by Debby Giusti
The alarm began to blare in the hallway, summoning the residents to evacuate, but Lanky Man’s gaze darted toward the television set. Maddie followed his stare, and her jaw dropped. The camera zoomed in on the flaming wreckage of a midsize sedan sitting at the end of a row of vehicles in a large lot. Maddie strained her ears to hear the commentator above the scream of the alarm.
“Thirty minutes ago, a bomb exploded in a car outside San Antonio’s Embassy Suites Airport Hotel.” The female news anchor spoke with a practiced air of concern.
Maddie’s heart rate stalled and then raced. Unless these zeros had made two bombs, she wasn’t the target. That meant a pair of vital things—the innocent residents at Morningside were likely safe, but someone else had already died. Who?
“The Chevrolet Impala was rented yesterday by this man,” the newscaster went on.
The report cut to a grainy security-camera shot of a tall, broad-shouldered figure dressed in a sport shirt and slacks, standing at the Enterprise rental counter of the San Antonio International Airport. The face was blurred, but Maddie’s grip loosened around the butt of the Beretta.
No! She couldn’t be seeing right.
Then a professional head shot of the same dynamic, thirtysomething man filled the 42-inch screen. Larger than life, he grinned at her with perfect teeth. An aquiline nose, tanned complexion and artfully tousled brown hair shouted class and hinted at arrogance. The glint in his eyes and the square of his chin spoke equal parts daring and determination.
A squeak left Maddie’s throat. Lanky Man made a sudden movement, but she leaped back and cocked the gun. He raised his hands in surrender and went still as the newscaster continued speaking words that hammered in Maddie’s brain.
“Christopher David Mason, an Emmy Award-winning reporter for World News, is presumed dead in the blast. The authorities have not yet been able to approach the vehicle to recover the remains. Mason is best known for his award-winning coverage of the massacre along the Rio Grande that occurred one year ago last month. The tragedy claimed the lives of all but himself and one member of an international team of military and law enforcement personnel. The team was scheduled the next day to mount an assault on the main stronghold of the Ortiz drug cartel near Nuevo Laredo, Mexico.”
As the woman eulogized, the vivid blue of Chris’s eyes gripped Maddie, ensnared her. She tumbled into them, helpless. He’d always had that affect on her. To her shame. Guilt twisted her gut. How could she be attracted to a traitor! Someone on the ground with them that night on the Rio had to have betrayed their location to the cartel forces they were supposed to take out the next morning. She knew she didn’t betray her team, so it had to have been Chris. He belonged behind bars. Suffering. Anywhere but in the grave like the others.
“The Ortiz Cartel claimed responsibility for the Rio Grande Massacre,” the newscaster continued. “Today’s fresh tragedy begs the question—have they struck again? And, if so, why? We hope to have more information for our viewers on the late news.”
The program switched to the weather. Hot. Sunny. No rain in sight. Nothing unusual in that forecast for mid-June in Texas, but her world had just turned inside out one more time.
* * *
An hour later, the bomb squad had searched the building and declared all clear. The tenants were released to return to their dwellings, while the tight-lipped suspects were hustled off to jail. Maddie strode toward her first-floor corner apartment.
The cops had been tickled to gain custody of the bombers so quickly after the explosion in the hotel parking lot. It was easy to secure their promise to keep Maddie’s involvement in the arrest confidential. Her reprieve from further scrutiny would be temporary, however. The police had taken her fingerprints for elimination on the gun. When they ran the prints, hopefully not too soon, they’d sit up and take notice that Madison Jameson was really Madeleine Jerrard, former communications specialist with the army ranger unit slaughtered in the Rio Grande Massacre. The link to the freshly murdered Chris Mason would be obvious, and they’d look to bring her in for further questioning, but they wouldn’t find her. Neither would those who wanted her dead.
Maddie reached her apartment, glanced up and down the empty hallway, then slipped inside and shut the door. Normally, this would be the moment in her day when she would strip the band from her ponytail, shake her thick, dusty-blond hair loose around her shoulders and head to the bathroom for a good, long soak in a tub of scented water. Not this evening.
Her head injuries had stolen critical memories of that night along the Rio Grande, but the cartel—or more likely an official in their pocket on this side of the river—thought she’d seen something that would expose them. She’d been on the run since their first attempt on her life barely a week after her release from the military hospital.
Too bad her faceless mortal enemy didn’t know she couldn’t remember whatever it was that might incriminate him. He might not be so set on doing her in then. Of course, a traitor to his country had motive to be hyper-paranoid. He’d probably sign her death warrant regardless, on the off chance that she might remember.
Now they’d tied up another of their other loose ends by taking out one of their accomplices in the very city where she hid, which meant Chris had probably been on the hunt for her and closing in. His killers had recently rented an apartment where she worked and lived. No coincidence there. Her enemies had located her, and their hired goons had intended her to be their next target...if she hadn’t stumbled onto them first through a mix-up in apartment numbers.
Random providence? Or the hand of the God she doubted?
She didn’t have time to seek answers to a spiritual question. As soon as her faceless enemy discovered their boys had been nabbed, they’d maneuver fresh troops into place to finish the job. Maddie’s heart rate slowed, her breathing deepened and her senses sharpened. Even the hum of the refrigerator motor sounded loud in her ears. She’d been in this position before and knew what to do.
She swift-footed to the bedroom, shedding her tool belt on the way and letting it thump to the carpet. In less than a minute, she had removed her jeans, work boots and button-down shirt that made her look like a skinny tomboy and donned a pair of casual capris, pullover top and running shoes with tennis socks that gave her the appearance of any other lean, mean soccer mom in this middle-class neighborhood. Not that she was a mom. Never yet had that chance in her twenty-eight years of life.
From the bread-loaf-size purse on the dresser, she removed all the cash, then went to the closet and tugged a string that looked like it went to a lightbulb but didn’t. A hatch she’d made in the ceiling popped open and dropped a bulging backpack. She caught it, then headed for the bathroom, where she tossed into the pack the emergency makeup kit she kept ready for this moment.
The mirror over the sink betrayed the tension sharpening her rather angular features. Chris was dead? The shock left a vacant cavity in the pit of her stomach. She truly was the only survivor from the massacre on the Rio—but for how long? Tears attempted to pool in the corners of her eyes. She pressed the heels of her palms against her cheekbones then splashed cold water on her face.
Grief would have to wait—like it always did.
Maddie turned on her heel and left the apartment, senses alert for threat.
Two hours later, she descended from the bowels of a metro bus in an industrial district. The bus pulled out with a hiss of air brakes and a spurt of diesel fumes, leaving her standing on the sidewalk.
Her gaze consumed her surroundings. Pedestrians’ activities raised no red flags. The spotty after-hours traffic behaved normally. Everyone seemed to be minding their own business.
Excellent!
She’d spent the past hours switching buses at random until she was reasonably convinced no one followed. The imaginary bull’s-eye between her shoulder blades itched nonetheless. She shrugged her should
ers against the weight of her pack and stepped into the crosswalk. Gathering dusk spread long shadows. Maddie followed hers across the street and into the ground-floor bay of a long-term parking garage.
The pad-pad of her running shoes echoed faintly in the cavernous space. Her gaze searched the dimness as she trod to the fourth level. The place was deserted this time of the evening when everyone had gone home or out on the town. Not even the tick of a cooling engine invaded the quiet emptiness.
Maddie halted within sight of her corner stall, offering swift and unimpeded getaway. The ginger-brown front section of a 1972 Oldsmobile Cutlass coupe poked out from behind its neighboring late-model Sebring. She slipped the pack onto one shoulder and fished her keys from an outside zipper pocket, then pointed the remote control toward the vehicle and pressed a button. The Cutlass purred to life as gentle and unassuming as its appearance. No fireworks.
She exhaled a long breath. They hadn’t found this vehicle. It wasn’t registered to Madison Jameson or Madeleine Jerrard, but she’d learned to be safe rather than sorry with her hunters. Their noses were sharp and their reach was long. She hurried toward the vehicle. The sooner this city faded in her rearview mirror, the better.
The engine revved and the Cutlass sprang forward. Maddie skidded to a halt feet from the grill, bitterness coating her tongue. Someone sat behind the wheel. No way to discern more than a silhouette in the dimness, but whoever it was couldn’t be a friend. She had no more of those.
Maddie whirled and ran. The vehicle followed, and a voice called her full name—her real name. Sure, they’d mock her identity at the end. No bullet for her. Just a hit and run with her own car. A greasy spot on the pavement.
She wasn’t about to let them win that easily. As she ran, her hand dove inside her pack and closed around the handle of a 10 mm Glock pistol. She tossed the pack and disengaged the safety on the pistol.
“Maddie!” the male voice called again. Too familiar. And impossible!
Her racing feet jerked to a halt, and she pivoted on her heel, Glock extended in both hands. The Oldsmobile’s tires locked, and the car skidded toward her. The scent of burnt rubber met Maddie’s nostrils as she leaped up and forward. The vehicle rocked to a halt, bumper covering the spot where she’d been standing. She landed atop the hood on her knees and the knuckles of one fist. The other arm trained the Glock on the driver.
He lifted his hands, palms out, lips pressed into a tight line.
Blood pounded in Maddie’s ears and blackness edged her vision. It was him.
The most gorgeous man on the planet. He was supposed to be dead, but he was alive. She should shoot him.
ISBN: 9781460301289
Copyright © 2013 by Deborah W. Giusti
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com
