She didn't know his name', but she knew who he was. Impatient, dirty, windblown, unshaven, hell-bent, frankly exhausted, slinging his own pack over one shoulder, the man standing before her was the drop-dead gorgeous expectant dad whose pregnant wife Web's assassin had murdered in that parking garage.
He had seen her shock. She knew he had. But it made no difference to him. "Get off, Eden. Do it now."
She swallowed again. Her lips, wind burned and cracked, quivered. Dread coursed down every nerve in her body. Did he want to kill her? How could he be thinking anything but that it should have been her who died that day?
He didn't tell her to get off a second time. He just threw an arm around her waist, plucked her up off the seat and started walking. "Move it."
She stumbled when her feet hit the concrete, but he still kept hold of her. He paused only long enough to steady her, then pressed on.
"Hey, buddy, kin you read?" an airport worker shouted,~stalking over to demand he move the motorcycle, but when he got a closer look at the rider, the stocky attendant stopped dead in his tracks.
The bystanders melted away. The dead woman's husband looked like some upscale, deadly Hell's Angel and no one wanted to tangle with him.
"Please,." Eden began, but he pulled her up short against him in warning, then turned a tired, sheepish grin on the attendant.
"Nailed, huh? Look, I'm flying out of here, You move the Harley," he offered, jangling the keys, "and it's yours. Deal?"
The attendant's jaw went slack. The locals wet, accustomed to jet-setters from both coasts flitting in and out of Jackson, and a hundred-dollar tip wouldn't have taken the attendant by surprise The offer of a Harley did. If he'd even, heard her plea, he'd forget it.
She tried again. "I need" -- Her captor drew her closer, warning her.
The attendant missed the byplay altogether. "You serious, man?"
"You bet. Here." He tossed- the attendant the keys, flashed a thumbs-up and shoved his way through the. terminal door, holding her tightly to his side. In pain and teetering on the razor edge of shock, she wasn't in any condition to fight him. He had to know he didn't have to worry much that she could break away and make a run for it.
Dear God. The murdered woman's husband, bent on revenge.
Eden's knees buckled. Blackness threatened to engulf her time and again, but she was aware of his checking out the place in one sweeping glance. The ticket counter. The people milling around, the employees, the travelers. Outside, through an enormous picture window, she glimpsed a pilot pacing near a small private jet just like the one on which the federal marshals had flown her out of Logan International a year and a half ago.
She reali:,ed this jet must be what Tafoya had arranged to get her safely out of Jackson.
His abductor turned with-her in the crook of his arm and headed straight for the door leading outside to the landing strip. He behaved as if he owned the place, so no one challenged him. No one.
She had to do something to stop him. God only knew what he would do with her, what he intended. No matter what that was, no matter if. he never hurt her, he had no right to take her anywhere against her will.
She had to escape him. His hold on her tightened as if he knew she had decided she must try, whether she had a snow bali chance in hell or not.
If she were to salvage even that chance, she had to make a scene and pray someone would intervene.
She twisted in his grasp. "Stop, please! You're hurting me!" she cried.
"Darling, I'm sorry," he said, the regret in his voice sincere enough to convince a middle-aged man standing within a few feet and the woman joining him.
He used her twisting motion to bring her around into his -embrace, till she felt herself drawn flush against him. The power of his lean, hard body embracing hers quelled ~her. She couldn't think what she'd been trying to accomplish, couldn't focus. He smelled of leather and dust and too many hours in the saddle. More man than she had ever come near. Stronger, harder, seasoned. And very, very angry.
He held her tight and with his other hand clasped her head against his shoulder. To the onlookers, his actions must have seemed intimate and caring. Eden wasn't fooled.
~ "Stop it," she cried, "just stop it!" But her voice was muffled against his broad, muscled chest, and unintelligible even to her.
He stroked her hair and made soothing motions and lowered his head to murmur softly, lovingly, in her ear.
What he said had nothing to do with how tenderly he held her. Or how he said it.
"Listen to me. Listen well. Get this, Eden Kelley. Try to remember. Innocent people die when you're aroun& If you keep this up, someone else gets hurt. You want that on your conscience, too, be my guest. Otherwise, my advice to you is to keep your smart little mouth shut."
Tears sprang to her eyes and her throat clamped tight. It wasn't her fault that his wife was dead or that Agent Paglia had been shot down in cold blood less than an hour ago.
It was even less her fault if Winston Elijah Broussard III had brokered every bullet that had ever killed anyone in the history of the world. She had given up everything, every2 thing to stop him.
It wouldn't be her fault if this man chose to kill or maim or hurt whoever might play hero and step up to save her from Catherine'~ hate-ridden husband. But that's what it felt like to her.
Just as he knew it would. He stroked her hair.
"Don't touch me," she muttered.
"Don't worry." He let her go, dropped her cold, and Eden found herself clinging to him to keep from crumpling to her knees. She despised him for that, for making it clear to her how fragile she was.
He shoved open the door leading onto the apron of the runway, heading for the small jet. She fought desperately against the constant threat of fainting dead away. A gust of wind blew down off the Tetons, cold as ice. The pilot's coat collar whipped up about the time he drew a weapon and took a warning stance, both arms outstretched, both hands cupping the gun.
"Stop right there," he commanded.
But Catherine's widowed husband didn't even blink, much less stop, Propelling her along, his expression fixed in arrogant, grim determination, he produced a wallet that fell open on credentials Eden couldn't see but that gave the pilot pause. "United States Deputy Marshal Christian X. Tierney, Boston," he snapped. "Put the piece away."
Christian X. Tierney. A United States deputy marshal. Eden swallowed. Relief swamped her until she remembered what he had done to the county she tiff vehicle.
The pilot, a brown-haired, ordinary man--of a build to be intimidated by Tierney--wasn't convinced and did not lower his gun. "I'm holding for Special Agent Paglia, FBI."
"I said put the piece away."
The pilot exhaled sharply and straightened-from his shooting stance, lowering his arms. He jerked his head toward Eden. "Who's this?"
"The relocation witness you're waiting On. Your guy ran tight into an assassination attempt. He's dead and the sheriflYs deputy is either dead by now or still trying to take out the shooter."
The pilot cleared his throat, glancing nervously at Eden. "Then I'm required to report to Special Agent Tafoya and get revised orders."
"I need to talk to him, too," Eden broke in. "I" -- "What's your name?" Tierney interrupted. "Haggetty. Agent Dan Haggerry."
"Well, do that, Haggerty," Tierney suggested in a lethal tone. "Report to Tafoya. Of course, every second of delay risks this woman's life. She's hit, she's bleeding, she's on your head. Add to that the possibility that the shooter makes it here and takes her out while you're getting permission to wipe your nose"
"Look..." The pilot wavered, but Tierney reached out and grabbed him by the collar of his coat. "No, you look. You have two minutes to get this puppy off the ground or kiss your government pension goodbye."
THE PHONE RANG at ten-thirty Saturday morning.
Paul Maroncek sat at. his kitchen table sharing a cup of coffee with his wife, Janna. Sunlight streamed through the fern-filled bay windows, the coffee was
freshly ground, freshly brewed. None of this special-blend stuff, just good old-fashioned black coffee.
The rich aroma filled his nostrils. Pleasure settled over him like a favorite comforter. He'd taken Chris's advice and had a long talk with Janna where he'd done most of the listening. He couldn't believe the change in her attitude, how the hostility had faded. How just listening to her seemed to change everything. He had his wife back.
When the phone rang, she put down. her mug, stretched out a hand and covered his. "Don't answer it, Paul. Let it go."
"Janna"
"Just this once. Please. Let it ting. The nation won't go to ruin if you don't answer."
Carly B~shop
He felt a flash of irritation. He didn't want to spoil the rosy glow, but he had a life outside Janna's domain, too. Responsibilities.
He compromised with himself.
"I'll just see who it is and get rid of them." He rose swiftly and pecked his wife's cheek, intending to deliver on the second part of that promise. He lifted the receiver from the wall phone by the refrigerator.
Turning to wink at Janna, he stood leaning against the kitchen counter. "Maroncek here."
"Hold please," a brisk female voice returned, "for Special Agent David Tafoya."
Paul's level of alertness took a sharp climb. There was only one reason the Feeb would have to call Paul on a Saturday morning.
"Maroncek?" The Feeb's voice sounded accusatory from the start.
"Yes." Paul told himself to keep cool. To seem unwitting. He wasn't. "What's up?"
~"I'll tell you what's up," Tafoya snapped. "I'm expecting a call this morning, no later than 9:00 a.m. from Wyoming. You know the call? The one that says my men have the witness safely in custody?" He didn't expect an answer and didn't leave time for one, either, but while he was yapping, Janna got up and wearily dumped the mugs of coffee down the kitchen sink: "Well, guess what, Ma-roncek? The freaking call never came."
Trapped between his wife's resigned disappointment and theFeeb's angry outburst, Paul snarled, "Gee, I'm sorry to hear about that, Tafoya."
"Yeah, well, sorry doesn't cut it! I'm gonna haul your aSS- '
His wife banged through the swinging kitchen door. Paul only half listened to Tafoya's tirade. When the Feeb ran out of breath, Paul cut in. "How can the United States Federal Marshal Service be of assistance to you?"
"I want answers, Maroncek. Your assistance is the last thing I'm looking for."
Paul stared at the white-lacquered, six-panel swinging door. He couldn't even blame Janna. His promises were always predicated on demands of The Job. "Maybe your priorities are askew," he suggested, choking on the thick irony. "Have you thought about that, Tafoya? Maybe if you had let us handle the witness relocation"
"Cut the crap," Tafoya interrupted angrily. "You should know this call is being recorded. You should know the attorney general is going to hear about this. You should know, in short, that your career is in the toilet. Now I want answers and I want them right now. What the hell's going on?"
Paul cleared his throat. "Maybe you should tell me what you think has happened."
"I got a fax at 9:53. My guy went with the county sheriffs department and ran into an assassination attempt on
Eden Kelley. She's wounded and my agent is dead. " Paul swore. " I'm sorry, Tafoya"
"I'm not finished," he went on in the same dire tone. "Seems some lone ranger on a Harley swooped in and snatched my witness and then blew out the damn tires on the county vehicle--precluding pursuit, precluding capture. Now who do you suppose this cowboy SOB. was?"
Chris Tierney. Surprise, surprise. Switching to the cordless, Paul walked over and booted the cat out the patio door. "How would I know that, Tafoya?"
"Because this whole deal was between you, me and the
"G~anted. But you're assuming"
"I'm assuming that the attorney general of the United States is unlikely to snatch a protected witness or even arrange such an event." Tafoya's voice rose a notch. "I had the full cooperation of the local sheriff's department in a perfectly controlled relocation, so--yeah. I'm making the leap and assuming you cowboys decided this matter shouldn't have been assigned out of your precious jurisdiction, and you interfered. So take this for fair warning, Maroncek. You can bend over now and kiss your behind goodbye."
The line went dead. Paul looked thoughtfully a moment at the receiver, then rang off himself.
He shook his head. The cat screeched to be let back in, but he ignored it. He would never grant the Feds had arranged a "perfectly controlled" relocation. Tafoya wouldn't be in this position if he had, but the point was moot. The witness was gone.
And a Feeb was dead.
Paul felt badly about that. In a perfect world, cops wouldn't get whacked. But Paul had taken what he considered an acceptable risk when he revealed the FBI position in this matter-to Chris. Paul knew Chris wouldn't stay out of it, but his hands were essentially clean. Tafoya could howl foul play to the A. G. all he wanted. The herculean Christian X. Tierney was unlikely to be apprehended and less likely than that to betray Paul's confidence if he was. When the situation played out-to its conclusion, Chris Tierney would be taken down a peg or two for his reckless interference.
He needed to be taken down.
Paul knew he didn't have anything to fear. The Federal Marshal Service position, his own position in the matter of Eden Kelley's relocation, clearly a matter of record, was hands-off. Chris Tierney was acting as a private citizen. He was decorated, celebrated and adored among the powers-that-be.
Paul Maroncek could not be held accountable if his ever-so-able and trusted subordinate had gone off the deep end. Besides, Tafoya was missing the most crucial point.
By the Feeb's own account, Chris had saved the witness's life.
EDEN BEGAN TO FEEL claustrophobic from the first moment she climbed ab6and the federal govern mentis Lear-jet.
After the near Arctic cold dumping into the Snake River valley from the Tetons, the air inside the jet felt hot and stale. Endlessly recycled. Like life in a coffin. Her skin felt tight. Beads of perspiration broke out on her brow and the nape of her neck and between her breasts.
Christian Tierney had his hands full making sure the pilot did as he was told. She heard them talking and she gathered the pilot was still resisting, but their actual words sounded garbled in. her head.
She stared for a moment at the ~urnishings of the passenger compartment, feeling alternately hot and shivery and lethargic, as if her limbs were no. longer taking orders from her. She told herself to breathe, willing herself to get. a grip. To focus.
Bolted to the navy blue pile-carpeted floor of the compartment were twelve chairs arranged in conversational clusters, each covered in a rich. burgundy tweed.
She should choose, before Tierney chose for her. She couldn't think why that seemed so vital. Pick a chair. as if she were picking another destiny? As if she had some control? Deluded. But making a decision, any decision, felt vital.
She eyed the nearest one and headed for it, but halfway there, after only a few steps, her head began to swim and she stumbled.
Tierney appeared to keep her from falling, of course. He swore, grabbed the collar of her coat, pulled her up and scooped her into his arms. The motion made her head spin all the more, but for that moment, cradled in his arms, she felt somehow safer than she had ever been.
She swallowed and shut her eyes to savor the isolated moment, then laid a hand on the warm, solid wall of his chest. His heartbeat comforted her. She momentarily forgot everything--her dizziness and confusion, the stabbing pain. Everything but the overwhelming sensation of her guard going down, her eternal vigilance slipping away. In his strong, masculine arms and against his body, she didn't have to worry.
But then the plane j01ted forward and began to taxi. He dropped her like a hot potato into one of the chairs, and Eden knew the feeling of safety in his arms had only been a weak-minded illusion. Tears gushed to her eyes, but she would die before she
shed even one. ~
Beside her on one knee, Tierney caught an arm to steady her and then raked his fingers through her hair, pulling it back from her face. She clamped her jaws tight, swallowed and stared out a miniature window; refusing to meet. his eyes.
"Look at me, Eden," he commanded.
"No," she whispered. "No. Just leave me alone."
He swore softly and let go of her hair, but caught her chin in his hand, then laid his wrist on her brow. "You're flushed and warm."
"No kidding." She despised his gentleness and the con-~ cern in his voice; "Maybe I'll die and save you any more trouble."
"You're not going to die."
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