Thieves In The Night

by Tara Janzen

  Without taking his eyes from the road, he lifted a Styrofoam cup to his mouth and drained it of coffee. He’d lost the other two times he’d broken his FBI cover to prevent disaster. He’d been too late, too slow, in far too deep to surface in time to save a life. He wouldn’t be too late to save Johanna Lane. He couldn’t be. He’d come up for good and three was his lucky number.

  A grim line broke across his face, an expression no one had ever mistaken for a smile. Since when did he know about luck? He had no luck.

  In the darkness ahead, a pickup truck pulled onto the highway. Dylan hissed an obscenity, his fist crushing the empty cup before he threw it to the floor. The man had to be blind not to see the Mustang hurtling toward him. When the driver didn’t even speed up to the limit, Dylan cursed him again, taking a lot of names in vain and ending up with half a dozen synonyms of dirty slang for sex.

  The oncoming traffic was heavy on the two-lane highway outside Boulder, but Dylan had no time and nothing left to lose except his pulse. Flooring the gas pedal, he roared up on the truck and at the last moment jerked the wheel, sending the Mustang slewing into the other other lane, taking a highly calculated risk and the narrowest of openings in the traffic. Cars scattered onto the shoulder. The truck skidded off the road.

  Hard-won skill, not luck, guided Dylan through the hundred-mile-an-hour maze he’d made of a van, a station wagon, and two compacts. Dylan Jones had no luck.

  The fact was proved a mile down the road, less than a minute’s worth of traveling time. The flashing lights of a police car lit up his back window and rearview mirror like a Fourth of July parade.

  Dylan swore again and pressed harder on the gas pedal, willing the Mustang to greater speed. The city lights of Boulder were seconds away. He’d come too far, too fast, too hard to lose.

  He swept through the first stoplight on the north side of town, ignoring its red color. The Mustang barely held on to the ninety-degree turn he slammed it through. The tires squealed and smoked on the hot pavement. The chassis shuddered. Working the steering wheel one way and then the other, he missed hitting a car in the eastbound lane and shot between two westbound vehicles.

  The police car behind him missed the turn and came to a jolting stop in the middle of the intersection, siren and lights going full bore, snarling traffic even further. Dylan made the second left-hand turn he saw, then wound through the streets in a frenzied, seemingly haphazard fashion for more than a mile. Finally he slowed the Mustang to a stop on a side street, pulling between two other vehicles, a gray, nondescript sedan and a midsize truck.

  The summer night was quiet except for the pounding of his own heart. Expensive houses crowded this part of town. Porch lights were on, smaller, homier versions of the street lamps, but the interiors of the houses were dark. People were settled in for the night, safe, sound, and unsuspecting.

  He waited for a moment, checking the street before pulling his duffel bag across the front seat to his lap and slipping his left arm out of his coat. The bag was heavier than clothes would have allowed, the weight being made up in firepower and ordnance. It was the only protection he had, and it felt like damn little compared with what he was up against.

  Sweat trickled down the side of his face. At the corner of his eye, the moisture found the day-old cut angling from his temple to his ear. The salty drops slid into the groove, burning the raw skin. He swiped at the irritation with the back of his hand, then yanked open the duffel.

  He took out a shortened, pump-action twelve-gauge shotgun and slipped the gun’s strap over his free shoulder. After angling the shotgun down the side of his torso, he put his arm back through his coat sleeve. The duffel went over his other shoulder as he got out of the car. The policeman had been behind him long enough to call in his plates. The Mustang had to be ditched. It didn’t matter. If he lost Johanna Lane, he didn’t much care if he got through the night with his life. He sure as hell didn’t care if he got out with his car.

  He walked to the pickup truck in front of him and tried the door, his gaze moving constantly, checking shadows and sounds. The door was locked. The owner of the late-model gray sedan parked behind him wasn’t nearly as cautious. He got in and smashed the ignition assembly with the butt of the shotgun. Then he went to work hot-wiring the car.

  Johanna Lane lived at 300 Briarwood Court, and Dylan knew exactly where 300 Briarwood Court was in relation to his current position—two blocks west and one half block north.

  * * *

  Johanna Lane stood on her third-floor balcony overlooking the street. French doors were open behind her, allowing the night wind to lift and flutter sheer, floor-length curtains. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played on the stereo, the classical notes crystal clear, floating on the air with all the purity that the finest digital sound was capable of producing. The stereo system was an indulgence, one of many in the oak-floored, art-deco-furnished apartment.

  She turned partway to look inside. In the dining room, an unfinished, candlelit dinner of pasta alfredo and salad was neatly laid out on one end of an intricately carved, black lacquer table. A damask napkin was crumpled next to the still-full crystal wineglass.

  She really should eat, she thought, watching the candle flame dip and bow with the breeze. If she wasn’t going to run home to Chicago and her father, she should eat, and she’d decided against running. Running was an admission of guilt, either of a crime she’d been very careful not to commit, or of an act of betrayal she’d never considered.

  Austin Bridgeman was flying in from Chicago. To do some follow-up work on a deal that had gone bad in Boulder, he’d said when he called. He’d suggested going out for drinks or a late dinner so they could talk about old times—old times when she had worked for him as his most private legal counsel.

  Even the thought of her previous employment made her head ache and her palms sweat. She’d left her job and Chicago because of what Austin Bridgeman had become, and she doubted if the intervening four months had improved his moral character.

  Slowly, to calm herself, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. In four years of working for Austin, she’d seen him skirt the law many, many times, bending it at will with his power and his money. She’d seen him crawl on his belly like a snake to make bribery look like a gift. She’d seen him voice requests as unrepentant demands to politicians and judges alike. But she hadn’t seen him break a law until two days earlier, Friday morning, when she’d read the front-page newspaper story about a senator charged with influence peddling. With all the other congressional scandals cropping up, she hadn’t given the story much more than a glance at first. Then a name had caught her eye, the name of a small, privately held company in Illinois—Morrow Warner.

  The influence the dear senator had been peddling went far beyond the expected pork barreling. He had dabbled in foreign affairs and foreign wars, foreign corporations, foreign currency, and especially foreign imports. The press had labeled him the “Global Connection,” and all of his hard work had been directed toward filling the coffers of Morrow Warner.

  Johanna knew who owned Morrow Warner. She also knew that no one else did, because she had hidden the owner’s identity in miles of paperwork, barely skirting the law herself. A precaution, Austin had said, something for his old age, something the board of directors of Bridgeman, Inc., couldn’t take away.

  Saturday’s paper had confirmed worse than influence peddling by the senator and had alleged extortion. Then that morning’s Sunday Post had quoted “reliable sources” confirming extortion and alleging underworld connections and a possible tie-in to an assassination. Two hours after she’d read the article, Austin had called wanting to visit her, personally, that night.

  Johanna had thought about notifying the police, then realized irrationality wasn’t her best option. Austin hadn’t been charged with anything, and asking someone to dinner didn’t qualify as a crime. Powerful men were easy targets for scandal and allegations. Both the Illinois senator and Austin Bridgeman were powerful men. She
knew better than to jump to conclusions, or to believe everything she read in the newspapers.

  Still, she wished her law partner, Henry Wayland, had decided to stay in Boulder for the weekend just this once. She would like someone to be with her when Austin came, since she’d decided to beg off dinner, and drinks, and especially long talks about old times. The best posture for her to assume was one of cool formality and discretion.

  At least that’s what she’d thought earlier. Now darkness had fallen and she wasn’t sure.

  In a distracted gesture, she ran her hand back through her hair. Damn Henry for disappearing every Friday. She knew he did it to escape his mother, but that was ridiculous for a grown man. She didn’t even know where he was. All she knew was that he’d be back by Monday morning at 9:00 A.M. sharp. Henry was nothing if not reliable.

  Austin was reliable, too, but not in a comfortable way. She had worked for a powerful man. She knew power corrupted; she’d seen the workings of corruption firsthand.

  Assassination. It was improbable . . . but was it possible?

  She had seen Austin break men with less thought than some people gave to lunch. A few times she’d helped him. It was part of the game of high-stakes business. Winner take all. Losers run like hell.

  She wasn’t running. She could handle Austin.

  She turned back toward the street. The only movement was a gray sedan cruising the block at a crawl, no doubt looking for the rare parking spot.

  Raising her chin, she rolled her head to one side, easing the ache of muscles gone tight with strain. She continued the motion by lifting her hair off the back of her neck to let the night wind blow against her skin. It was so damn hot.

  Her suitcases were still packed in her bedroom. She probably should have run.

  She probably should have run like hell.

  * * *

  Dylan watched her with a narrowed gaze, taking in every sinuous line, every sultry curve. She made jeans look like custom-tailored slacks and a silk T-shirt look like a thousand dollars’ worth of handwork. It was Johanna Lane all right. Pure sweet class from the sheen of her honey-blond hair to the arch of her foot, which he’d previously seen only encased in butter-soft, Italian leather heels. He remembered everything about her, everything he’d seen at a distance. Austin’s rough boys weren’t allowed to fraternize with the upper echelons of the hierarchy. He doubted if Johanna Lane remembered he existed. He hoped not. It would only make things harder—on him.

  He opened the duffel bag and took out a wide roll of cloth tape. Tearing off a length, he taped the passenger-door handle to a random spot beneath the dash. The rest of the roll went in his overcoat. He didn’t have time to talk her into going anywhere. Nor was he particularly inclined toward explanations. He hurt too damn bad. He’d been two days without sleep, almost as long without food, and he was bleeding again. He could feel the fresh dampness seeping down the right side of his chest. He’d killed a man last night in Lincoln, but not before the bastard had cut him.

  Get out. Get out while you can, his conscience whispered. Then he remembered he didn’t have a conscience. He’d killed a man in Lincoln to save a worthless life—his own—and maybe one that was worth a whole lot more, Johanna Lane’s.

  He turned and, with a quick jab of the gun, broke the dome light in the sedan. The last thing he needed was a welcome-home signal when he brought her out.

  * * *

  Johanna closed and locked the French doors, then pulled the sheers and the drapes. She’d packed her suitcases on a gut instinct, and the later it got, the more rational her instinct seemed. If she hurried, she could still catch a flight to Chicago. Once she was safe in her parents’ big house, Austin Bridgman would look more manageable. And it had occurred to her more than once that she might end up needing a good lawyer. Her father happened to be the best.

  In the bathroom, she threw her toothbrush, comb, and makeup into a small bag. Before she put in the aspirin bottle, she shook two pills into her hand, then a third. It was definitely turning out to be a three-aspirin night.

  She swallowed the pills with a glass of water and left the water running for a second glass. The heat had been oppressive all day, and not even night had lowered the record temperatures.

  A sound in the living room drew her head around. She shut the water off and listened again, concentrating, trying to hear over the sudden pounding of her heart and the rush of adrenaline pumping through her body.

  When no more sound was forthcoming, she forced herself to relax enough to think. Her first thought was to find something to defend herself with, and she grabbed her longest nail file, the most lethal thing she could find in the whole damn bathroom. She told herself she was overreacting, but her fingers wrapped and tightened around the file as if it were a knife.

  She stepped quietly into the hall, listening. If anything looked even remotely amiss in the apartment, she would slip out the front door and leave. She wasn’t going to take chances. If Austin had sent someone in his place, someone who didn’t ring doorbells and use front doors, she needed protection.

  She reached the arch connecting the hall and the living room and peeked around the corner.

  “Ahhh!” The file clattered to the floor, dropped by fingers numbed from a quick, well-placed blow. Her next cry was smothered by a large, strong hand. An even stronger arm went around her middle, crushing her to her assailant’s body.

  “My name is Dylan, Dylan Jones,” a harsh voice whispered in her ear. “I’ve been a lot of things in my life, but a rapist isn’t one of them. So ease your mind. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She squirmed violently in his arms, but his strength was indomitable.

  “Your name is Johanna Lane,” the voice continued, “and four months ago you worked for Austin Bridgeman. You need to decide if you’re going to cooperate, or if we’re leaving here the hard way.”

  Johanna stilled. Austin had sent someone else. She squeezed her eyes shut for an instant, fear and anger at her own stupidity washing through her. She should have run.

  “Feel that?” her captor asked, his voice breathless and gravelly.

  Something pushed against her hip, and she nodded.

  “It’s a twelve-gauge shotgun, and I am definitely threatening you. We’re going out into the hall, into the elevator, and out the front door. That’s cooperation. The hard way is with you unconscious, or taped up, or both.” He lifted the gun and rested the barrel against her temple. “Do you want to do this the hard way?”

  She shook her head once, very slowly. He’d said he didn’t want to hurt her; he’d also made it clear he would hurt her if he felt the need. She was too frightened to believe the first statement, and too frightened not to believe the second.

  “Good.” He stepped back toward the door, holding her tight against him while he opened it a crack and checked the hall. “Go.”

  They moved toward the bank of elevators, his body propelling her forward, pushing her from behind, overriding her faltering gait. The gun wasn’t at her temple. She didn’t know where it was, but she didn’t doubt its presence or his willingness to use it, yet she still wanted to scream and fight him. A greater fear kept her from doing either.

  Dylan stayed behind her on the long walk down the hall, her body clasped to his. He kept behind her in the elevator, applying just enough pressure on her arm to let her know he wouldn’t tolerate a struggle, not even the hint of one. He wasn’t into terrorizing women, but he was committed to worse if she gave him any trouble. He knew Austin Bridgeman, and he knew he didn’t have time to be nice.

  The elevator doors whooshed open in the lobby. For a moment freedom was fifteen steps away. In the next instant it was gone. A group of men stepped into the pool of light illuminating the portico of the apartment building—with Austin Bridgeman leading the pack.

  Dylan lunged for the “Close Door” button on the operating panel, shoving the woman away from him and into a corner of the elevator. He single-handedly pumped a shell into the chamber
of the twelve-gauge, keeping the gun leveled at her and giving her a grim look.

  Johanna pushed herself deeper into the corner of the elevator, instinctively widening the distance between herself and the man called Dylan Jones. The urge to scream receded to a dull, throbbing ache in the back of her throat. His eyes were brown, dark and bright with an overload of adrenaline. Beard stubble darkened his jaw. His light-colored hair was longer in back than in front, and in front it was standing on end, raked through and furrowed—wild, like the gleam in his eyes.

  The mercury had pushed ninety-two that day, but he was wearing an overcoat, a lined overcoat stained with dirt . . . or blood. A torn black T-shirt molded his torso, soft black jeans clung to his hips and legs.

  He was bruised on one side of his face and cut on the other. He was muscular and lean, hard, stripped down to the basics of strength. He was feral.

  Dylan waited, listening and watching her size him up and grow more afraid. There was nothing but silence outside. Nothing but the noise of their ragged breathing inside. Then the mechanical sound of the other elevator moving intruded. Dylan steadied himself with a breath and removed his finger from the “Close Door” button. The doors slid open. He stepped out, ready.

  Johanna heard a movement, a scuffle, and a muffled thud. Now was the time to scream, she told herself. Dylan Jones hadn’t been sent by Austin. Austin had come in person to talk with her.

  The thoughts had no sooner formed than she was jerked out of the elevator. The violence of the movement knocked the breath from her lungs. The speed with which he dragged her across the lobby, his hand tightly wound in a fistful of her shirt, the gun jammed against her ribs, kept her breathless. She stumbled, and he hauled her to her feet, always shoving her forward, keeping her fighting for her balance.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw the crumpled figure of a man lying next to the elevators. She tried once more to scream, but as if he’d known what her reaction would be, he moved his hand from her shirt to her neck and applied a warning pressure. She sobbed instead, and his hand immediately loosened, but only the barest of degrees.