by Cassie Miles
“And he wasn’t shot out of the sky.”
“Do the safe house surveillance cameras cover this area?”
“No. Our security concentrates on the immediate perimeter of the house and grounds.”
But Flynn knew every inch of this valley. He rode the horses out here almost every day. Though the chopper had exploded only four or five air-miles away from the house, there was no direct route on land. Only this winding path. It was taking forever to get there. At a stand of cottonwood trees, he hit the brake and climbed out.
“Why did you stop?” she demanded.
“We’re only about fifty yards away. We’ll walk it.”
“Why?”
“This creek bed is dry most of the year. But there’s water now. If we go through here, we’ll get stuck.”
“But this is a Jeep. Four-wheel drive.”
Of course she’d argue with him. Nothing with her was easy. “The wheel base isn’t high enough. A truck could make it, but I don’t want to take a chance.”
He sidestepped into the shallow arroyo, turned and held out a hand to help her down, but she was already charging through the water, clutching her shoulder bag to keep it from slipping. The wide creek was knee deep and ice-cold. She stumbled, but caught herself before he had a chance to offer help. Just as well. She probably would have ripped his arm off if he dared to suggest she wasn’t capable of taking care of herself.
Scrambling up the other side, he headed for a jagged ridge of sandstone—a natural barrier between this area and the safe house. From the top of the ridge, he looked down on a scene of devastation. The cabin of the helicopter rested lopsided on one leg of the undercarriage. The front was peeled back, revealing a twisted mass of wreckage, still burning. Bits of glass from the windshield glittered on the charred black earth. He saw two bodies on the ground. Both men. Where the hell was Grace Lennox?
He unclipped a wallet-sized walkie-talkie from his belt and opened a line to the safe house. “We need an ambulance.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And immediate first aid.” One of his men, Zack Plummer, had medical training. “Get Zack out here. Bring the truck.”
Intense heat from the wreckage radiated toward them in simmering waves. Holding up an arm to shield his face, Flynn darted closer, trying to see inside the licking flames. If Grace was in there, it was too late. There was nothing he could do for her. But he had to try. He had to know.
As he approached, one of the rotors squealed. He jumped back as the heavy steel blade fell to earth, missing him by inches.
“Flynn, get over here.”
Marisa knelt beside the chopper pilot, cradling his head in her lap. His eyes squeezed shut. The blood from his chest wound stained her white blouse.
“He’s still breathing.” Years of FBI training showed in the forced calm of her voice. “Come around here and—”
“I know what to do.”
The odds of survival for the chopper pilot were slim. He’d lost a lot of blood. But sometimes miracles happened. Flynn tore open the pilot’s shirt and applied pressure directly to the wound. Hot blood oozed between his fingers.
“He was shot,” Marisa said.
“I concur.” This wound wasn’t the result of a mechanical malfunction. This wasn’t an accident. Someone had purposely lured the chopper down and shot the pilot. Johnson’s eyelids pried open. His mouth twitched, trying to form words.
“It’s okay,” Marisa reassured him. “You’re going to be okay.”
His voice was a whisper. “He took her.”
“Grace,” Flynn said. “Who took her?”
“Get him.”
A spasm tensed the dying man’s body. A gurgling moan issued from his lips. Then he went limp.
“Damn it,” Marisa muttered as she laid him flat. “I’ll start CPR.”
Flynn went to the other man. Bud Rosetti, the snitch, lay face-down on the sandy soil. He was bleeding from a head wound, but his pulse was steady. “Wake up, Bud.”
When Flynn turned him over, he groaned but his eyes stayed shut.
“Come on, Bud,” Flynn encouraged. “You’ve got to wake up. You’ve got to tell me what happened.”
Though his arm moved, he didn’t appear to be regaining consciousness. His hand was cold. His body was going into shock.
Flynn was glad to see Zack arrive in the flatbed truck. The young agent tossed a blanket to Flynn. “Use this to cover him up.”
“Right.” Flynn pointed toward Marisa, who was still working on the pilot. “Help them.”
Though Zack took over the CPR effort, he glanced toward Flynn and shook his head. There wasn’t much hope.
Marisa came toward him. Her wet slacks clung to her long legs, and her blouse was smeared with blood. She leaned down beside him. Soot from the fire streaked her forehead like war paint. She’d taken off her sunglasses, and he could see determination in her light blue eyes.
Using an edge of the blanket he’d tucked around Bud, she wiped the blood from her hands. The woman was cool. A career agent.
Flynn realized how much he’d missed her competent, take-charge attitude. There was no other woman like Marisa.
Chapter Two
Her eyes stung. Her throat clogged with acrid smoke, and her head was spinning. Marisa wanted to sink down on the ground and cry. That was, of course, unacceptable behavior. She was a senior agent. She couldn’t let anyone—especially not Flynn—see her weakness.
Covering her mouth, she inhaled and exhaled slowly. With an effort, she stood erect, brushed the dust from her black jacket and fastened a button to cover the bloodstains on her white blouse.
For the past two years, her work in San Francisco’s ViCAP unit had been mostly behind a desk, where she analyzed statistics, gathered data and prepared profiles. Her talent was the ability to fit together the pieces of a crime like a jigsaw puzzle.
It had been a while since she’d engaged in an active pursuit, and she didn’t like the way it felt. Instead of taking action, she was confused, hesitant. She ought to know better, but it was hard to think when facing the prospect of the death of a fellow agent, even of one she’d only just met.
She looked toward Flynn. “When can we expect the ambulance?”
“Half hour from Cortez. Maybe more.”
Tension circled around him. He was as tight as a coiled mainspring. “We need to get moving. Somebody caused this crash to grab Grace Lennox. Every minute we stay here gives them a better chance to succeed with their getaway.”
When she was tending to the pilot, she had noticed tire imprints in the sandy soil. “There were tracks, headed in that direction.”
“There’s a road over there. It goes along the edge of the foothills, then merges with U.S. 160.”
Zack came toward them. His expression was solemn. “He’s gone.”
Killed in the line of duty. She swallowed the sob that rose in her throat. Later, there would be time for mourning.
Flynn took charge. “Zack, put out a police APB with the description of Grace Lennox. Contact FBI regional headquarters and advise them that we have a witness abduction in progress.”
“I’m on it.”
“Get an ambulance out here for Bud.”
“Yes, sir.”
He looked toward her with eyes the color of amber. Dangerous eyes. “We’re going after the son of a bitch who did this.”
He was so fiercely confident that she almost believed it would be possible to rescue his missing witness. Almost, but not quite.
The person or persons who had abducted Grace Lennox had had a big head start. Marisa tried to calculate how long they’d been there, how long it had taken for them to cross the field and slog through the creek—a trek that had destroyed a perfectly good pair of leather loafers. Ten minutes? Fifteen? No way could they make up the time difference. Especially without knowing where the abductor planned to go.
Nonetheless, she followed Flynn to the truck and climbed into the passenger side. After Flynn set
his cowboy hat on the seat between them, he started the engine and aimed the truck toward the tire tracks.
“Are you armed?” he asked.
She flipped open her shoulder bag and took out her 10mm Smith & Wesson automatic. Having the weapon in hand brought a sense of relief. Though her job was desk work, she took target practice once a week and passed her semi-annual qualifying test with flying colors. She was fully capable of defending herself. “How do you know which way to go?”
“A blind man could follow this track.”
Staring through the windshield, she saw what he meant. Another vehicle had flattened the grasses, marking a line toward the foothills. “Are there any houses nearby? Any possible witnesses?”
“Negative. That ridge and the trees kept us from seeing him from the safe house. Nobody lives in this area. This is a well-chosen spot. He did some planning, some smart surveillance.”
“If this was a one-person job.”
“Good point,” he said. “There could have been two or more. But the pilot said, ‘He took her.’ He means one.”
“A male.”
“Correct.”
She clicked into the logical side of her brain, sorting through alternatives in an attempt to reconstruct what might have happened. “After the chopper landed, the three passengers must have disembarked.”
“Probably at gun-point,” Flynn said. “The pilot presented a danger. So he was shot. Then Bud got knocked unconscious. Grace Lennox was the target.”
“And the chopper was destroyed. So it couldn’t be used to follow the abductor while he made his escape.” The rational thinking calmed her. “I’m guessing this was a professional job.”
“Good guess.” He stared straight ahead, keeping the truck on the same track the other vehicle had taken. “Grace was due to testify in court in ten days.”
“What kind of case?”
He tossed her a quick glance. “I thought you’d know. You must have reviewed the case files before you came out here to do your little hatchet job.”
“My what?” Her teeth rattled as the truck bounced over a rock. “Are you denigrating my assignment?”
“Supposedly, you came here to assess the viability of future operations at the safe house. To check off little boxes on a form.” His laugh was short and mirthless. “But you’re here to get even with me. Admit it.”
“I’ll do nothing of the kind,” she snapped. “Listen up, Mr. Paranoid, I don’t have a vendetta against you. I haven’t thought about you at all. Not for one minute. Not since you left San Francisco.”
“Closing down my safe house gives you the chance to finally prove a point about me and my unprofessional behavior. That’s what you accused me of. Remember? I sure as hell do.”
“Yes.” The Argument. It hadn’t been her finest hour. “We were in Chinatown on a Wednesday morning. We were on our way to dim sum at the Two Dragons Restaurant.”
The bustling urban streets seemed a million miles away from this rugged western landscape. They had been headed toward a leisurely mid-morning meal after a night of passion. Her brain had been relaxed, still experiencing the pleasant rush of afterglow, until she’d realized that he was leading them toward the shop owned by one of their suspects—an antique dealer named Eric Crowe.
She’d erupted, accusing him of being unreasonable, bullheaded, obsessive and unprofessional. “I was angry.”
“You think?”
“And I was worried about you. Admit it, Flynn. You were a wreck.”
“You said my transfer to the safe house was running away from my problems. How did you put it? The coward’s way out?”
“Okay, I said that.”
“A redheaded vendetta,” he said, an old joke turned ugly.
“This has nothing to do with the color of my hair.” Even as she spoke, her temper was rising. He was the only person who could make her so completely crazy.
“And this is your chance to prove you’re right. To do your assessment and show me up as an inferior agent who can’t handle the running of a safe house.”
He couldn’t have been more wrong about why she’d come here. She had been hoping for the best, hoping to find him well and happy. Perhaps, she’d even been hoping there was still a spark between them.
Angrily, she shot back, “From what I’ve seen thus far, you don’t need any help in proving your incompetence.”
“What?”
“You lost a witness, Flynn.”
It was the most devastating accusation she could make. Protecting witnesses was the FBI’s most sacred duty.
Her barb hit home. She watched an angry red flush creep up his throat. His jaw tightened, and she knew he was grinding his rear molars together. The thick vein in his forehead began to throb.
“I don’t want to fight,” she said.
“Too late.”
Peering through the windshield, she saw them approaching a barbed-wire fence. Directly in front of them, a portion of wire had been cut. The truck charged through. They were on a two-lane road.
She asked, “How do you know which way to go?”
“The highway is this direction.”
He downshifted and hit the gas. They were flying. Fence posts whizzed past in her peripheral vision. “Slow down.”
“This is our only advantage,” he said tersely. “The abductor will go the speed limit. Won’t want to attract attention. And I don’t care about breaking traffic rules. Hell, I’d welcome a police escort.”
“I could call for one.”
“Knock yourself out, Marisa. Zack has already put out the APB. If any of the local cops see us, they’ll join in.”
They approached a stop sign. At the intersection, she saw another truck. It nosed forward.
Flynn didn’t slow down. Not a bit. He had to see the red truck. Collision was imminent.
She pressed her lips together. If she was going to die in a car crash, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing her scream.
At the last second, he swerved onto the shoulder, kicking up a cloud of dust and avoiding the other vehicle. They were back on the road.
When she glared in his direction, she noticed a tiny grin hitching up the corner of his mouth. He was enjoying this. He liked throwing her off balance.
She snapped, “You don’t scare me.”
“Wasn’t my intention.”
The hell it wasn’t.
She saw another vehicle in the distance. Was it possible that he’d caught up with the person who’d snatched his witness? His insane driving was shaving off minutes with every mile.
But the station wagon in front of them was obviously a family. As Flynn roared past, she peered through the window and saw a baby seat in the back. “Not them.”
“Keep your eyes open,” he said.
“I know what to do.” A trained observer, she was able to recognize an anomaly when she saw one. As they passed a small convenience store, she noticed a black Ford Explorer. Very clean. It seemed out of place. But would someone who had just murdered a federal agent and grabbed a protected witness stop for coffee? Doubtful. Just in case, she memorized the license plate to check later.
“You never told me,” she said. “Who is Grace testifying against?”
“Organized crime. She’s a judge in Baltimore.”
A crime syndicate would use a hit man. Setting an explosive on the chopper also fit that pattern. However, a professional assassin generally went for a clean kill. “Why kidnap her? Why not shoot her on the spot?”
“I don’t know,” he said, his attention more focused on the road than on her.
Finally, he hit the brake. They were parked at a stop sign, with the entrance ramp to U.S. 160 straight ahead. North to Utah? Or south to New Mexico? “Which way?” she asked.
“Don’t know,” he repeated. Flynn leaned forward against the steering wheel. “All I can say for sure is that he’s gone. And he’s taken Grace with him.”
GRACE LENNOX OPENED HER EYES slowly. She was on a mattress
on the floor. The room was dark, except for the flickering light of a few votive candles. Four candles. Looking up through the window, she saw the night sky. Apparently, she was still alive.
For how long?
The inside of her mouth tasted gritty, and her skin crawled. When she tried to reach up and scratch her nose, she realized that her wrists were bound in front of her with cotton rope. And her ankles were tied.
How had she got to this place? The last thing she recalled was an explosion. After that, everything was darkness. Emptiness.
Was this the end? Was she going to die?
She was sixty-two years old. It had been a good life. For twenty-five years, she’d been married to a wonderful man. Her Ronnie. When he’d passed away eight years ago, she’d thought she’d die herself, couldn’t imagine going on without him. But her son and daughter still needed her.
And now she had two grandbabies. Beautiful children. She wanted to spend more time with them, to enjoy them. When her own children were young, she’d spent too much time working, advancing her career.
Should have retired last year. Then she never would have gotten involved with organized crime and the Abbott family. Never would have sentenced the older Abbott son to thirty-five years in prison. Never would have witnessed the bloody murder of her own bodyguard.
The door to the room swung open. A man in a black ski mask came toward her. In his hand, he held a blade.
She wasn’t ready to die. Not without a fight.
Her hands yanked up to protect herself. Lying flat on this mattress, it was difficult to maneuver. “Get away from me.”
Without a word, he flipped her onto her stomach and shoved her face down. The muscles in her back tensed. She tried to rise up on her hands and knees.
He yanked at her long gray braid. Her head snapped back.
Then he released her. Left the room.
Reaching up with both hands, she felt the back of her neck. He had cut off her braid.
OUTSIDE THE CORTEZ MEMORIAL Hospital, Flynn leaned against the white stucco wall and stared up at the stars. It was after eight o’clock, five hours since Grace Lennox had been abducted.
Though Bud Rosetti had regained consciousness, his concussion was serious and he hadn’t been coherent. The doctors promised that he’d be able to talk to the agents soon.
