Crimes of Passion

by Toni Anderson

  “And I thought you wanted me to stop being condescending. Which do you want?”

  She huffed out a sigh and grabbed his tie, unknotting it while he drove.

  “Thanks,” he said as he popped open the top two buttons. Sweat had plastered his shirt to his skin, but now he could feel the airflow.

  “At least you’re easy on the eyes,” she said. “This would suck completely if your face matched your personality.”

  A sharp laugh escaped. He glanced sideways and caught her amused expression.

  Mara gasped. “Look out!”

  He swung his gaze back to the roadway and saw a huge pickup truck coming at them head-on. He swerved to the right, but there wasn’t enough shoulder to evade it. The truck clipped the Accord, sending it into a spin. He gripped the wheel and tried to recover control. He turned into the spin, and they came to a stop.

  He glanced at Mara. “You okay?”

  “I think so. You?”

  They faced the wrong way on the highway. A line of cars was stopped before them, some having narrowly avoided their own collisions.

  The behemoth white pickup that had started the accident had ricocheted to the left after clipping them, and now rested with the front tires off the road, the fender against a palm tree. The engine roared as the vehicle revved, then lurched in reverse, dropping off the curb with a thunk. The truck paused, then surged forward, barreling down the narrow highway and disappearing from view.

  He pulled out his cell to call the police. To Mara, he said, “I got the license plate.”

  “You don’t need it. I know that truck—but I can guarantee the owner wasn’t driving.”

  Startled, he turned to her. “How do you know?”

  Her face had lost all trace of color. “His brains are splattered all over my kitchen.”

  EIGHT

  “YOU’RE CERTAIN?” CURT ASKED.

  Mara nodded, unable to speak as the enormity of what had just happened sank in. One moment they were driving and bickering, and the next, Roddy’s beast of a truck tried to take them out in a head-on collision.

  Curt turned her Honda around and took a right onto a neighborhood side street, where he parked and made a phone call. “Palea, the link we needed to connect the jet explosion to Roddy’s murder just happened, which means you can get your ass over to the Marine Corps Base and take over the investigation.” He quickly explained the accident and the fact that Roddy Brogan owned the truck. “Call the Honolulu special agent in charge and have her call the secretary of defense. I’ll call the attorney general and secretary of state. I want you in charge of the investigation on the base within the hour.” He glanced at Mara. “We’ve got to get out of here. It’s clear she’s the target. She was supposed to be on the jet, and whoever is after her recognized her car.”

  Curt’s words to the FBI agent penetrated the haze that had clouded Mara’s mind.

  I know the driver of the truck.

  The driver of the truck just tried to kill us.

  And he probably killed Roddy.

  Curt continued making calls while the meaning sank in. Even though Roddy had died in her house, she hadn’t wanted to believe she knew his killer. It was impossible. She didn’t know killers. Soldiers, yes. Cold-blooded murderers? No.

  She was still reeling when Curt nudged her, offering his cell phone. Startled, she met his gaze. “It’s the secretary of state. He wants to talk to you.”

  She’d met the secretary of state a few times when he served in the senate with her uncle. He’d always been nice but stiff—the consummate statesman. He’d probably worked hard to secure her return. She took the phone. “Mr. Secretary, thank you for everything you’ve done for me. And please, let the president know how grateful I am.”

  “I will, Mara. And you’re welcome, but it looks like you aren’t out of trouble yet.”

  “Yeah, the stop on Oahu isn’t going well.”

  “Mara, is there any chance what’s happening could be related to North Korea? The president and I need to know if we could have a problem with a madman with nukes.”

  She glanced at Curt. She wanted to tell the secretary everything. But she couldn’t—not in front of Curt, and certainly not on a cell phone. Besides, she’d made sure the North Korean government didn’t know a thing—so she wasn’t lying. “You’ll be happy to know this appears to be personal.”

  The man breathed heavily into the phone. “I’m sorry for your sake, but admittedly relieved. Be careful, Mara. And if you think of anything, call me. Dominick has my private number.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said and ended the conversation.

  “What’s the fastest route to Hickam Air Force Base?” Curt asked.

  “Get on H-3. Why?”

  “We’re going to catch a flight from there.”

  “You arranged a flight?” Wow—she’d spaced out for a bit but didn’t realize she’d been that checked out.

  “Not yet. But with the Kaneohe runway gone, Hickam is our best bet to get off the island quickly.”

  “We’re just going to show up and demand a plane?”

  “Yes.”

  “The military doesn’t work that way. Hell, arranging for transportation for JPAC—and we work on Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam—is a frigging nightmare.”

  He flashed a cocky grin. “Sweetheart, you’ve never traveled with me before.”

  ***

  THEY WERE GOING TO HICKAM. Evan Beck threw Roddy’s truck in gear and headed for Likelike. They were taking H-3; he’d take the other tunnel, ensuring his targets wouldn’t spot Roddy’s oversized truck.

  He blessed the Raptor tech who’d designed the device that could pull Dominick’s cell phone number from Colonel McCormick’s phone. But even better was the gadget that turned Dominick’s cell into a microphone. Once he had the right cell phone number, he’d locked onto Dominick’s phone. Able to eavesdrop on conversations even when the man wasn’t using the phone, he heard everything he needed to track them down. Mara’s voice was clear as day. He shook off the flicker of hesitation. He had a job to do.

  His window of opportunity at Hickam would be brief. There were so many high-level government officials involved; the base commander would give Dominick an aircraft carrier if he could.

  At Hickam, he’d be able to take Mara out with the Barrett Light 50. He’d get only one shot—the fifty-caliber round would be heard for miles—but it was the only rifle in his arsenal with the range he’d need.

  He parked in the neighborhood that overlooked the airfield, obscured by a cluster of mango trees with low branches, but with a clear sight line from the back. He climbed into the truck bed and set up the Barrett. He hadn’t used this weapon much, but he had a computerized scope so advanced the military didn’t even have them yet. The scope would make his lack of familiarity with the gun irrelevant. Soon Mara wouldn’t be his problem anymore, and his dad would get off his back.

  He’d just gotten the rifle set up and the scope mounted when Mara and Dominick stepped onto the tarmac.

  From the flurry of movement on the airfield, it became clear which jet they where heading for. Evan would have a clear shot when Mara climbed the steps. Leading as she was, when she reached the second step their heads would be at the same height. He’d already programmed the scope with her height, and it zeroed in on the exact place her head would be when she stood on the second step. Now he waited.

  She and Dominick stopped fifty yards away from the jet and spoke with an officer.

  Evan was an ordnance tech. For JPAC, he disposed of bombs, and for Raptor, he created them. Sniping wasn’t his style, and as he waited for Mara to reach the crosshairs, he was reminded why. Waiting sucked.

  Sweat broke out on his brow.

  Move.

  Finally, Mara resumed walking, Dominick next to her. Mara climbed first. In the scope, her head came into view. The height setting was dead-on.

  Evan squeezed the trigger.

  NINE

  THE GANGWAY ROCKED UNDER Curt
’s feet as the side of the jet suddenly sprouted a hole. An earsplitting bang followed an instant later. In front of him, Mara dropped down. He did the same, covering her body with his.

  Holy shit, what was that thing? In a flash, it had created a foot-wide hole in the jet’s fuselage. The sound had reached them after the bullet pierced the jet, meaning the damn weapon was supersonic.

  Mara groaned beneath him. He shifted his weight to his hands, which were braced on either side of her head.

  What if the bastard fired again? Hell, the sides of the stairs might conceal them, but obviously the round could pierce metal just fine. They were completely vulnerable. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  She rolled over, and they were chest to chest. Blood covered her face. He reared back. “Mara! Did shrapnel hit you?” Over his shoulder he yelled, “Medic! She’s hurt!”

  The airman who’d accompanied them to the jet had dropped to the tarmac. Now he inched forward and rose on his knees at the base of the stairs.

  “I hit my head on the edge of the stair. It’s just a cut.” More blood spilled from the wound, staining her hair, running in rivulets down her cheek and nose, along her neck, and pooling in the groove above her collarbone.

  He cupped her face in his hands, smearing blood across her cheeks. “Promise me you’re okay.”

  She grimaced. “I promise. The cut stings, but my head is fine.”

  “I’m going to get you the hell out of here; then we’ll clean you up. Okay?” He pulled at his shirt, buttons went flying, but he didn’t give a damn. Bare-chested, he pressed his shirt against the cut on her forehead. “Hold this to stop the bleeding.”

  Oh Jesus. If she’d been one step higher… He couldn’t think about that. Right now he had to get her out of here. He needed to do his fucking job and actually protect her for a change.

  He swung around to face the airman. “I think the bullet came from over there,” he said, pointing to a line of trees across the road from the airfield.

  “Yes, sir, there’s already a team checking the area out. If the gunman was there, he’ll have fled by now.”

  Curt glanced again at the hole in the jet. “This jet isn’t going anywhere.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Ms. Garrett and I are leaving. I want you to call FBI Agent Kaha’i Palea. He’s going to be in charge of this investigation as it relates to the others. Tell him what happened and tell him I’ll call him as soon as I can.”

  In minutes, Curt was back behind the wheel of Mara’s Honda.

  “How did the shooter know where to find us?” She leaned against the passenger window, holding his shirt in a ball against her forehead. She looked exhausted and her eyes closed as she said, “No one knew where we were headed.”

  “I don’t know. We were only there, what, thirty minutes? Hardly time to drive through Honolulu traffic and get in position for that shot.”

  “Do you think the shooter was on base already?”

  “Possible. Or there’s a tracking device on your car—or on one of us.”

  Curt’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

  My cell phone.

  Cell phones were vulnerable to hacking and being turned into microphones, but it required sophisticated computer skills. The few cases he’d prosecuted had involved corporate espionage or domestic-violence-related stalking. But a few months ago, he’d read a Homeland Security briefing that stated devices to lock onto cell phones by the less-technically savvy were in development and might already be in use.

  From the moment Palea told him Roddy was dead, Curt had suspected Raptor. It was why he’d made the decision to reroute to Oahu. Anything that implicated Raptor could possibly be used against Stevens, and even better, lead to an indictment of Robert Beck. The man had betrayed his country numerous times in Iraq, Afghanistan, and in Egypt. And with Roddy’s abduction of Mara in North Korea, he couldn’t help but wonder if the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea could be added to the list.

  Raptor had the skill and equipment to blow up a plane and had long-range sniper rifles with enough firepower to blow a hole in the side of a military jet. But more important, Raptor topped Homeland Security’s list of companies who were suspected of developing phone-hacking devices.

  The phone in his pocket was probably acting as a beacon and microphone right this second, telling a Raptor operative where they were, and anything he said aloud would tell him where they were headed. He looked for a place to pull over so he could yank the battery out of the phone.

  “Curt, I think you should let me call—”

  He slapped a hand over Mara’s mouth before she could divulge something important. He glanced sideways to see hurt and confusion on her bloody face.

  He was a complete ass. But all he could do was shake his head, slowly remove his hand, and press his index finger to his lips. When she remained silent, he gingerly took the cell phone out of his pocket and held it out to her. He waited for a safe break in traffic, then faced her long enough to mouth the words, Remove the battery.

  She cocked her head to the side but nodded. She dropped the shirt she’d been holding against the cut and pried off the back of the phone. A moment later, the battery was out. Curt took a deep breath but remained silent. What if the culprit hadn’t been the phone? Whoever killed Roddy could have easily bugged the car.

  They had a host of other problems. Right now, he was shirtless and she was coated in blood. They had no phone, no jet, little cash, and the trial started in, fuck, twelve hours.

  She tapped his shoulder and pointed to the upcoming exit. The parts of her face not coated in blood were pasty white.

  He changed lanes to reach the exit and followed her hand signals, hoping against hope she was leading them to a doctor, a fueled jet, a phone, a clean car, or a safe place to hang out until they could procure any of those items.

  Unfortunately, she led them to a park. A crowded, Waikiki beach park.

  What the hell?

  He glanced sideways at her, and realized the blood had been flowing from her wound unchecked since she pried out the battery. He’d been following driving directions from someone who could very well be light-headed.

  With hand signals, she told him to park the car. Lacking a better option, he complied, but the moment the vehicle stopped, she flung open her door and bolted for the water.

  Shit!

  Curt had no choice but to follow her.

  She zigzagged across the park, weaving between tourists in an almost drunken manner. But still, for a woman who was probably woozy from a head wound, she was fast. She was swimming for the breakwater before he reached the waterline. Did she think she could swim to the mainland? Had she lost her mind along with all that blood?

  Curt had no choice but to kick off his shoes and dive after her. With several swift strokes he caught up to her in deep water, grabbed her by the waist, and pulled her against him. “What the hell are you doing?”

  They were being hunted—probably by mercenaries—and she’d had him pull over so she could take a swim?

  She draped her arms around his neck and flashed a blissful smile. “Isn’t the water wonderful? I didn’t think I’d live to see Hawaii again, let alone get to swim in the ocean.” Her voice held a worrisome dreamy quality.

  “Mara, I think you’ve lost too much blood.” Hell. She was underweight, probably hadn’t slept, and had barely eaten. Add blood loss to that and it was surprising she was even conscious.

  She threaded her fingers in the wet hair at his nape. “But salt water is good for the cut, and the blood’s been washed away. Plus, if either of us is bugged, the bug has been destroyed by the water, right?”

  Relief spread through him. Okay, she might not be firing on all cylinders, but she wasn’t completely irrational either. “Some bugs are waterproof, but your thinking was sound.”

  She glanced down at the neckline of her tight-fitting top. “Is it crazy to think my clothes might have been bugged when Roddy’s killer was in my house?”
<
br />   “Yes, but I suppose it doesn’t hurt to be careful. I think it was my phone, but the only way to be certain is if no one tries to kill you in the next hour.”

  She frowned. “I don’t like your method of testing hypotheses.”

  He laughed. “I don’t either, sweetheart.”

  They bobbed on the surface of the turquoise sea. The water was calm, almost flat due to the lack of trade winds, and the sun beat down on his bare shoulders as he treaded water with her in his arms.

  Her wound, her predicament, this entire situation was his fault. If they’d just refueled in San Francisco, they’d be crossing the mainland by now. But he was determined to get something solid on Raptor, and now she was in danger. “I’m sorry, Mara. I seriously screwed up.”

  Her expression turned dreamy, and one hand stopped playing with his hair in favor of tracing his pecs. “You’re really ripped. But you probably know that. I didn’t think lawyers could be ripped. My uncle’s lawyers were always slimy weasels…”

  “Okay. Time to stop the blood flow. You probably need to eat or drink something too.”

  “I feel fine.” Her hand slipped below the water and continued exploring his chest and belly. “Jesus. Where did you get this six-pack? It’s unfair, really, that you’re brilliant, successful, and hot…”

  He caught her hand and pulled her snug against his body before she could take her exploration too far. “Mara. You need to stop. This isn’t appropriate.”

  “Today I’ve been before a firing squad and survived three attempts on my life. Screw appropriate.”

  He was too transfixed by the sight of water sluicing over the deep V of her top and disappearing into the valley of her cleavage to respond. She flashed a dimpled smile. Her lips looked far too tempting. But even if her dizzy logic appealed, he had to be the voice of sanity.

  Jesus. This couldn’t be happening.

  The feel of her nipples against his chest was enough to drive him insane, and unfortunately, given their current embrace, even in her light-headed state she had to be aware of his arousal. How the hell had he gotten into this situation? He, Curt Dominick, couldn’t possibly be swimming in the Pacific Ocean twelve hours before the trial with his defendant’s punch-drunk and far-too-attractive niece plastered against him.