by Pamela Clare
What a heartless son of a bitch you’ve become!
Yeah, he had.
He had six years of prison to thank for that. Six years of watching his back. Six years of being treated as subhuman. Six years of sleepless nights, violence, degradation. Or maybe that was just an excuse and he’d always been this way.
He finished his breakfast, tossed back the last of his coffee, and dropped a ten on the table. He needed to get into Denver and pick up Megan’s trail. He wasn’t the only one looking for her, but for her sake—and Emily’s—he’d damn well better be the one to find her.
“HE DIDN’T GIVE you any hint where he was going—look at any maps, ask you about bus routes or directions?” The cop—Sergeant Gary King was his name—looked up from his notepad, his brown eyes bloodshot.
“No. Nothing.” Sophie pulled the blankets tighter around her, grateful for their warmth—and the reassuring presence of her friends.
They were all there, crammed together in the little hospital room, encircling her bed. Tessa sat in the only chair, absently rubbing her pregnant belly. Kara stood next to the chair, Reece beside her, his arm around his wife’s waist. Holly and Kat stood beneath the television in the corner next to Matt, who looked more rumpled than usual, a coffee stain on his blue shirt. Julian stood at the foot of the bed, still dressed in black SWAT gear.
They all looked exhausted, and it touched Sophie more than she could say that they’d spent the night together in front of CNN, worrying about her—all except Natalie, who’d been assigned to cover the story, and Julian, who had apparently pulled rank and put himself in charge of the team that had come after her.
Sergeant King looked back at his notes. “He just walked out the door and left you handcuffed to the bed?”
“Yes.” She knew Sergeant King was just doing his job. Still, she couldn’t help but wish the questions would come to an end. All she wanted was to sleep, and she’d already told him everything—or almost everything.
She’d left out the fact that she’d once known Hunt. And had given him her virginity. And had never completely gotten over him. She couldn’t see how that was relevant to their investigation. After all, she hadn’t realized who he was until hours after he’d taken her hostage.
Still, she couldn’t shake a growing sense of guilt. Somehow not telling the entire story made her feel like she was lying, particularly when it came to Julian. He’d risked his life to save hers when it wasn’t even his job. The least she could do was to tell the whole truth.
But what if the whole truth didn’t matter?
You haven’t told them he kissed you, either.
More than that, she hadn’t told them about Megan.
Although the part about the kiss wasn’t important—what difference could it make?—the part about Megan was. Investigators had already guessed that Hunt had broken out to join his sister, but they had no idea why. They’d definitely want to know the allegations he’d made about Cross and this mysterious accomplice.
But everything Hunt had told her about Megan had been off the record. She’d made a promise, and she couldn’t betray that promise without betraying her entire profession. Besides, what if Hunt had been telling the truth and the man who was after Megan was still working somewhere in the system?
The last thing I wanted to do was give away what I know or lead him to my sister.
She glanced at Julian, saw him watching her, his gaze seeming to measure her. Did he suspect she was holding something back?
Sergeant King flipped to a blank sheet of paper. “Can you remember what he was wearing when he left?”
Of course she could remember—she’d watched him dress from the skin up. So why did she hesitate to answer?
I’m sorry, Sophie. I never meant to hurt you.
“You don’t owe him anything, Sophie,” Kara said, seeming to read her mind.
“Not a thing—except maybe another knee in the nuts,” Tessa added.
Then Reece chimed in. “I know you’re grateful that he saved your life and kept his word about calling your location in to police, but he didn’t do it out of concern for you.”
Julian nodded. “He did it to keep himself off death row.”
Above Holly and Kat, a mug shot of Hunt filled the television screen beneath the words “Colorado Manhunt.”
Sophie swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. “He was dressed for Everest—backpack, down parka, ski pants, jeans underneath, a wool hat, gloves, snowshoes. I wasn’t in the store with him, so I’m not sure what else he might have taken. He was still armed. He had two guns, I think.”
And just like that she went from feeling guilty to feeling like a traitor.
If they catch me, they’ll probably bring me back in a body bag.
What if they shot him? What if they killed him? After what he’d done, why did she care? The man was a murderer who’d held a gun to her head and kidnapped her.
God, she felt confused! Her mind and her emotions were running in circles. Clearly, she was in desperate need of sleep.
Sergeant King took notes, nodding as he wrote. “We found bloody gauze, latex gloves, and duct tape in the corner, as well as bloodstains on the sleeping bag. How badly was he wounded?”
She’d forgotten to mention that, too. “A bullet cut a pretty deep groove across his right shoulder. He used the duct tape to stop the bleeding while he took care of me. I…I bandaged it for him before he left.”
She felt Tessa’s hand close over hers, a gesture of support.
Sergeant King looked up from his notepad, his expression grave. “I understand that you refused to undergo a forensic exam, is that correct?”
A forensic exam was the official term for a rape kit.
“I told you he didn’t hurt me. The bruises—all of it—was my fault. Even the hypothermia. If I hadn’t fallen in the snow…”
Julian and Reece frowned.
Sergeant King went on as if she hadn’t said anything. “I understand he removed your clothing as well as his own and got into a sleeping bag with you naked—”
“He was trying to save my life!”
“—while you were unconscious. Under those circumstances it might be advisable to have the exam just in case something happened that you don’t remember.”
There was a moment of awkward silence.
Matt shifted nervously. “Maybe we should leave the room.”
Holly elbowed him in the ribs. “Maybe you should leave.”
Julian took a step forward. “Sophie, I know this is hard. I know you’re exhausted and overwhelmed. But I have to agree with Sergeant King. Marc Hunter is a remorseless killer who’s been behind bars for almost seven years. He got skin-to-skin naked with you while you were unconscious, which constitutes unlawful sexual contact at the very least. How can you be sure he didn’t do more than that when you were unconscious?”
Because he used to be a boy who protected girls. Because he once offered to stop at third base so I could stay a virgin. Because no matter what else he’s done, Hunt isn’t a rapist.
She met Julian’s gaze. “Because I’m sure.”
He watched her, his scrutiny almost uncomfortable. “Everyone out.”
Matt shuffled out the door.
Everyone else stayed stubbornly put.
If she hadn’t been so tired and upset, Sophie might have laughed.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You can say whatever you need to say in front of them. They’ll all find out anyway. It’s impossible to keep secrets in a newsroom.”
Reece shrugged. “Reporters.”
Julian’s frown deepened. He reached out, rested his hand on the lump of blanket that was her knee, and took a deep breath. “All right. I don’t know a tactful way to say this, so I’m just going to come out and say it. Even if you let him touch you, even if you said ‘yes,’ even if you did everything he wanted you to do without fighting back, it would still be considered sexual assault because you were his hostage. I saw the tapes. I watched hi
m put a forty-five to your head and threaten to kill you. I saw how afraid you were. No one would blame you, Sophie.”
Blood rushed into her cheeks, and she gaped at him. “You think—”
“I think you’ve just been through hell and are lucky to be alive. I’m asking you to help me make sense of it, and I’m telling you it’s okay. Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault.”
Face burning, Sophie forced herself to meet his gaze. “He kissed me. That’s all. When I told him to stop, he stopped. He even apologized.”
Julian studied her, seemed to relax. “Okay, then. If you change your mind…”
“I won’t. He didn’t hurt me.”
For a moment there was silence, then Sergeant King nodded to Julian and left the room.
“I know it probably doesn’t mean much right now, but I’m launching a legislative probe of the Department of Corrections,” Reece said. “I’m going to find out how this happened and make damned sure it never happens again.”
Sophie met his gaze, managed a smile. “There’s a reason I always vote for you.”
Then someone knocked at the door, and a man’s blond head poked inside. “Sis?”
“David! How—?” Tears filled Sophie’s eyes, made her throat tight.
But then her little brother was there, beside her, hugging her.
And she couldn’t speak at all.
“RENT’S DUE IN advance by noon every Monday. Cash or money order only—no checks, no credit cards.” The motel’s owner, a balding man with a beer gut that protruded from beneath his white T-shirt, jerked his thumb toward a list of rules that was stuck to the wall with yellowed tape. “You don’t pay on time, I toss your shit out. This ain’t no charity.”
“Got it.” Marc counted out three fifties and slipped his fake ID back into his wallet, his gaze scanning the brightly lit parking lot outside while he listened to the television behind him.
He told himself the tight feeling in his chest was just sensory overload—the natural response of the human mind to the chaos of the real world after six years of living in an institution. For so long he’d been locked in a tiny cell. Now he found himself walking wide-open streets, surrounded by the rush of traffic, the press of people, a riot of lights, of sounds, of scents. He ought to feel exhilarated. Instead, he felt naked, exposed, tense, some part of him always watching, always waiting, always wary.
He heard his name, and Sophie’s, and knew CNN had cut away to the update it had promised its viewers.
“Number seventeen. All the way on the end.” The man slid a key across the counter, his gaze on the television. “Think they’ll catch that son of a bitch?”
Careful to keep his expression neutral, Marc glanced over his shoulder, saw his own face staring back at him. The only difference between the man on the screen and himself was the beard he’d shaved off and the ski hat he’d pulled over his ponytail. “What do you think?”
“I bet he’s already crossed state lines. Probably hightailing it to Mexico.”
“Probably. And thanks.” Marc took the key and walked back out into the cold, trudging across the snowy parking lot to unit seventeen, careful to keep his head down.
He’d taken the bus from Nederland into Boulder this morning, then headed straight for the U-Store place. The last time he’d been there had been shortly after his arrest. Still out on bail, he’d realized he was probably going to go down. The case prosecutors were building against him in the press had seemed invincible—dirty agent gets caught with drugs, panics, and blows the good agent away—and every instinct inside him had told him to take Megan and head for the border. He’d spent a rainy afternoon gathering whatever resources the feds and cops hadn’t confiscated—clothes, cash, a fake driver’s license from an undercover job—and moved them into a storage locker just in case he needed to head south in a hurry. He’d put the locker under his mother’s name, then paid in cash for ten years of storage.
But he’d known that the moment he took off for Mexico, he’d be pegged as guilty. Even more, he’d known that if he and Megan were caught crossing the border together, Megan would be dragged into the nightmare, too. And so instead of listening to his gut and bolting, he’d stayed in Denver, hoping the jury would acquit him.
What a fucking moron he’d been.
At least he’d had the foresight to set up his secret little cache at the U-Store. It sure as hell had come in handy today. After he’d gotten a few hours’ sleep on the concrete floor of his locker, he’d hopped the bus into the city and come here. A seedy motel on the edge of town, it offered everything he needed—a place to sleep, shower, and store his shit, neighbors who wouldn’t ask questions, and a dirt cheap week-to-week lease.
He slipped the key into the lock just as the door next to his opened and a young woman with bleached-blond hair stepped out. She wore a rabbit fur coat, tight jeans, and knee-high leather boots. He didn’t have to ask what she did for a living.
Her gaze raked over him, and she smiled with bright red lips as she passed. “You look good enough to eat, honey. I might even do you for free.”
Marc returned her smile, watched her pass, his gaze drawn to her bountiful ass. A few days ago, he’d have taken her up on her offer. Hell, he’d have been more than willing to pay—anything to get inside a woman. But even as heat rushed to his cock, he realized he didn’t want her, free or otherwise.
He wanted Sophie.
You’re never going to see her again, idiot. Take what you can get before you find yourself back in prison wishing you had.
That was his dick talking. Unfortunately, his dick was probably right.
He pushed open the door to his room, stepped inside, and flicked on the light, locking the door behind him. The place was musty, stinking of mildew and cigarettes. A single bulb hung from the water-stained ceiling. A bed draped in an orange floral comforter sat against one wall, an old television against the other. On the other side of the bed, a door stood ajar, revealing a toilet. The far wall held a closet and countertop with a sink and a hot plate. A single window, its yellowed blinds hanging askew, offered a scenic view of the alley.
Home, sweet home.
Compared to his cell, it was the honeymoon suite at the Hilton.
He dropped his pack on the bed, his mind off the hooker and back on CNN. He hadn’t realized how intensely the media would focus on his escape. It made his situation more dangerous, increasing the risk that someone would recognize him, even without the beard. It meant he needed to cut his hair, maybe even bleach it.
He turned on the television, telling himself that he was only watching in order to keep up with the police. But he knew that was bullshit. He wanted to hear about Sophie. He needed to see her. He needed to know she was all right.
The sound came on first, the picture fading slowly into view.
A heavyset cop was mumbling into the mic, giving the reporters an update on what was now apparently the biggest manhunt in Colorado history.
How flattering.
The cop droned on about how many investigators had been brought in and how many agencies were involved. The FBI wasn’t one of them. Apparently, the feds didn’t see any opportunity for good publicity in this, or they’d have stolen the limelight by now.
“At the moment we’re reviewing every possibility, including the increasing likelihood that the fugitive has fled the state or frozen to death in the mountains.”
Frozen to death?
Hunter, you dumbshit, how’d you do that?
At least the police were looking in all the wrong places.
But there was nothing new on Sophie.
Ignoring his urge to channel surf in search of news about her, he turned off the TV and began to unpack, determined to put his mind where it needed to be—on Megan and Emily and the job that still lay ahead of him.
He’d left most of the gear he’d stolen from the sporting goods store behind in the storage locker, taking only what he’d need in the city—six grand in cash, more clothes, shoes,
the first-aid kit, food, and, of course, the pistols DOC had so kindly provided. He needed to lay in some basic supplies, including a laptop computer, and then hit the streets. He would check out all of Megan’s former hangouts, talk to everyone she’d known, try to find out where she’d gone—and who was after her. Someone would know something.
God, he wished he’d gotten the full story from her. All he knew was that Cross had raped her and gotten away with it—and that he hadn’t been alone. Megan had been too hysterical to tell Marc more. With a dead man on his floor and afraid for her mental stability, he hadn’t pushed her as hard as he should have. Then he’d found his ass in prison, unable to see her, unable to communicate except through a complex network of COs, some of whom he’d never met, none of whom he trusted with his sister’s life or sanity. Now he’d have to figure it out without her help.
But first he needed to unpack and get a shower.
He stashed the cash behind a couple of loose ceiling tiles, tossed his old, dusty clothes in a pile for the laundry, and put the first-aid kit with the shampoo, soap, and razors in the bathroom. Then he stripped, turned the shower on hot, and stepped into the spray.
A familiar knot in his stomach, he worked quickly, efficiently, shampooing his hair, scrubbing sweat and the stench of prison from his skin, rinsing the wound on his shoulder. It was only when he reached down to turn the water off that he realized he didn’t have to hurry.
There was no CO shouting at him that his four minutes were up. There were no catcalls, no raunchy propositions, no lewd glances. There was no gang of shower hawks waiting nearby hoping he’d drop his guard so they could finally take him down and pound him in the ass.
I’m going to make you scream, Hunter!
And it finally hit him.
He was no longer in prison.
He was alone. In a motel. In Denver.
He was out.
His body started to shake, his breathing suddenly ragged, his pulse thrumming against his eardrums. He closed his eyes, then rested his palm against the green tile wall, leaned into the spray, and let the hot water wash over him.
