by DiAnn Mills
The distance between the oncoming semi and Grayson’s Mustang narrowed. He whipped the car to the left, up onto a sidewalk. She jolted, her head banging against the roof of the car, while he bumped over the curb and hit a fire hydrant. Water gushed onto the street. He steered over the sidewalk and into the flow of traffic again, wheels screaming against the pavement. The sound of metal against metal told her the SUV had slammed into the front of the semi.
She rubbed her arms. “Tell me this is a nightmare so I can wake up.”
“I wish.” He sped through another red light, and a car laid on its horn.
Taryn couldn’t blame the driver. Probably thought Grayson was high or drunk instead of running for his life with a woman wanted on both sides of the law. Closing her eyes, she willed her heart to slow its incessant pounding. She needed to think. Be logical. The way she always handled challenges. “Normally I thrive on solving problems. But not when my life depends on it. And Zoey. Where is she?” Panic rose in her voice.
“Taryn, God’s with us and the little girl. He’s in control.”
A flicker of Claire. “My best friend used to say the same faith things. Now she’s gone.”
“Then she’s with Jesus.”
“I know, and I want to believe she’s at peace. But finding her daughter is driving me crazy. I’m so afraid Murford has her.”
“His insurance.”
Grayson deserved the truth. “I’d tell him what he wants to save her.”
“I’d expect no less. But now you have the FBI behind you.”
“I’m not as trusting, but I do believe in God.” Taryn gazed out the passenger window. She glanced around and saw nothing but a handful of parked cars and the lights from retail shops. “I thought we were headed to the FBI office. Isn’t it on 290?”
“Need to ditch my car. Murford could have planted a tracking device while I was inside the church. And we don’t have time to search for it. I’ll get someone to pick it up later.”
“How did he know when the FBI would arrive?”
Grayson lifted his chin. “Not sure. I’ll find out. Is that the same purse you had at the hospital?”
“I changed at my condo. Nothing in there to trace me. I’m positive.”
“After your experience with Murford, I bet you understand how someone can get distracted. Make a mistake.”
A surge of anger swept through her. “Are you saying I should have seen through him? That I’m stupid?”
“Not at all. I’m saying you’ll be better equipped in the future to deal with the dynamics of human behavior.” He looked in the rearview mirror.
She needed to calm down. “Personal experience,” she whispered. “Hard lesson to learn.”
“I’m sorry.”
“But it’s the truth, and all I can hope for is to become a better person.” She rubbed her forehead. “I’m touchy. Not an excuse since you saved my life and took a bullet. In case you haven’t noticed, your side’s bleeding.”
“I feel a twinge now and then. Look, we’ve both seen better days, and we have to trust each other.”
“Makes sense, but it sounds impossible.”
He pointed ahead of them to a large retail strip. “We’ll park the car there.”
“Then what?”
He slid his car into a dark parking area and snatched his BlackBerry.
“Do you think there’s a tracking device in there?” She’d never thought this way . . . never had to.
“I don’t have any idea how that could have happened.” He studied the lit area around a movie theater, his brow a mass of lines. He placed his BlackBerry in the console and stepped from the car. “This means neither of us have a phone, but too many things today haven’t made sense. I’m not taking any chances. I’ll find another phone to use.”
“You don’t know who to trust, do you?”
He gave a thin-lipped smile. “Of course I do. Let’s get moving. This is just a detour.”
Once she joined him, they walked hand in hand past several small closed restaurants—as though they were on a date, not wounded and running from those who wanted them dead. “How are you going to explain the blood?”
“I’m not.”
Inside the theater, they moved toward the concession stand, where he produced his badge. “FBI. I need to use a phone.”
The pimply-faced kid paled. “Sure, man.” He pointed to a door behind him. “It’s in the back.”
“Show me.”
The kid gulped. “You . . . you been shot? Knifed?”
“The phone.”
The kid nodded like a bobblehead doll. Taryn held on to Grayson’s hand and followed the kid through the door. A young girl with lip rings and violet hair swept up popcorn.
“Can we have privacy?” Grayson said.
The kid motioned to the girl, and she left her broom behind. Grayson thanked them while picking up the phone. Taryn waited with thinning patience and mounting fear of someone bursting through the door with a gun.
Grayson pressed in a number. Disconnected the call and tried again. “Great.” He jabbed in the number a third time. “Can’t get through. The line’s tied up. At least the duty agent knows where we are . . . if we have the time.” He pressed in more numbers. “Joe, I’m in a bind. Can you pick me up and another person at . . .” He rattled off an address. “Thanks. The FBI knows where we are, but I’m concerned about time.” He paused. “I’d appreciate it. Oh, the woman’s name is Taryn.” He gave her another one of his thin smiles as though to comfort her. But they weren’t free from Murford yet.
“I hadn’t noticed what street we’re on,” she said. “I’m normally better with details.”
“This is what I do, and I take precautions. We have a few blocks to walk.”
Weariness enveloped her. She shook her head. “What about your side? It’s impossible. I—”
“Impossible isn’t written in my book and shouldn’t be in yours. Taryn, look at me.” When she did, he continued. “In case we’ve been followed, I’m walking out of here first. If you hear me thank the kid twice, then come on out. If I mention the FBI, leave through the back door. Run and don’t stop until you’re six blocks down from the theater. The area is not exactly a safety zone, so be careful. Dogs run in packs. Gangs roam there, and they’d like nothing better than a pretty white girl. My uncle, Joe West, will be waiting in a blue 1974 T-Bird. Explain it all to him. He’ll be looking for you.”
“Are you sure?”
He dropped her hand. “As sure as I can be. Promise me you’ll do what I ask.”
How could she abandon him now? He’d nearly been killed for her sake.
“Promise me.”
“All right.”
He left her behind while he walked through the door leading into the theater lobby. Seconds ticked by. She paced. Listened at the door. Paced again.
“You might want to contact the FBI,” Grayson said.
Taryn raced out the back of the theater.
CHAPTER 19
1:55 A.M. TUESDAY
Taryn’s chest ached from running, and slivers of agony shot up her legs. She wanted to look behind her, but slowing her pace might mean facing the barrel of a gun. Selfishness hammered a ruthless tune for leaving Grayson to face Murford. How could developing software to make her country a better and more prosperous place to live have caused all these tragedies?
Grayson was trained for combat and outthinking bad guys, but that didn’t mean she should have deserted him. She could have helped with hand-to-hand combat, and with his wound, he needed a partner. Before yesterday, her fears had focused on the risk of presenting a new software package with too many bugs, or someone passing her up for a promotion, or Shep realizing her introverted personality was a hindrance to their relationship. Not treachery that walked with death everywhere she went. Now she ran for her life. The Nehemiah Project and the man she thought she’d married were entwined in a horrendous murdering spree.
Zoey . . . What had that wretched Murford
done with her? Regret snaked through her for not probing him further about the child. He’d recover to make things worse, launch the next move to nab her, or use Zoey as bargaining power. Grayson had called it insurance to get what he wanted—but who would pay the premium?
The air smelled of rotten garbage, and the humidity carried the stench. Other odors met her nostrils—sweat and determination. She owned both. For the first time in her life, the skills she’d acquired would not help her escape those who hunted her. She had her mind and the ability to physically defend herself, but the unknown possessed more power. Everywhere she turned, the lions roared, and they were hungry.
How many blocks had she traveled? Was it two or three? Trees and shrubs grew over the uneven sidewalk, dark and menacing. A dog barked. A motorcycle whizzed by. A car slowed, blaring out rap music, and the driver shouted an obscenity. The barking grew closer, and a dog appeared in the shadows. A huge German shepherd, but oh, so lean. The breed and the man who’d betrayed her hosted irony. But she liked dogs.
“Hey, buddy. What’re you doing out so early in the morning?” Her shaky voice didn’t emulate the confidence she’d hoped for. Yet the dog didn’t growl. She walked toward the animal, then stopped with a new realization. A friend was always a gift. Dogs were loyal, and shepherds were fiercely protective. At least the canine type.
No wagging tail greeted her. The animal sniffed, his huge nose brushing against her palm. Maybe she’d misjudged him. But it would be hard to manage a keyboard with missing fingers.
“I’m a friend.” She shoved courage into her words. A nasty dog bite compounded with the wounds received in the bombing wouldn’t sit well. She recalled what Claire had said about an encounter with an unfriendly dog when she and Zoey were at the park.
“Jesus loves you.” Foolishness gushed forth, but what else did she have?
The dog’s tail wagged.
“Thank You.”
She patted his head. “Want to run with me?” The dog offered a good diversion. She stuffed her baseball cap in her purse and yanked out the ponytail holder to divert anyone who’d seen her earlier. She picked up her pace, the dog loping beside her. No collar. An angel in disguise?
Three more blocks to go, and the sidewalk seemed endless with tree roots pushing through the concrete, making each step more difficult. If she ever found the time to rest, she’d sleep for twelve hours.
Up ahead, a car parked and turned off its lights. Her heartbeat could be heard a mile away.
I’m losing my mind. I’ve gone without sleep until I’ve squished my brains.
“Okay, buddy. This is it. The driver is either Grayson’s uncle or . . . never mind.”
The outline of the car came into view. A T-Bird! The color was vague in the poor street lighting. She slowed to a walk. The car flashed its lights, and relief coursed through her veins. She hurried to the driver’s side with the dog. An older man lowered the window.
“Joe West,” he said. He had a gravelly voice and a bald head. No resemblance to Grayson. “Taryn?”
She nodded.
“Who’s your skinny friend?”
She glanced at the dog. “We just met. I call him Buddy.”
“Want to get in? Where’s Grayson?”
“Back at the theater. He asked me to leave when we ran into trouble.”
Joe revved his engine. “Climb aboard. Let’s go find my nephew. Bring your pal if you want. We might be able to use him.” She’d barely shut the door when he whirled his overgrown two-door car around and headed back down the street. Buddy nestled his head against her shoulder. Strangely comforting.
Joe West drove like Grayson. She’d had more wild rides tonight than in all her thirty years. St. Francis dangled from his rearview mirror. With the number of chips on the small statue, the saint had seen a lot of twists and turns.
The ride to the theater took a lot less time than hoofing it. Joe whipped the car into the rear parking area of the theater. Only two other cars were in view.
“Stay put while I see what’s going on. Probably ought to get in the backseat.” He reached under his seat and pulled out a gun. It looked like Grayson’s. When this was over, she planned to learn more about weapons. Then again, she’d probably never want to see another gun.
“One more thing,” he said. “I’m leaving the keys in the ignition. If you see someone other than Grayson or me heading out of the building, or if it goes down bad, get out of sight.”
“Okay. We’ll do as we’re told.”
He laughed, a low, pleasant sound. “You’ll be the first woman I’ve ever met who did as I asked.”
“Maybe they hadn’t been through what I have during the past two days.”
“The FBI may already be here.” He kissed St. Francis and exited the car.
She crawled into the backseat and noted the lack of seat belts. “Buddy, it’s you and me again.” She patted the dog’s head while he seemingly kept a vigilant eye around them. “Danger brings unusual friends, and you’re one of them. I have a little dog. His name is Bentley and he’s a white Lhasa apso, a bundle of hair. I bet you two would get along fine. But I warn you, he’s a bit spoiled, has an attitude, and needs special grooming.” She looked into the dog’s huge face. “We’ll need to get you on a regular bathing routine.” She’d totally lost it. The German shepherd wasn’t her dog.
A moment later shots rang out, yanking her to the present. Taryn swung her attention to the building. Joe, then Grayson, burst from the theater door. Grayson ran sideways, firing at two men who were after them. She leaned over to open the driver’s door, then did the same with the passenger’s. A few extra seconds for Grayson and Joe had to help.
Buddy growled, and she drew the animal to her.
More shots.
As long as the other men didn’t fire a bullet into the tires or the gas tank.
CHAPTER 20
2:47 A.M. TUESDAY
Grayson stared out the window of his and Joe’s kitchen into the blackness. In a few hours the sun would rise. Between now and then, the bad guys would remain on the loose, trying to get their hands on Taryn and eliminating anyone who got in their way. Neither the good nor the bad would rest until this was over.
Backup had arrived as he and Joe sped away, and they kept right on going. Right now he didn’t want to think of what would happen to his career, all because he believed a suspect.
“Stand still so I can bandage you up,” Joe said, lines deepening in his forehead. “You’re one lucky hombre this doesn’t need stitches. It’s mostly bits of your shirt.” He held up the tweezers with a bloody bit of cloth from Grayson’s favorite navy-blue shirt.
“You could have sewn me up.” Grayson eyed him grabbing a bottle of rubbing alcohol. “That’s going to hurt worse than picking out my shirt.”
“You want a bullet to hold between your teeth?”
“I might need it,” Taryn said. She had a bit of green in her face.
“Don’t pass out on me.”
She turned away. “I’d never make it as a nurse.”
“Hold on to Buddy.” Grayson dreaded the alcohol burning his raw flesh.
Joe scratched his whiskered chin and nodded at Taryn. “Now’s not the time to get squeamish on me. Once I disinfect this thing, I need to bandage him tight. Remember, you’re the gal who’ll do whatever I ask.”
Eyes wide, she stepped to Joe’s side. “I’m beginning to regret that statement.”
The first drop of alcohol was like Joe had struck a match to his side. Tears welled in his eyes, but he’d not holler. His crusty uncle would never let him live it down.
“A mite tender, son?” Joe chuckled.
“You’re enjoying this far too much.” Grayson turned to Taryn, still green. “Tell me where you found your sidekick.”
She told him the story of meeting Buddy on the sidewalk. “I’m sure God sent him.”
Joe humphed. “I’ll reserve my opinion until he’s had a bath and gets a little meat on his bones. Suck it up,
Grayson. This is going to hurt more. Gotta soak you in alcohol.”
As if nothing to this point had threatened to flatten him. His uncle, a retired FBI agent who’d been the ASAC for Houston’s violent crimes task force, was as tough as most of the cases he’d investigated. Never gave a bad guy an inch, and his gut instincts about crime were right on. Legend around the office said he was part bloodhound. But along with his reputation was a huge heart. His wife had died over twenty years ago, and the man had never shown interest in another woman.
Grayson had lived with Joe during his high school and college days. Life with his dad and brothers after Mom died would have landed Grayson in prison, full of more anger than he cared to remember. Joe showed him what it meant to be a man, a special agent for the FBI, and to have a steadfast reliance on God. From day one, the two had worked out every morning but Sunday, a habit neither man had given up. Except on stakeouts . . . or today.
“Miss Taryn, you sure have an unbelievable story,” Joe said. “Of course, the media’s full of crap. Whatever sells goes, and you’re just too pretty to be a criminal.”
“All I want is for the right people to believe me.”
Grayson trusted her words, and his views had nothing to do with how she looked. He’d been duped a few times and paid the price for a so-called helpless gorgeous female who wanted the prestige of dating an FBI agent. “What about the FBI press release?”
“They’re fishing,” Joe said. “After reassuring the public that law enforcement officials were working around the clock to find those responsible for the bombing, they requested information on Taryn and Francis Shepherd.”
“I despise being linked with him,” she said.
“Have they released his real name?” Grayson groaned when Joe pulled another piece of shirt from his wound.
“Oh, I found it on my own—Phillip Murford, your typical ex-con who refused to be rehabilitated.” Which meant Joe had learned more on secure sites. He handed Taryn a bandage with instructions to hold it firmly against the wound while he taped it.
