Danger swallowed hard. His eyes looked empty, bleak. “I didn’t know she was hurt like that. No more kids? I’m sorry. I love her, Rafe. I don’t know how to turn that off. Guess I’m a sore loser.”
“I love her, too. And I’m not even going to try to turn it off. I offered her the choice to come back to you. She refused. Even if you were free, Lacey wouldn’t have you back. You wounded her soul to the quick. That hurt isn’t going away. I’m the man lucky enough to have her love now.” Rafe turned and headed down the hall.
“Rafe?”
He paused, drew a sharp breath and turned around. “Don’t say anything else about her. She’s been abused enough. I don’t want to hurt you, but I won’t stand by and let you say terrible things about her again. Lacey’s a good woman. She was a wonderful mother to your son. If you’re looking for someone to blame, then Smitt Davis is who you need to direct your hatred toward.”
Danger rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “I know. I know. I always knew.”
“Then you need to tell her that. She needs to know you don’t blame her for Joseph or Anna’s death. It’s eating her up inside. At least give her that peace of mind. Tell her.”
“I will…someday. Not now. I can’t. Not right now. Need to forgive myself before I can forgive anyone else.”
“Lacey doesn’t need your forgiveness, just your understanding.”
Danger nodded. “Take care of her.”
“Count on it.”
“If he’s still alive, then Smitt Davis isn’t finished with her.”
Chills raced down Rafe’s spine. His grip on the box tightened. “I know.” He turned and headed for the door. Lacey had been alone outside much too long. The urgent need to hurry to her felt overwhelming. Smitt Davis could be anywhere. Like a chameleon, the bastard knew how to blend in to his surroundings.
Rafe didn’t breathe easy until he reached the truck, opened the door and saw Lacey propped against the pillow he’d given her. She was sound asleep and didn’t stir when he placed the box in the back of the extended cab.
Triangle, Texas waited. His ranch. Home. A new wife at his side. Hopefully, if Lacey’s body healed inside, in a few months, they’d have a new baby on the way. He prayed the surgeon was wrong and that Lacey would be able to conceive again. If she couldn’t, they’d adopt. Whatever she wanted, he’d do for her if at all possible. He just wanted her safe and happy.
Rafe went after the remaining two boxes, ignored Danger and Karen, and hurried to the truck. Setting the two boxes beside the one he’d brought out a few minutes ago, Rafe slipped inside, turned the key, and punched the gas.
He couldn’t escape Montana fast enough.
Chapter Six
All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware.
~Martin Buber
McLean, Virginia
CIA Headquarters
February 16, Monday
Thirty-four minutes after the assassination…
Flayme Jansen opened the office door and stepped into the long hallway. If she turned right, it’d lead to the emergency exit, then down six flights of stairs. Left took her to the bank of elevators and to the small alcove where the vending machines were located, where she’d discovered the sexy cowboy earlier in the evening.
The cowboy.
She hoped he’d found somewhere warm to spend the night. Why she couldn’t get him out of her head was beyond her. It wasn’t like her to let the memory of a man persist, especially after such a fleeting encounter, but the brief taste of his mouth on hers lingered, still vibrant on her tongue. She had no idea who he was. Perhaps he was a witness to some crime or a friend of one of the agents.
Flayme shrugged. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t likely to ever see him again. People came and went. When she wasn’t taking an urgent memo to someone on one of the other floors that was too confidential to send by email, then she was in her office next to Sam’s, busy. Always busy. She saw a lot, heard a lot, but she was blind, mute and deaf when necessary.
Being Sam’s secretary made her privy to things she was uncomfortable knowing, but she loved the daily challenge of the job. It kept her hopping. It also scared the hell outta her at times. So much political government bullshit, but also a lot of intrigue and confidential information passed through the offices.
Besides handling a lot of top secret and dangerous information, sometimes the field operatives were in peril. It was stressful for everyone. She was glad she worked for Sam, because Sam cared about her operatives and did her best to keep them safe and alive.
Flayme glanced at her watch. Jayla Ross would arrive any second. She needed to concentrate on that. It was difficult to judge what was going on. She’d talked to her on the phone several times over the past few months, but she’d never met the younger woman. Flayme didn’t know what was wrong, but she was familiar enough with Jayla’s voice to know that Sam’s friend was upset about something.
Maybe she’d had a slight fender-bender on the way here to meet Sam. Flayme was certain the highways were covered with icy patches by now. She wanted to reassure her Sam was on her way from D.C., so she decided to leave her office and meet the younger woman at the elevators. However, she wasn’t expecting to see a tall, muscular, attractive male waiting in front of the elevator doors.
Was he one of the guards? No. She didn’t think so.
Continuing slowly toward him, she pondered the situation. Strange. Not the rugged cowboy. No, this man’s physique and clothes were completely different, more sinister, and not in a good way. He wasn’t one of the guards. No way. One might think he’d just returned from a jungle war zone the way he was dressed in camouflage, combat boots, and so deeply tanned his skin looked the color of coffee beans.
Huh. It must be her day for spotting hot, sexy males near the elevators.
And it’d be great, except for one tiny problem―the building was locked down. No one was supposed to be on this floor, except her and Jayla, and of course Sam, when she arrived.
Everyone had left hours ago. This man had no business here. She was pretty certain he wasn’t part of the cleaning crew who’d arrived around ten-thirty and were on the second floor. So who the hell was he?
More importantly, how had he got inside without setting off the alarms?
“Oh, shit!” Flayme stumbled to a halt and stared at the wicked looking weapon in his hands. Her eyes widened. Now she had a suspicion as to what had happened to the guards. Was he waiting on Jayla? Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was looking for her? In that case—why the gun? “Hey,” she shouted.
Stupid—stupid! She yelled before she considered the real danger she might be in. She worked in a place where intrigue, mystery and deception were everyday occurrences. The agents packed guns, so seeing a weapon wasn’t all that unusual, but they didn’t usually stand in front of the elevators with one in hand.
The man swung to face her, a startled expression on his dark face. He eyed her with something akin to frustration and a hint of lethal rage. His gaze wavered from her to the elevator and back.
“Fuck!” His angry outburst reached her at the end of the hall where she stood frozen like a freakin’ idiot. He hesitated, as though he wasn’t quite certain what he should do, then he slowly turned the gun toward her and fired.
The lamp on the long stand to her left exploded. Instinctively, Flayme threw up her hands and screamed. Her sharp cry broke the utter quiet, along with the sound of the shattered lamp base.
Because the damn shot sure hadn’t.
A second bullet missed her by mere inches and splintered the door facing where she stood.
Silent bullet? Silent shots?
Silencer!
Dear God. The man was a pro. A hit man?
Why would a hit man be after her? No. No. That wasn’t right. She wasn’t thinking logically. Good grief! She wasn’t thinking period or she’d never have drawn attention to herself. He’d been waiting in front of the elevators, ergo, he must want Jayla, but with h
er family connections, she supposed it made her the possible target, and Jayla was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Her mind raced. It wasn’t safe or practical to assume he was here to kill Jayla. At any rate, no matter which of them he’d originally been after, he’d have to kill both of them now. Shoving the terror to the back of her mind, Flayme spun to her right and took off down the long hall to the back emergency exit.
Another shot.
She cringed as the bullet whizzed past her ear.
Ping! A fourth shot. Flayme gasped. Lucky, lucky miss, for her, but a large picture fell off the wall and crashed in front of her. The tinkle of breaking glass as it hit the hard tile mixed with her sharp cries of alarm.
And damn, Samantha was going to be pissed. The boss loved that picture. Lamp number two exploded beside her. Chunks of thick, chalky glass flew in myriad directions. Some of the smaller fragments lodged in the back of her left shoulder.
Flayme groaned. Warm liquid trickled down her back and arm. Crap! Her suit would be ruined. She’d never get out the blood stains. She moaned the loss. It was one of her favorites. The sucker had cost a small fortune. She’d scrimped on lunches, movies, and other little treats to save for it. If it was the last thing she did—oh, yeah, damn, it just might be the last thing she ever did any second now.
Running, determined to escape, Flayme landed hard on her left foot. The heel of her shoe snapped, plunging her into in a headlong stumble toward the door. The broken heel piece skidded across the waxed tile flying past her. It screeched to a sudden halt, bumping smoothly against the baseboard, then spinning like a top.
Flayme braced her palms flat against the wall, gaining control of her forward momentum. Pausing for an infinitesimal second, she eyed the broken heel lying on the floor as it stilled its crazy gyrating. Obscene. Ugly. It glared back at her, a leather chunk of nothing. She felt like weeping. Like her suit, she’d paid an outrageous price for the sexy heels. Crap! Yeah, handsome or no handsome, the ape in camouflage had a lot to answer for—just not right now.
Not when there were more important things to consider—like her life.
Hobbling the rest of the way to the exit door, Flayme gave up on being graceful. It wasn’t at the top of her priority list or even possible, not when she limped along like a one-legged grasshopper, but it was no mean feat to run when one’s shoe heel was missing and the other heel was six inches taller.
Chink! Another shot right above her head. Chink! Chink! Two bullets plugged the steel door in front of her. Holy f-ing hell! How many friggin’ bullets did the gun have? Chills tripped over each other in their rush to hasten up her spine.
Dread settled in the pit of her stomach like a chunk of ice. Sooner or later, one of those flippin’ bullets would hit the mark, and shatter her spine or lodge in her brain. It gave her plenty of incentive to haul ass, regardless of the missing heel.
Feeling as if she was running an obstacle course, Flayme hit the exit door like a torpedo juiced up on crack. It slammed open, banging against the outer wall. Bang-bang! It bounced back twice, humming on its steel hinges, then stilled. She hurtled down the circular stairs, stumbling and tripping, clumsy in her haste to escape the shooter determined to put a bullet in her spinal cord.
Her fingers clenched around the stair rail, otherwise, she knew she’d topple head-first down the narrow stairs. A blanket of fear covered her, smothering her. Her chest heaved with each breath she struggled to take. Time crawled. It took forever for the door to close behind her and for her to reach the bottom of the stairwell. Once she did, she thrust past the final barrier, fleeing into the dark.
Finally, she cleared the building. “Thank you, God. Thank You!”
Flayme sucked in the cold night air. The icy wind cut through her thin clothes like she wore nothing at all. Her lungs wheezed, but she dared not take time to pause and catch her breath. The obscene quiet behind her didn’t mean the shooter wasn’t close on her heels.
She yanked the hem of her tight skirt above her knees and took off in a half-assed, hobbled run across the parking lot. The freezing cold and bullets of ice slapped her in the face with annoying sharp bites. She’d have been happy to ignore the frigid cold and keep right on running, but she slipped on a patch of ice and skated awkwardly across the parking lot. “Whoa!”
Flayme let go of her skirt and flung out her arms to her sides, a balancing act she realized almost at once wasn’t going to work. The ground was slick as a moss covered rock in a creek. She fought to stay upright, her arms flapping in the air like a damn duck with broken wings. No good. Her feet went one way and her body went another. Smack! Excruciating pain hammered her chin and high on her left cheek bone. She lay there face-first on the ice-covered ground, too stunned to move.
“Shit,” she managed to choke.
The pain. Groaning, Flayme bit her lip to keep from sobbing from the toe-curling agony. Her cheekbone smarted. Her palms burned. Her body throbbed. She’d heard of seeing stars, and boy howdy, it was true. For real, she saw little yellow lights twirling inside her head.
Droplets of blood spattered the tops of her hands. “Crap.” Was it dripping from her nose or her mouth? Flayme touched her lips with unsteady fingers. Her mouth. Her lower lip felt as chubby as a grape and bled profusely. It didn’t matter how much blood dotted the pure white snow, or if she saw a gazillion stars whirling in her head. If she didn’t get up and get moving, she was dead. Scrambling to her feet willy-nilly, she fled into the night, into the icy, frozen pitch-black dark—without a coat, her purse—keys? Horrified that she might have left her keys in her office, she patted her suit pocket. “Please be there. Please,” she said breathlessly. “Yes!” She pulled the keys from her side pocket and sighed with relief. “There is a God.”
Boy, her face throbbed worse than a toothache. She wondered if she’d broken something. Her nose? A jawbone? Cheekbone. Her entire face? “So what? I’ll live…maybe.”
But she might not survive a gunshot wound. Hurry! Hurry! She beat a hasty path to her car and prayed for Jayla’s safety.
Unfortunately, there was nothing she could to do help her.
It was up to the younger woman to save herself.
Chapter Seven
Force is all-conquering, but its victories are short-lived.
~ Abraham Lincoln
McLean, Virginia
CIA Headquarters
February 16, Monday
Thirty-five minutes after the assassination…
The gun clicked on an empty chamber. Jayla opened her mouth and belted out a shrill scream. “Ahhh!” The sharp cry hurt even her ears, but she had no time to waste, or consider her next defensive move. From one blink to the next, she swung her big heavy bag with all her might. Crack! It slammed against the center of Kane’s forehead knocking him back several steps. He groaned and dropped to the floor like the sack of shit she knew him to be.
“Hah! I’m not in the women’s softball league for nothing,” she chortled. Jayla jabbed the down button so hard she chipped a nail. “Lousy rotten scumbag!” She stabbed the button several more times, until the doors finally closed. She was getting darn tired of Kane and his freakin’ gun waiting outside elevator doors to pop her. Jayla poked the button again. “Come on! Move, already!”
What the hell was wrong with the elevators tonight? Were they all on some kind of non-response mode? When they moved, were they programmed in slow motion? It certainly seemed like it to her. Finally, the car’s brain kicked in and the machine descended at a rate of speed she labeled granny-gear in her mind.
Her brain felt scrambled. She didn’t know what to do now, where to turn to for help. Her breasts chugged. Her lungs felt tortured by the rapid inhalations and exhalations escaping her. “Calm down. Save your energy.” She wrinkled her nose at the whiff of fine bourbon filling her nostrils from inside her bag. “Oooh, hell!” The fifth of Rip Van Winkle she’d filched from her stepfather’s bar earlier in the day must have broken when she cracked Ka
ne’s skull with it. “Mother-humper!” She expressed her sorrow over the loss of good bourbon with the two-part word. “Shit-shit-shit!” The three-word phrase verbalized her indisputable rage over the fact her costly Chloe Paddington handbag with the prominent golden padlock now smelled like a distillery.
She had a thing for expensive handbags and this one was her favorite. She couldn’t think of a better way for the bottle of liquor to go than over Kane’s head, though, even if her purse ended up ruined, which only proved there was a good reason for all things.
Thank God she’d claimed the fifth and stuck it in her bag before she left Hamilton’s house earlier today. From there, she’d carried it to the Vintage Party and back to the Ambassador. She’d intended to share it with Sam once they arrived in Hawaii.
It wasn’t that she was a bourbon fan, she wasn’t. She’d taken it because it was the senator’s favorite booze. Someone had sent him a new case while she was there at Hamilton’s home. It’d given her great pleasure to pour the entire contents down the drain, except for the last remaining bottle she’d swiped.
It was little enough revenge for all she owed him, but just knowing Hamilton would be pissed over the loss made her day. One day she’d find a way to make him really pay for the wrongs he’d done to her and her mother.
She took a moment to savor the fact that she’d creamed Kane, but good, another black mark against her. Jayla dumped the chunks of glass in a trash receptacle and lamented the fact the bottom of her bag was wet and smelly, but at least for the moment, she was safe. Yeah. She’d bought herself some time, a few precious minutes she needed to reach her car and escape.
Playing For Keeps (Montana Men) Page 10
