. He hadn’t signed up for this gig because of any ideological convictions. He was in it strictly for the cash. Now he was cursing himself for getting lured in by easy money. It flitted through his mind to climb in the van and drive away. Then keep driving. He already had the first payment from the patron who’d hired him and the others.

  But he didn’t think escape was a practical solution. You didn’t just quit a job like this. Once you were in, you were in for the duration. And from where he was sitting now, it looked as though it was going to be a longer haul than he’d been led to believe. The only way they were getting out of this was to finish the mission—or die trying. Harry and Jordan were already dead. And Bruce had a mangled leg. Two of the guys in the downtown end of the operation had also bought the farm.

  Although Carrie Mitchell and her bodyguard had made it out of the area, Sid didn’t call in for instructions right away. Inste
ad, he spread tarps in the back of the van and started the annoying process of loading the five bodies into the vehicle before cleaning up the blood on the floor inside the house and moving dirt around to cover the blood outside, as per the instructions he’d been given to leave as little evidence as possible.

  Bruce watched him work with dull eyes. Usually he was the one in charge. Now he was in too bad a shape to do more than nurse his wounded leg. “I’m hurt bad, man,” he moaned.

  “We’ll get you back to headquarters.”

  “Shouldn’t I be in the hospital?”

  Sid gave him a considering look. “Hang on. That’s what you’d say to me if our situations were reversed.”

  “It’s a long way back to the hideout.”

  “Not that far, and it’s real private.”

  Bruce cringed, probably thinking that his partner was considering leaving him in the same condition as the bodies. He closed his mouth and let Sid finish the quick and dirty cleanup. The rushed job wouldn’t hide the evidence if the cops came in with luminol. But it was probably going to be a long time—if ever—before the authorities got to the safe house.

  Who was going to call them? Not Wyatt Hawk. He was too conscious of maintaining the secrecy of his assignment. Which was going to make it difficult to find him and the woman. Hopefully, plan B would flush them out. And hopefully Sid could go back to his normal life of petty crime.

  Chapter Four

  As Carrie drove toward Columbia, she glanced at Wyatt. He was sitting with his head back and his eyes closed. She wanted to reach out and press the back of her hand to his cheek, but she had the feeling that if she did, he’d come instantly alert, and she’d find a gun pointed at her side. Which meant it was prudent to keep her hands on the wheel.

  She knew Wyatt was being cautious when he’d asked her to drive so far away from the safe house. Would the terrorists really start checking every motel within a twenty-mile radius of their last known location? She doubted it, with so many motels in this area. But maybe they’d do it if they were desperate enough. And they’d certainly seemed determined to stop her from testifying.

  Beside her Wyatt made a strangled sound, and her eyes snapped to him, seeing him looking around and getting his bearings.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “Okay.”

  Probably it was a lie—designed to reassure her. How could he feel okay after getting shot?

  He shook his head and started to stretch, then stopped abruptly, undoubtedly because the pain in his arm had hit him. He dragged in a breath and let it out.

  “How long was I sleeping?”

  “A half hour.”

  “How close are we to Columbia?”

  “We’re here, but I don’t know where to find a motel. They built the place so you can’t find anything.”

  He laughed. “It was the original plan not to spoil the view with big signs. Then they realized that they needed to make the commercial areas more obvious.” He looked around. “Head down Route 108, then turn at the Palace Nine shopping center. You’ll find the right kind of motels along 100 Parkway.”

  She took his advice, stopping at a chain that advertised breakfast along with a room for less than a hundred bucks a night.

  “You stay here. I’ll check in,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want the clerk to see a man and a woman together and remember the two of us if anyone comes asking questions. And a lone male is less suspicious than a lone female.”

  She nodded and pulled into a parking space near the door. When he got out, she watched him steady himself against the car door, then square his shoulders.

  She gave him a critical inspection as he headed for the lobby. He looked like a guy who wasn’t feeling 100 percent, but there was no way to know that he’d been shot a little more than an hour ago.

  She glanced around, glad to see that nobody was paying her any particular attention.

  * * *

  PATRICK HARRISON STRUGGLED not to let his taut nerves overwhelm him. He spared a quick glance at his watch. It had been two hours since he and Carrie’s father had heard the news of the attack in Washington, D.C., and he felt the tension humming around the comfortable, wood-paneled home office.

  He sat in one of the leather guest chairs. Douglas Mitchell sat behind his broad rosewood desk. They were both staring at a flat-screen television tuned to CNN. There had been nothing new to report for the past hour and a half, but the commentators were attempting to fill the air. At the moment the network was running a background piece on the Mitchell family, discussing the way Douglas Mitchell had taken the twenty million dollars he’d inherited from his father and turned it into over a billion—by buying up companies in distress and gutting them. The tactic had made him popular with the investment group he’d formed but not so much with the men and women who’d lost their jobs under his tender loving care.

  Next came candid shots of Carrie as a teenager riding in horse shows and more shots of her all grown up and out on dates in D.C. with various eligible bachelors. She was also shown with her father on a trip to Europe they’d taken two years ago. There were no shots of Patrick, of course. He was invisible as far as the family history was concerned.

  Next were some of the nature pictures Carrie had taken close to home and across the U.S. Patrick realized that if she survived this ordeal, her career was going to get a big boost. Or if she died, perhaps her pictures would sell for hundreds of dollars more than they had the day before.

  Patrick shot a glance at Douglas’s rigid profile. The man had one hand pressed to his forehead as though trying to ward off a headache.

  Patrick tried to make his voice reassuring. “Carrie’s in good hands. I’m sure she got away.”

  Douglas whirled around in his swivel chair, his eyes fierce. “I’m not interested in your half-assed opinion. You don’t have any more information than I do.” He was as wired as a cat caught in a clothes dryer. Of course, he had a right to be. Since the moment his daughter had come home to the Mitchell estate to tell him about overhearing a terrorist plot, he’d been sick with worry about her.

  Not that you could tell what he was feeling, unless you knew him well enough to see below the surface of his bluff exterior.

  His attitude came across as annoyance and anger, but Patrick had been with him long enough to understand the old man’s anxiety. His daughter had come forward to testify against a gang of domestic terrorists, putting herself in immediate danger. She’d been hiding out for a week, and she’d gone downtown to meet with the Federal prosecutor. Unfortunately, the terrorists had been waiting for her and her bodyguard, Wyatt Hawk.

  From the news accounts, it seemed that Hawk had gotten her out of the building. But where were they now?

  Patrick took a calming breath. He’d known Carrie all his life, and he hated feeling as though there was nothing he could do, but he didn’t see any effective course of action open to him.

  The old man picked up his phone and punched in Hawk’s cell number once again. The results were the same as every other time Douglas had tried to make the call. There was no answer.

  “Damn him!” the elder Mitchell growled. For a moment, it looked as if he would throw the phone across the room.

  “Remember your blood pressure,” Patrick murmured.

  “I don’t need your damn advice,” Mitchell shot back, slapping his hand against the desk. After a moment, he took a breath and said, “Sorry. I’m on edge. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

  “I understand.”

  “But I need to know what’s going on.” This time he dialed the safe house where Carrie had been staying for the past week. The results were the same.

  “What can I do to help?” Patrick asked.

  “Bring me a scotch and soda.”
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  “Is that wise?”

  “Don’t question me.”

  Patrick sighed and got up. Again he sneaked a glance at his watch. How long was this ordeal going to last?

  Maybe he could have a drink, too. And maybe he’d have another discussion with Douglas about hiring security for himself, although the man was firm in his conviction that he didn’t need it.

  He had just crossed the thick carpet to the bar when a noise alerted him that something was wrong. He whipped around to see two men standing in the office doorway. They wore ski masks over their faces and carried automatic weapons.

  Patrick leaped toward the desk, putting himself between Douglas and the two men.

  “What the hell?” Douglas turned.

  “Out of the way.” One of the men charged toward Patrick and hit him on the side of the head with the butt of a gun. He cried out in pain and went down, struggling to cling to consciousness.

  While he was on the floor, the other intruder crossed to Douglas Mitchell. “Come on.”

  “Where?”

  “You’ll find out.” The man grabbed Douglas by the arms and hustled him toward the door. When Douglas struggled, the man shoved a gun into the older man’s back. “Cooperate, or you’re going to get killed.”

  The man turned to address Patrick. “Tell Carrie Mitchell that if she doesn’t turn herself in, her father’s dead.”

  “We...we haven’t heard from her,” he managed to say.

  “Well, you’d better hope she calls. And oh, yeah, if you contact the cops, you can kiss Mitchell’s ass goodbye.”

  * * *

  THE LONGER CARRIE waited for Wyatt to come out of the motel office, the more her tension grew. So many bad things had happened in the past few hours that she couldn’t stop herself from waiting for the next one.