Hot Pursuit

by Christina Skye

  “You’re certain you got those numbers right?” Izzy sounded edgy. Hardly surprising at 5 A.M., Jack thought grimly.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Hell. That makes it official. The two cars following you in Monterey are leased under contract to the federal government.”

  “That was our people out there?” Jack worked hard to rein in his fury. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “I would if I knew. Believe me, I’m going to hold a few feet to the fire until I find out. Meanwhile, we have a new development.”

  “Rains has reappeared?”

  “So to speak. He’s still underground, but he made a call from a pay phone to the San Francisco D.A. He asked to go WITSEC.”

  “Witness protection? With what?”

  “According to Rains, he’s got names, dates, and numbered accounts, but he won’t give any details until his security can be guaranteed. No safety guarantee, no deals. Believe me, he sounds pretty damned scared.”

  Jack blew out a breath. “This makes him a federal concern. The U.S. Marshals will handle his protection.”

  “Until Rains gives us some answers, you’re still on the job. I’m faxing through a photograph now. Memorize it, then destroy it.”

  Jack heard his fax machine beep. “Anyone I should know?”

  “Viktor Lemka—at least that’s his current alias. An enforcer who used to work out of Chechnya. These days, he deals from a cesspit in Paraguay called Ciudad del Este. You want a top-notch hitman, Ciudad is the place to go. You want to get fake passports or broker a big arms deal, that’s the place—and Lemka is considered the best.”

  “Why is he still walking around?”

  “Because he’s only been in the U.S. officially once. Any other visits were made under a phony passport. His file’s sketchy, and he changes his appearance frequently. We’ve only got one photo of him, and it’s grainy. Take a look.”

  The fax spewed out a sheet, which Jack studied carefully. The man had cold eyes and a narrow forehead. Jack couldn’t pick up too many other details. “I may have seen him somewhere. Is he Russian?”

  “Albanian national.”

  “Just like the bozos in the convenience store holdup,” Jack mused.

  “You got it, and I doubt it’s a coincidence. Lemka appears to specialize in torture and extortion using surgical techniques. Possibly he trained as a doctor somewhere along the line, but you don’t want this joker changing your IV, trust me. A waitress at a Chinatown nightclub says she saw him arguing with Rains and two other men. The Albanian thought she was getting too close, so he roughed her up. Since her brother is a cop, she was suspicious and clued him in, so now the Feds have people watching the club in case he returns. They’ve also got feelers out among the Albanian community.”

  Jack was quiet, thinking. “Lemka was the man who went after Annie in the hospital, wasn’t he?”

  “It’s possible. My agent just came out of surgery, so he hasn’t given much of a description. Because Annie was half asleep, she didn’t see much, either, but a nurse was coming up the stairs when she saw a man pass. She noticed an orderly’s uniform discarded in a garbage can one floor away. She’s fairly sure this is the man, though now he has a moustache.”

  Jack studied the grainy photo. The eyes turned even colder and the mouth looked too thin to smile. It was a face that wouldn’t stand out or be easily remembered.

  When he had committed the features to memory, he reached for a lighter. “Shouldn’t I show this to Taylor? He could go after her next.”

  “Negative. I’ve been told to keep her out of the loop on this. I fought it hard, but I lost.” Izzy didn’t sound happy about the outcome.

  Jack touched his lighter to the corner of the sheet and watched the thin lips glow, curling into a sneer. “What about Rains’ girlfriend? Has she been seen with Lemka?”

  “No, but we’re checking Candace Jensen out thoroughly. She met Rains a year ago while she was doing temp work at his lab. She quit a few months later to work at a local gym. We have no real proof that she’s involved—except I had an expert climber check Taylor’s gear while you were gone. He tells me the equipment was in perfect shape, as was the part of the bolt still attached to the rope. On a hunch, I sent him out to check the other half of the expansion bolt still on the rocks.”

  This was Izzy, Jack thought. The man was nothing if not fanatically thorough. “What did he find?”

  “That particular bolt was brand-new, for one thing, which was interesting since all the others on that rock were worn. When he took a closer look, he saw the broken bolt was twisted, showing tension fractures that couldn’t come from normal climbing stress. In short, someone meant to guarantee that the bolt would blow.”

  Jack rubbed his neck, frowning. “Candace?”

  “She was there. She had the skill.”

  “But why? What could she gain from hurting Taylor?”

  “Beats me. Until we know more, I suggest you keep this from Taylor.”

  “Are we going to tell her anything?” Jack asked grimly. “After all, Candace is her friend. Both their lives may be in danger.”

  “As soon as we know what we’re dealing with, we’ll make that decision. We can’t risk Taylor letting something slip to Candace. For now, this stays under wraps. Orders, Jack.”

  “Some orders suck.”

  “I happen to agree.” Izzy’s chair creaked. “What does Taylor have on the agenda today?”

  “Nothing much. She mentioned she was staying in so she could work. Book deadline or something.”

  “Good. Grab some sleep.” Izzy sighed. “Let’s pray that her writing deadline will keep her out of trouble for a while.”

  At ten o’clock Taylor rolled out of a sound sleep. When she opened her eyes, she was instantly flooded by bad memories. How had her life gone straight to hell in only forty-eight hours?

  She tried calling Annie at home, but the message machine clicked in. After leaving a message, Taylor listened to her own messages. Candace had phoned twice, sounding worried and asking Taylor to call her soon. But when Taylor tried phoning, she reached Candace’s message machine. Was everyone in the world out? she wondered irritably.

  Wandering into the kitchen, she surveyed her food options. They included two jars of olives and a discolored orange that appeared to be growing white hair.

  Wincing, Taylor closed the refrigerator and decided coffee would have to do. With a cup of steaming espresso straight from her machine, she headed off to work.

  After half a dozen false starts, she finally got into the pace of her story. She kicked off her slippers and settled in, halfway through a half-raising pursuit when her doorbell rang. She looked up, frowning, trying to place the sound. With the words flowing, the last thing she needed was an interruption.

  She closed her eyes, hunched over her laptop as she let the scene replay in her mind. She heard the lap of water in the distance. Somewhere, dogs were barking in frantic excitement. A red Toyota spun around a corner, fishtailing crazily—

  The doorbell sounded again, cutting off her concentration, and Chinatown fell away.

  Taylor shot to her feet. “Fine, fine, I’m coming, but this better be damned important.” After straightening the old sweatshirt she always wore when writing, she glanced in the view hole and flung open the door. “What?”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “Good morning to you, too.”

  “Yeah, it might be, but I’m working and I don’t want to be interrupted.”

  “Not even for fresh sourdough bread and French onion soup?” Jack held out two big paper bags. “I had it sent over from the restaurant on the corner.”

  Taylor’s irritation wavered when she smelled the rich aroma of melted cheese and perfectly caramelized onions, but she still had a scene to finish. “That’s—that’s nice of you, Jack. I’ll take a break soon.” She frowned. “Unless there’s something important you need to tell me?”

  He looked long and lean in blue jeans and a gray T-sh
irt that hugged muscular shoulders. Don’t drool, Taylor told herself firmly.

  “Nothing urgent. Just checking to be sure you eat. Annie warned me that you forget everything when you’re writing.”

  “You’ve heard from Annie?”

  “Not today. She told me yesterday, at the restaurant.”

  “I called, but she wasn’t in.” Taylor rubbed her neck, which was starting to ache. “I just want to find out how she’s feeling.”

  “I’m sure she’ll call.” He held up the bags. “Can I put these down?”

  “Oh—sure. And thanks. But I really do—” She frowned as he opened cabinets and took out a pot. “What are you doing?”

  “Heating the soup. Once you’re eating, I’ll leave. Annie made me promise.”

  Taylor bit back a complaint and tried to hold the scene in her head. Dogs barking. Red Toyota.

  Jack paid no attention, turning on the oven and sliding the bread in to warm. “So you don’t go out and you don’t eat when you’re writing?”

  “Not much. Not when I’ve got a deadline closing in.”

  “How close?”

  Taylor sighed, trying to be patient. “Six weeks.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  “It means I’m up at night, pacing the floor. It means I eat on the run or not at all, and that you may hear occasional banging sounds on the wall. Don’t worry, it’s only my head. There may be some cursing, too.”

  “All this just to write a book?

  She crossed her arms. “Just? Have you ever tried it?”

  “No way. Not me. Still, it seems an uncomfortable way to make a living.”

  “You don’t write to be comfortable.” The scene was slipping away now, and Taylor realized that in a few moments it would be gone forever. “Look, why don’t you—”

  Jack turned off the burner and poured soup into a bowl. “Almost done here. I’ll cut you some bread, then hit the road.”

  Red Toyota, two men on foot. Taylor closed her eyes, repeating the image like a mantra, trying not to smell the warm bread.

  “All done.” He set a plate with bread on her kitchen table and gestured at the last bag. “Wine’s in there, too, if you feel like it. I wasn’t sure if you gave that up when you were writing, too.”

  “Not wine, only sex.” She saw his face and shrugged. “Just a joke. I’ll have the wine later, thanks. But right now I really need to—”

  “So you’re not going out at all today?”

  “No way. Too much work.”

  “And you’ll call me if your plans change.”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, I’m out of here. Good luck with the writing.” Jack’s eyes narrowed, and he ran his thumb gently over her cheek. “You’ve got some ink here.” He traced her lip. “Here, too.”

  Taylor tried to ignore an instant kick of desire at his touch. “Occupational hazard.”

  “I could get rid of it for you.” His eyes glinted.

  Taylor took a jerky breath. “Out, Broussard.” It was only as she was closing the door that she realized Jack had told her nothing about the cars that had followed them the night before. Nor had he given her any more information about the attack in Annie’s hospital room.

  After a mental head slap, she headed back to her computer. Food could wait. Right now she had a hot date.

  Two men and a red Toyota.

  Jack picked up the banging about twenty minutes later. He shot out of his chair and scanned the hall.

  Nothing.

  Frowning, he checked the elevator. No sounds there, either. On the way back inside, he passed Taylor’s door and heard muffled noises. He pressed one ear to the door, trying to pick out the source of the noise, but it stopped abruptly, replaced by footsteps and low muttering. After that came a thud, like a pillow hitting the wall, followed by more muttering.

  Jack was starting to worry when he heard footsteps drum past the door. This time he made out Taylor’s voice, lowered in a silky drawl.

  “Touch me like that again, and I’ll have to call the police.” With a throaty laugh, she continued in a deeper voice. “Honey, I am the police.”

  He heard a ripple of laughter, and then the footsteps moved to the back of her apartment.

  The crazy female was writing. Apparently that meant walking, talking, cursing, and banging on walls. Jack shook his head. Who knew that making up stories could be so much work?

  Judging by the sounds from her apartment, this writing stuff made a person completely crazy. And if you were Taylor O’Toole, who was already more than a little crazy to start with . . .

  For no particular reason, Jack found himself smiling. The lady was a kook all right.

  The window opened inside and cool air spilled beneath her door. A chair creaked, and he heard the tap of computer keys, fast and steady.

  She was finally in her zone.

  Jack walked back into his apartment, frowning as his cell phone vibrated.

  “What’s Taylor doing?” As usual, Izzy wasted no time on preliminaries.

  “She’s writing. If you call pillows flying and general cursing behind closed doors writing.”

  “Hey, if it was easy, we’d all be doing it. Of course no one would believe our stories,” Izzy mused.

  The sound of steady typing continued from Taylor’s office as Jack opened the briefing file he’d been given the week before. Inside, he found half a dozen photographs.

  Taylor in a firing stance beside a police officer in full SWAT gear.

  Taylor in a wet suit standing on a beach north of Malibu with an L.A.P.D. rescue team.

  He shook his head. “What’s with the woman? She sky-dives, she trains with SWAT officers. These people are picky about who they train with. I know that from personal experience.”

  “Taylor’s not just anyone.” Izzy’s chair creaked. “But I think you already noticed that, too.”

  “Understatement of this or any other century.” Jack picked up a picture of Taylor with a class of junior high students who appeared to be doing the conga while dressed in Roman togas. “Sometimes I think she’s nuts. And others . . .” He cleared his throat. “She gets to you. Somewhere deep.”

  “Welcome to the club.” Izzy cleared his throat. “You clear with this assignment? If it’s getting too personal—”

  “I can deal with my feelings, Teague.” Jack spoke more sharply than he planned. “So can Taylor.”

  “We’re counting on that,” Izzy said calmly, then disconnected.

  Jack picked up another photo with Taylor standing next to her sister. Behind them, a cedar-and-glass building rose over a pristine beach below the cliffs of Big Sur.

  This must be the family resort south of Carmel.

  The sisters were laughing, caught in the intimacy of some private joke, and Jack could almost feel the force of their connection. He had been relieved when Izzy reported the government had assigned two men to the spa to protect Annie from any future attacks.

  He picked up a photo of Taylor in goggles, hunched over a skeleton on an examining table. A sign in the background read SMITHSONIAN LABS—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  It was clear that something drove her. Who else would go to these lengths to get every detail right? Jack could understand that kind of determination, since it carried him through every mission, but he still couldn’t get a handle on this writing thing. How did you pull people and conversations out of thin air? Where did you get your ideas? None of it made sense to him.

  He heard another thump as something struck the adjoining wall. After more muttering noises, the keyboard clicked away in high gear again.

  Jack shook his head. As far as he could see, there were easier ways to make a living.

  Like raising the Titanic.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  At first, Taylor didn’t hear her phone. It wasn’t only because she was in the middle of a tense confrontation between her heroine, the cop she’d fallen for, and two Triad hit men. The earphones helped, too.

 
Frowning, she slipped off the regulation airline safety coverings that were her favorite writing accessory. With the big orange ear covers off, she heard ringing, checked her caller ID, then lunged for the phone.

  “Annie, is that you?”

  “No, Taylor. It’s Sam.”

  There was something impersonal about his voice that made Taylor frown. “Is everything okay with Annie?”

  “She’s fine. Just a little tired.” He seemed to hesitate.

  “What is it?” Taylor gripped the phone. “Not the baby . . .”

  “No, not that.”

  Taylor heard a muffled voice in the background. “Is someone there?”

  “Izzy sent some men down.” Sam’s voice hardened. “I can’t be here all the time, and I want Annie protected.”

  Taylor stared at the phone, feeling sick. “What happened in the hospital, Sam? No one will tell me.”

  “Annie was attacked last night. Izzy had an undercover agent in place, but someone got past him. One more minute and I could have been too late.”

  Taylor flinched at the anger in his voice. “Sam, I’m so sorry. I never saw any of this coming. One minute I was doing a favor for a friend, and the next I was being followed.”

  Receiving funeral wreaths.

  Taken hostage in a robbery gone wrong.

  She took a sharp breath. “Sam?”

  “I’m here, Taylor.” He didn’t sound particularly happy about it, either.

  “I didn’t think there was any real danger. Definitely not for anyone else. I’m so—” Her voice broke, but she recovered. “So damned sorry.”

  The silence stretched out, worse than a slap on the face.

  “I’d like to speak to Annie.” Her voice sounded stiff and awkward. “I need to apologize.”

  “She’s sleeping right now.”

  “Then I’ll drive down. I can be there in two hours. She’ll be awake by then.”

  “No.” Sam bit back a low curse. “This is hard for me to say, but—”

  Taylor’s fingers were ice cold where they gripped the phone. “You don’t want me there, do you? You think it could put Annie at risk.”