Hero Under Cover

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Pete stood to hang up the phone, and Annie saw that he wore only a tight pair of white briefs. She looked away, embarrassed at her body’s instant reaction to his masculinity, afraid to be caught staring.

  He immediately noticed her discomfort. “I’m sorry,” he apologized quietly. “I was lying down when the phone rang. I wanted to answer it before it woke you.”

  Annie went to the stove, putting on a kettle of hot water for tea. “What did you find out?” she asked, her back to him.

  “Let me put on my jeans,” he said. “Then I’ll tell you.”

  “Do you want a cup of tea?” Annie asked as Pete came back into the kitchen, tucking his T-shirt into the waistband of his jeans. Now she felt underdressed, standing there in her flannel pajamas.

  “Thanks,” Pete said gratefully.

  She got a second mug down from the cabinet and dropped a tea bag into it, then leaned against the counter, arms folded across her chest, waiting for the water to boil.

  Pete took a lemon from the refrigerator, grabbed the cutting board from the shelf and opened the knife drawer. He was at home here in her kitchen, Annie realized. He knew where everything was; he knew where to find the plates and the glasses, he even knew where she hid a chocolate bar for those times when nothing else would substitute. He knew all those things. Captain Kendall Peterson, formerly of the U.S. Army, currently of the CIA, knew all sorts of private and personal things about her. Because everything that Peter Taylor had seen and heard, Kendall Peterson remembered.

  “How do you do it?” Annie asked.

  He glanced up at her, then finished cutting the lemon neatly into eighths. “Do what?”

  “How can you take on someone else’s identity for such a long period of time?” Annie asked. “Don’t you start to lose your own self?”

  Pete shook his head. “Annie, it’s not like I’m an actor,” he said. He turned toward her, trying to make her understand. “I just take a different name, a different label. It doesn’t matter whether you call me Captain or Peterson or Taylor or Hastin Naat’aanni, or whether my driver’s license says I’m from Colorado or New York City. I am always the same man. I am me—I’m Pete.”

  “You think of yourself as Pete,” Annie said, “not Hastin Naat’aanni, Man Speaking Peace?”

  Pete was silent for a moment, looking down at his bare feet against the black-and-white tile floor. “I am Hastin Naat’aanni. I always will be. But in Vietnam, the men in my platoon called me Machine—short for War Machine. I’m that, too.”

  The teakettle whistled, and Annie turned toward the stove, shutting off the gas. She filled both mugs with steaming water, then set them down on the table. Pete brought the plate of lemons over and sat down across from her.

  Annie bobbed her tea bag up and down in her mug, watching as the hot water was slowly stained brown.

  “Want to hear what I found out?” he asked.

  “Is it good news or bad news?” she countered.

  “It’s strange,” Pete said.

  “Fire away.”

  “Okay. So far, we’ve got J. J. Steadman—whoever he is—and Alistair Golden as partners in some pretty lame art-collecting companies. And we already know Golden authenticates everything that comes out of the English Gallery—everything except for this one artifact, the death mask.” Pete thought for a moment, and then asked, “Does it make any sense that Golden should fly to England before every single transaction?”

  “Hardly,” Annie said, taking a sip of her tea, testing to see if it was strong enough. “But Golden isn’t exactly what I’d call sensible. Apparently he insists on packing the artwork or artifacts himself. I think he’s kind of anal retentive.”

  She was silent as she fished the tea bag out of her mug and put it in the garbage. She squeezed a piece of lemon into her tea, then took another sip. “I called Ben Sullivan and told him about this mess I’m in,” she said, taking a sip. “I told him I’d be shipping the death mask back to him, and he asked me to recommend another authenticator besides Golden. Seems Golden threw a little bit of a fit when he found out he wasn’t going to do the work, and he called up Ben and screamed in his ear. Ben was not impressed.”

  Shipping the death mask back.

  The death mask.

  Somehow it was connected to Annie’s being framed.

  And although Pete couldn’t say why, returning the death mask to Sullivan seemed even more dangerous than keeping it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE NEXT DAY, ALISTAIR GOLDEN called.

  “He said that he wants to come by and discuss taking over some of my work,” Annie said. “Since my license has been revoked, someone has to do the jobs. And suddenly he’s my best friend….”

  Pete listened silently.

  “He says he’ll pay me a referral fee,” Annie continued, “and, of course, he’ll get all the necessary approvals.”

  Pete nodded. “Squeaky-clean.”

  Annie shrugged. “I told him it was okay with me. I mean, I’ve got to do something with all this work I’m supposed to be doing. I can’t just sit on it until my trial.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Pete stood up. “When’s he coming?”

  “Sometime around three this afternoon.”

  “I’d like to talk with him when he gets here,” Pete said. “On the record.”

  AT AROUND NOON, ANNIE WATCHED as Pete carefully taped the tiny microphone to his chest, just under his collarbone. Then he buttoned his shirt back up and shrugged on his heavy leather jacket. He picked up the set of headphones he had placed on the desk in the office and handed them to Annie. “This whole surveillance unit is mobile. You can hook the recorder to your belt and carry it with you wherever you go. If you want to hear what’s going on, just listen in on the headphones.”

  “What do you expect him to do, confess to framing me?” Annie said. “We don’t even know he’s involved.”

  “Maybe he’s not, but maybe he is,” Pete replied. He headed downstairs, and Annie followed. “I’m going to go outside and walk around the house to check the range on this thing. When he comes, I want to meet him outdoors and see if I can find out anything before we let him in.”

  He accessed the alarm system bypass and opened the front door.

  “I’ll keep talking as I walk around outside,” Pete said. “You keep the headphones on, and if you can hear me, flick the outside floodlights on and off.”

  She looked up at him and said, “I know it’s silly, and Alistair Golden is probably about as dangerous as a worm, but this cloak-and-dagger stuff really gets me nervous.”

  Annie stared into Pete’s bottomless dark eyes, searching for what, she wasn’t sure. Dishonesty, maybe. Or deceit. But all she could see was love. He loved her. He really, truly loved her. He looked away, as if embarrassed by her scrutiny.

  “I’d better get out there,” he said.

  “Pete,” she said.

  He stopped and turned back, his face carefully revealing no emotion. “Yeah?”

  “No matter what happens, you’re going to be careful, right?”

  He didn’t answer right away, but his heart showed in his eyes as a seed of hope took root and bloomed all in the space of a few short seconds. “Yeah,” he finally said, his voice huskier than usual. “You bet I’m going to be careful.”

  She looked so worried, her blue eyes darkened with anxiety. He reached out and pushed a lock of hair back from her face, stroking her soft cheek with his thumb. “Everything’s going to work out,” he said gently.

  Annie’s blue eyes filled with tears. “Everything but us,” she said. “I just can’t forgive you, Pete.”

  “Have you really tried?” he asked softly.

  ANNIE SLIPPED THE HEADPHONES over her ears.

  “Okay, I’m out here,” Pete said as he stepped off the porch. He turned to see the floodlights switch on and then off again. “I’m heading around to the side of the house now.”

  The lights flicked on and off steadily as he made his way around
the house, talking all the while. When he got to the front of the house he went onto the lawn and said, “I’m in the front yard now, and believe it or not, it looks like the lawn could use another raking.” He looked back at the house, and for a moment, the lights did not come on. Then they did, and quickly went off again. He then spoke softly. “And I’d very much like to help you rake it, Annie.” And again the lights stayed unlit for several moments, finally flashing on for a brief second before being extinguished again.

  Finally Pete squared his shoulders in the middle of the yard and faced the house head-on. Looking directly into the darkened floodlights, he tried to speak, but his voice broke. He bowed his head, looked up again at the big house he had come to think of as his home, took a deep breath and said, “I’m talking really quietly now, I can barely hear my own voice. Can you hear me? I love you, Annie. And I’m going to win you back if it’s the last thing I do.”

  The floodlights never came on.

  ANNIE BRUSQUELY WIPED AT THE tear that had escaped and was running down her cheek. She was about to pull the headphones off when she heard Pete curse under his breath, and then say, “Annie, our guest has arrived three hours early. How rude of him. Of them.”

  At that, Annie hurried to the front of the house to look out the window. Golden, impeccably dressed in a dark blue suit and a maroon tie with accent handkerchief, was getting out of his car, and that broker, Joseph James, or James Joseph, or whoever he was, wearing jeans and a light jacket, was getting out of the other side of the car. Pete was running across the lawn toward them as they came up the porch steps. Pete was whispering to her as he ran.

  “Annie, lock the door and don’t open it, no matter what happens. Turn on the alarm, get the death mask out of the safe and hide it in the attic somewhere. Then get out the back door, and get to a safe place. Do you understand me?”

  Even as he said the words, she was locking the door, turning on the alarm. As she ran to the safe, got the death mask and hauled the heavy box up to the attic, she muttered under her breath, while another tear ran down her cheek, unchecked, “You be careful, do you understand me?”

  “WELL, LOOKEE HERE, IF IT ISN’T FIDO,” Joseph James said to Pete, an unpleasant smile on his unpleasant face.

  “You gentlemen might want to get someone to check your watches. You appear to be a little early.” Pete smiled. “What’s the rush?”

  “We decided to come for lunch,” Joseph James said, folding his arms across his broad chest with a smirk. “On account of our busy schedules.”

  Joseph James.

  It came to him in a flash.

  Pete eyed the two men and decided to take a chance. If he was right, he had to keep them talking and out of the house. If he could get them to say something stupid, the tape would prove Annie was innocent, even if he messed up and they killed him.

  Pete smiled broadly at the taller of the two men. “Well. We were expecting only Dr. Golden, not you, Mr. James. Or is it Mr. Joseph? Or maybe…Mr. Steadman?”

  At that, the man took a step toward Pete, until his face was inches away. “Maybe you should shut up,” he snarled.

  Jackpot.

  Pete looked steadily at Steadman, unperturbed. “My mistake. Your name is undoubtedly Grumpy.” He turned to Golden. “And that must make you Sleazy.”

  Pete was banking on Steadman’s anger. He knew that Joseph James Steadman wanted to take a swing at him, to get back at Pete for having been roughed up the last time he was out here. That was good. Angry people didn’t think clearly. Angry people weren’t careful about what they said, and the mike inside Pete’s jacket was ready to pick it all up….

  “We’re here to see Dr. Morrow,” Dr. Golden said, his green eyes a little too bright in his face. “I’d like to get this over with.”

  “That’s a pity,” said Pete. “She just went into town. She said she wouldn’t be back for a few hours.”

  Golden smiled, and Pete was reminded of a lizard. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Her car is still in the driveway.”

  Inside the house, Annie had called Whitley Scott at the FBI. Scott had said they were on their way. They’d arrive in twenty minutes, maybe less. She now stood at the top of the stairs, listening through the headphones to the conversation outside.

  “In fact, I’ll bet she’s standing on the other side of these windows, listening to us talk,” she heard Golden say.

  “Maybe,” she heard Pete drawl, his Western accent more pronounced than usual. “Maybe not. Why don’t you just tell me what you want, and then maybe I can help you.” He paused. “Maybe.”

  Outside, Steadman was starting to lose his cool. “Maybe you’d better be quiet before I use this to blow your head off your neck, smartass,” he said as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a huge automatic pistol. He jammed it under Pete’s chin.

  A vein bulged in Golden’s forehead, and Pete thought the man was going to have a stroke.

  “It’s certainly big enough,” Pete said with a cocky smile. “Fire this sucker, and the entire neighborhood will come running to see what happened.”

  “Keep the gun under your coat,” Golden snapped nervously at Steadman.

  Inside the house, Annie’s fingers clutched the banister. They were threatening Pete with a gun! Where was the FBI? According to her watch, they were still over fifteen minutes away. For the first time in a long time, she found herself wishing they would show up early. Slowly she crept down the stairs, closer to the front door.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you want,” Pete offered. “I’m listening.” Me and the FBI, he thought. “Maybe we can make a deal.”

  “You give us the death mask,” Steadman said, “and we don’t kill you. How’s that for a deal?”

  Pete pretended to think about it. “I guess you’re going to have to try to kill me,” he finally said. “Though, I’ve got to warn you, I don’t die very easily.”

  Oh, Pete, what are you doing? thought Annie.

  “Or, you guys could crawl into whatever hole you came out of,” Pete said. “And come back when you’re ready to make a real deal.”

  Steadman pulled the gun away from Pete’s head. With an angry look, he began to attach a large silencer to the barrel.

  Unconcerned, Pete sat down on the top of the porch steps and looked up at the two men. “Using a silencer is illegal, you know,” he said. “Shame on you.”

  “Tell Morrow to open the door,” Golden said.

  “Tell me,” Pete said pleasantly. “Do I look that stupid?”

  “I would really like to shoot you,” Steadman snarled.

  “Gee, what a coincidence. I’d like to shoot you, too,” Pete said to Steadman, still in the same pleasant tone.

  “Put your hands on your head,” Steadman snapped, a touch of panic in his voice. He glanced at Golden. “Check his pockets. He’s carrying.”

  Golden was nervous as hell, but he pulled Pete’s gun out of his jacket pocket, holding it like a dead mouse.

  “I’m not cut out for this,” Golden said. “Let’s get that crate and go.”

  “Dr. Morrow,” Steadman called, his voice angry. “Open the damned door.”

  “Annie, I know you’re not even in there, but if you are, don’t open the door,” Pete said calmly.

  From inside the house, Annie watched as Steadman backhanded Pete across the face. With a gasp, she saw Pete skid along the porch, hitting the side of the house with a solid thud.

  “Open the door, Annie,” Steadman called. “Or I’m gonna kill this bastard.”

  Pete came up smiling. “I hate to break it to you guys,” he said, “but I’m Navaho. And you know what happens when a Navaho dies. Sure you do—you did your research before you made those threatening phone calls to Annie. But in case you need a refresher course, I’ll tell you. A dead Navaho returns to avenge the wrongs made against him in life. Kill me, and my evil spirit will kick you straight to hell.”

  Steadman didn’t look worried. “I’m gonna count to three, A
nnie,” he said, “and then I’m going to shoot him. One…”

  “She’s not going to open the door,” Pete said. “She knows that you’re bluffing.”

  Annie stood at the door, her hands on the deadbolt. His leather jacket was lined with a bulletproof vest, she reminded herself, trying to force back the panic that threatened to overpower her. Even if they shot him, he’d be okay, wouldn’t he? Oh, God, unless they shot him in the head. If they shot him in the head, he’d die. The panic was back full-force. If she didn’t open the door, and Pete died, she’d never be able to live with herself, knowing that she could have saved him.

  “Two,” shouted Steadman. “I’m not bluffing.”

  She didn’t want Pete to die. She desperately didn’t want him to die….

  “Yes, he is,” Pete said. “Annie, don’t open the door!”

  Because, dammit, she loved him. She yanked the headphones off her and pushed the alarm system’s front door override.

  “Three!”

  Annie jerked the door open.

  “No!” Pete shouted. God, no! He’d told her to keep the door shut no matter what!

  Steadman’s gun swung toward Annie.

  Pete moved fast, letting his backup gun drop from his sleeve into his hand. He blocked Annie with his body, shooting Steadman cleanly in the right arm and in the leg. Steadman’s shots went wild, hitting the roof of the porch, the side of the house.

  Then three more gunshots rang out. Bullets from the gun Golden was holding hit Pete, the force knocking him back into the house and slamming him into the foyer wall. He fell like a stone onto the floor.

  Annie slammed the door shut and threw the deadbolt, leaving Golden and Joseph James Steadman out on the porch. They pounded on the door, and it strained beneath their combined weight. Much more of this, and they were going to break through, taking the old door right off its hinges.

  Pete didn’t move.

  “Pete,” Annie said. “Get up!”

  She’d seen the bullets hit him in the chest. That meant he was all right, because his jacket was bulletproof.

  But he still didn’t move.