“We?” The firefighter glanced down at Sloane but she didn’t see any hint of recognition from him.
“This is Sloane Maxwell,” Mason explained. “My Jeep exploded. She needs to get to the hospital.”
“Just about finished,” the paramedic said, looking up at him.
No sooner had he said that then she heard the wail of another siren in the distance, loud, then a bit muffled, then louder again. Must be coming over the hills and dips common in this region. As the ambulance crew closer, the loud reverberations of the siren caused her to wince again. Her head throbbed. Her stomach roiled, but other than the piece of shrapnel sticking out of her arm and her aching head, she was okay. Mason looked okay, too, other than the injury to his scalp. Thank God.
A flurry of activity followed. She lost sight of Mason for several minutes. A surge of panic made her catch her breath. She forced herself to calm down. She was all right. Mason was all right. But the car. The explosion . . . what happened? If they had been any closer to the car when he used the remote to unlock the doors . . .
“Let’s get you onto the gurney, and then we’ll get you to the hospital so you can get that arm taken care of, okay?”
She turned toward the blackened, sizzling remains of Mason’s Jeep. The fire had burned hot and fast. Every bit of the exterior was singed black. The air was filled with the acrid chemical stench of foam from the seats, melted plastic, and rubber. Smoke that still billowed up from the wreck was thick, black, and laden with the scent of oil.
“Let us do the work, all right, ma’am?”
She yanked her gaze away from the Jeep. The second ambulance crew had arrived. Two EMTs in black cargo pants and white short-sleeved, buttoned-down, and incredibly crisp shirts emerged from the ambulance and quickly headed in her direction, a low-slung gurney between them. She would have protested that she could get into the ambulance on her own but wasn’t sure if she could even stand on her own two feet. More than moderate jitters quickly replaced the adrenaline pumping through her veins.
In a matter of moments, she had been carefully lifted onto the gurney. Mason appeared by her side. As the EMTs started rolling the gurney toward the back of the ambulance, Mason followed.
“Sir, you can’t—”
“I’m going with her.”
“Sir, it’s against regulations.”
“I don’t give a flyin’ fuck,” he interrupted. “I’m goin’ with.”
“It’s all right, Hank,” one of the troopers said, approaching. He looked at Sloane and then at Mason. “We’ll be right behind you. To get both your statements.”
Mason nodded. “You keep your ear to the ground, Brad,” Mason told him, his gaze passing over the crowd, lingering on what remained of his Jeep, and then back to the trooper. “I want to be kept in the loop. Understood?”
Brad nodded. “You got it, Mason.”
The gurney was lifted into the back of the ambulance. Mason took a seat on one of the cushions normally occupied by a paramedic and squeezed himself into a corner as the paramedic climbed in after the gurney. The two EMTs returned to the front of the vehicle, one of them frowning at Mason.
Inside the back, the paramedic gestured toward Mason’s forehead. “Since you’re here, I might as well take a look at that.”
“I’m all right,” he muttered. “You just take care of her.”
While Sloane appreciated his apparently dedicated focus on her well-being, her mind was beginning to race. Everything had happened so quickly. Mason glowered down at her. No, not at her, but obviously just as confused as she.
“Maybe bumping my head again will help me remember,” she tried to joke. He stared at her a moment, his expression blank. Several seconds later, the corners of his mouth turned upward. The dimple appeared.
“Maybe,” he grinned down at her.
Outside, the red-and-blue rotating lights of the ambulance flashed through oncoming dusk. The siren was loud, preventing conversation and causing her head to pound anew. While she had tried to make light of her injuries, she was still worried. She could tell by the expression on his face that Mason was worried, too. One thought kept returning again and again no matter how much he tried to push it away.
This wasn’t a random attack. It couldn’t have been. Someone had deliberately blown up Mason’s car. But why? Her life was in danger, perhaps even Mason’s. But why? Damn it! She had no idea.
11
Mason
Mason tried to match Sloane’s bravado and her ability to make jokes while riding in the back of an ambulance, but still a hollow knot grew in the pit of his stomach. Someone had blown up his car. His car! If they’d been any closer, chances were they’d both be dead. One attempt on Sloane’s life had already been made in the warehouse fire, and now another. Why? Or maybe she wasn’t the only target now. Whoever had followed them and planted the bomb had to have seen them together. He had been asking around about her, about what had been going on in that warehouse. Had he brought the danger to her this time?
The question rocketed around his brain, but he stayed quiet. He wasn’t going to bring it up now, scare her again. Not while she was lying in the back of a rocking ambulance as it rapidly traveled toward the hospital, siren wailing. Again. What good would it do, anyway? She couldn’t remember.
“Mason, what’s going on? Obviously, someone wants to get rid of me, but I can’t for the life of me figure out why.”
Her hand trembled in his, her face still way too pale for his liking. He didn’t reply, opting instead for quiet shhing noises, wordless comfort, all the while his mind racing. This hadn’t been a random attack. But who were they after—him or her? Maybe both.
Neither said anything more during the ride to the hospital. Not only did the siren prevent much conversation, but what was there to say? Every time Mason saw the piece of metal sticking up out of Sloane’s forearm, anger boiled within him. He wanted to get his hands on those bastards, but he didn’t know who they were. What did they want? What did they think she knew that put her life in danger? Had she been involved in something? As much as his heart refused to believe it—and he’d never say anything different to anyone else—a lot could change in ten years. Whatever side she was on, she was clearly involved in something. But what?
They stayed at the hospital for several hours. The ER doc insisted on checking them both over and, against Mason’s protests, they were taken into separate treatment rooms, x-rayed, cleaned up, and then bandaged. He’d needed three stitches in his scalp and was handed a painkiller before being discharged within the hour. A nurse told him that they were still extracting the metal from Sloane’s arm, and he should wait outside her treatment room. Thankfully, the shrapnel hadn’t nicked the bone and had avoided major blood vessels, so it was classified as a superficial injury. She too would receive some stitches, painkillers, and as soon as they were done with her, she too would be discharged.
While he waited, he was briefly interviewed by a state trooper. Who, what, when . . . he knew nothing other than someone had tried to kill them. No, he didn’t know why. He didn’t even live down here. After several minutes, the trooper asked for his contact information and left.
So. Now what?
Even as relief flooded through him to learn Sloane had escaped serious injury, Mason still couldn’t relax. As long as Sloane’s memory stayed absent, she was in more danger than ever. So what now? First things first. Getting back to Monroe. They were exposed here, without any of his usual first responder family keeping an eye on his back, and he didn’t like it.
Cursing under his breath, he called his insurance carrier and told them what happened. While disbelieving at first, the agent finally got down to business and told him to forward a copy of the police reports to their company as soon as he could. After disconnecting with the insurance company, he called a local rental agency and arranged for a rental car to be delivered to the hospital. It would be there within the next half hour, the agent assured him.
Mason paced res
tlessly in the hallway, waiting for Sloane to emerge from the treatment room. Whoever that person or persons was, they’d upped the game today, going from leaving Sloane injured in a fire to a deliberate act designed to kill them both. Was he just collateral damage? His gut told him no. He’d gotten too close to something with his digging. He had to have for the mystery attacker to escalate so brutally.
It didn’t matter. They were both in danger. So now what? Go back to Monroe and pretend nothing happened? He didn’t want to stress Sloane any more than she already was, but there was no way he was backing off. His first order of business was to make sure Sloane was safe in his apartment. Then he would go down to visit the Monroe Police Department and report what happened, if they didn’t already know by now.
He tried not to think about his ruined car. He loved that old Jeep. Yes, he and Sloane had come away from the explosion relatively unscathed, but still. He was pissed off and—
“Mason, are you okay?”
He turned. Sloane stood in the doorway to the treatment room, holding several sheets of paper in her right hand. Her pupils were still dilated and her hair disheveled, but the color was back in her cheeks. Her left forearm was wrapped in bandages. She offered a shrug.
“I’m getting the feeling that I’m jinxed.”
He shook his head. “You’re not jinxed, Sloane. Someone blew up my fu—damned car, but I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”
She said nothing.
“Come on. Got your discharge papers with you?” She nodded and lifted the papers in her hand. “A rental will be arriving any minute. We’re heading back to Monroe tonight.” Again she said nothing.
After thanking the ER staff near the doorway that led outside, he led her out of the building. His gaze swept over the street in front of him as they walked silently. His thoughts were spinning and all his attention was needed. He couldn’t answer any of her questions. She asked anyway. Standing just under the overhang at the curb, she turned to him, eyebrows lifted.
“Who’s trying to kill me, Mason?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” he muttered. Her face fell.
Damn it.
Mason reached into his back pocket and retrieved his phone, dialed, then waited.
“Detective Joe Bascom, please.” Sloane gave him a curious look but he lifted a finger, halting her question. “Detective Bascom, Mason Rawlings here. Sloane and I are down in Savannah. I thought maybe taking her to some places we used to visit might jog her memory.”
“Any luck?”
“No, at least not yet, but something came up. We were in a restaurant having something to eat. When we came out and I used my remote to unlock my car doors, it blew up.”
“What?! You’re not serious, Rawlings.”
Mason rolled his eyes. “Yes, Lieutenant. I meant literally.”
“Shit. Are you both okay?”
“Yeah, no serious injuries. I’ve got a rental car and we’re heading back to Monroe tonight. Just thought I’d let you know.”
Bascom chuckled dryly. “Well, thanks for the heads up.”
“We won’t get back until later tonight. I’ll swing by your office in the morning.”
He disconnected the call and looked at Sloane. She returned his gaze, but she had a strange look on her face.
“Can I borrow your phone?”
The question startled him. Who was she going to call? “You remember someone’s phone number?”
“You said I worked for a company called Novas Antiquities, right? And my boss’s name is Sakkas? Stavros Sakkas?”
He nodded.
“I think I’ll give him a call.”
“Sloane, that might not be such a good idea.”
“Why not?” She held out her hand for the phone. “Maybe he can tell me what I was doing in Monroe. Was I buying something?”
“The lieutenant said he’d already talked to him. Sakkas said you weren’t there for any work—and besides, what the hell would you buy in a small town like Monroe?”
“Maybe something of historical significance?” She shook her head, followed by a wince. “Ouch. Maybe I was negotiating for something that had to do with the Civil War.”
This was definitely a bad idea, and yet he couldn’t tell her no. Not with that look on her face. She was desperate for any information. Besides, what could possibly happen from the other end of a phone? The cops had already been in touch with her boss anyway, directly after Sloane had been found in the warehouse. Mason reluctantly handed her his phone and watched her search online for the number and then punch it into the phone.
“Hello, may speak with . . . Mister Sakkas please?” A short pause. “Sloane Maxwell.” She took a steadying breath. “Hello, Mister Sakkas. Sloane Maxwell here.”
Mason heard a male voice through the line. Not the words, just the tone. The man spoke for several moments. As he watched, Sloane’s expression changed. She frowned in concentration. Did she remember something? Did the sound of the man’s voice trigger any recollections? He kept his silence.
“No, no, I’m fine . . . other than the fact that I don’t remember who you are, who I am, or what I was doing in Monroe. Do you?”
Okay then, the question was out there. She listened further and then her shoulders slumped. “Well, thank you. I appreciate your concern and the offer to return to work, but I’m not sure what good I would be to you at this point, seeing as I don’t remember anything about what I did for a living.”
She glanced up at Mason and rolled her eyes. He frowned. The guy wanted her to come back to work? When she didn’t even remember her own past? Odd.
After several more moments she nodded and spoke. “I’ll think about it, Mister Sakkas. Thank you again. I’ll keep in touch.” She ended the call, lips pursed as she handed the phone back to him.
“What did he say?”
“He said he wants me to come back to work right now, thinks that it might help me remember.” She shook her head, gingerly this time. “But why would he do that? I suppose I’m salaried, and he said he’s pretty sure my amnesia is temporary, or at least he hopes so. He said I’m his best buyer, he’d even give me a raise.”
Mason frowned. He wasn’t ready for Sloane to leave. Not yet. “That’s great, regarding the raise I mean, and he might be right about being back in a familiar environment. That could help trigger your memory, or at least bits and pieces of it, but I don’t think it’s safe. This is the second time . . . if someone is trying to kill you, well . . .” He paused as he placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m not going to tell you what to do, Sloane. But no matter what you decide, I want you to promise me that you’ll be careful. That you’ll be wary, suspicious even, of everybody.”
She looked at him with a wan smile. “Even you?”
He made a face. “I don’t know if I would take it that far. Yes, we have a history, so I hope you know that you’re safe with me. I want you to know that I have no expectations of you. You don’t owe me anything. We broke up a long time ago. For all I know, you’re engaged to someone else now, or have a steady boyfriend, or—”
She turned to look out over the parking lot. “Do you think there’s anybody out there looking for me?”
He took in a deep breath. “I don’t know.” A man pulled up in a white Ford Focus, followed by a nondescript beige Buick sedan. “I think that’s the guy bringing our rental car.” A man wearing tan khakis and a green polo shirt with the name of the rental car company emblazoned on the chest exited the car and waved them over.
“You Mason Rawlings?”
“That’s me,” Mason said, stepping away from the overhang and heading for the car. “Come on, Sloane. Let’s get the hell out of here.” The rental car employee handed him a clipboard and he showed him ID, signed the rental agreement, and took the keys.
“You can return the car to any of our affiliates in Monroe when you’re done with it,” the employee said, then stepped to the Buick waiting to take him back to the rental office.
Mason climbed into the car and adjusted the seat position while Sloane climbed into the passenger side. It had that new-car smell. Not at all like his Jeep. Another surge of regret. His car. Gone. Just like that. If Sloane had gone ahead . . . well, he didn’t want to think about that. If they stayed in Savannah another night, he could try to catch up with his old buddies from the fire academy, perhaps even visit the police station. No, no point. He doubted they would be able to tell him anything much. Better to just wait until he got back to Monroe, get Sloane settled at his apartment. But first thing in the morning, he would pay a visit to Detective Bascom.
He turned the car back to the freeway and they drove directly away from Savannah. Sloane was still silent. One thought kept running through Mason’s head. Someone had tried to kill them, kill Sloane—again, and this time there could be no denying it. Damn it to hell. He couldn’t stop himself from looking over at her every few minutes, but her face was turned away from him, gazing out the passenger window. She looked surprisingly calm considering what had happened; hands folded in her lap, shoulders relaxed, her head leaning against the seat back. How could she not be freaking out?
“Sloane?” She made a sound in her throat but didn’t turn to him. “Sloane, are you trying to remember?”
She finally turned toward him and sighed. “I’m not sure I want to. I’m trying to remember, but I don’t want to at the same time. I hate this . . . this feeling of limbo. Of not knowing who I am. I know who I am, at least I think I do, but I don’t remember me. Does that make any sense? God, why can’t I remember?”
Mason reached across the seat and took her hand. It felt soft in his calloused grip, as he rubbed his thumb lightly over the back. “Like the doctor said, maybe your memory will come back to you all at once or maybe in bits and pieces. You can’t predict when or how.”
He didn’t ask Sloane what she was trying so hard to remember. He didn’t want to stress her out more than she already was. Instead, he just kept driving. It was dark by the time they arrived back at Monroe at 9 p.m. Mason pulled the car up outside his apartment block. He shut off the engine and turned off the lights, then sat quietly for several moments, just watching.
From the Ashes (Southern Heat Book 1) Page 8
