Carrie's Protector
Rebecca York
Bodyguard Wyatt Hawk’s new mission is to protect photographer Carrie Mitchell when she testifies about a terrorist plot – instead, an ambush sends them on the run.But saving Carrie from the terrorists was the easy part…because all too soon he finds himself succumbing to Carrie’s seductive allure. Now all he’s left unguarded is his heart.
The moment their lips met, the kiss turned so hot that it could have started a wildfire.
The morning’s adventure had driven both of them to the edge of desperation.
What she needed was to close her eyes and focus on the man who held her in his arms instead of everything else that was happening to her.
He deepened the kiss. She loved the taste of him, the feel of his body, the way he clasped her tightly. She’d been craving this since last night, and the terror of the past few hours had only intensified her emotions.
She forgot where they were, forgot everything except the need to get close to him—as close as two people could get.
About the Author
Award-winning, USA TODAY bestselling novelist Ruth Glick, who writes as REBECCA YORK, is the author of more than one hundred books, including her popular 43 LIGHT STREET series for Mills & Boon
Intrigue. Ruth says she has the best job in the world. Not only does she get paid for telling stories, she’s also an author of twelve cookbooks. Ruth and her husband, Norman, travel frequently, researching locales for her novels and searching out new dishes for her cookbooks.
Carrie’s Protector
Rebecca York
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For two little eagles, E12 and E14,
who met untimely deaths in Decorah, Iowa.
Chapter One
Carrie Mitchell had made the biggest mistake of her life. And if she had it to do all over again, her actions would be exactly the same.
“Ready?” the dark-haired man waiting ramrod straight at the bottom of the stairs asked.
She dragged in a breath and let it out before speaking. “As ready as I’m going to be.”
“Then let’s get it over with.”
He stepped outside and motioned for her to wait as he looked around the exterior of the safe house where she’d been staying for the past week.
Really, the visual inspection was unnecessary, she thought. Nobody could get past the electric fence and the motion detectors, or through the main gate without the proper security codes.
Still, he made her linger inside before motioning her out the door, then led the way toward the black town car they were taking into D.C. The car was bulletproof, a precaution Carrie wished they could have done without. But her father, Douglas Mitchell, was rich enough to make his own rules when it came to his daughter’s safety—or anything else. An ordinary man would have relied on the FBI to protect his only child. Dad wanted an armored car and an elite private security team to keep her safe. The driver was already behind the wheel, a guy named Joe Collins, who was one of the guards who had been with her for the past week.
The man who held the car door open was Wyatt Hawk, the one in charge. Carrie didn’t like him much. Maybe that wasn’t fair, because she couldn’t really say she knew him. He kept himself so closed up that she’d had little chance for an in-depth conversation with him.
He was tall and muscular and good-looking in a kind of tough-guy way that she might have admired from a dis-tance—if she’d had the choice. You could imagine him as the bodyguard for a mob boss, although that wasn’t his background. He was supposed to have retired early from the CIA, but he never talked about his former life.
The other security men at the safe house were much more open about their backgrounds. They were all ex-cops, and they’d been friendly, perhaps to counteract Wyatt’s aloof demeanor. Gary Blain was a black man in his fifties, with a shaved head and broad shoulders. Hank Swinton was around the same age, with a bit of gray invading his sandy hair. And Rodrigo Garcia was a little younger, with classic Hispanic features.
They’d made her feel protected as they’d tried to lighten her isolation. In contrast, Wyatt always had an open book in front of him at the dining table, probably to discourage conversation. One of the few things she knew about him was that he liked World War II spy novels.
She’d joined him a time or two in the basement gym. He’d stuck to his routine of weight machines and hard-driving pumping on the elliptical trainer to the sounds of classic rock.
She never pushed herself as far. For her, exercise wasn’t a religion. It was just a way to keep in reasonable shape so she could crawl around in the woods taking pictures of wildlife.
Which was how she’d gotten into the worst trouble of her life.
Last Thursday she’d been practicing her profession, happily eavesdropping on an eagles’ nest in D.C.’s Rock Creek Park, the sprawling wooded area that ran through the northwest section of the city. She’d been using her telephoto lens to capture the family life of the parents and their two babies, photographing them off and on since before they’d hatched.
The photos were to illustrate a piece she was doing for Wildlife Magazine on raptors in urban areas.
She was creeping through the underbrush out of sight of the eagles’ eighty-foot-high, thousand-pound nest when she spotted three young Midwestern-looking men in jeans and T-shirts in a nearby picnic area.
She could see they hadn’t come for a meal. They were sitting at one of the tree-shaded wooden tables, speaking in low voices. Two of them were chain-smoking and littering the ground with the spent butts. Every so often, one of them would look around nervously.
At first she’d paid them only minimal attention. Then, as she moved to get a different angle on the nest, she started to get the gist of their conversation, and the back of her neck began to tingle.
She heard the words bomb, Capitol Police and best place to inflict maximum damage. Her heart was pounding as she swiveled cautiously in her hidden position, switching her camera’s focus from the eagles’ nest to the men. After taking their pictures, she wanted to flee, yet she knew that just their faces might not be enough to identify them. Her every move stealthy, she made her way back toward the road, intent on getting their license plates, as well. Her own car was parked on the other side of the picnic area, because it was a better approach to the eagles’ nest.
Finally she was on the verge of pressing her luck too far. The men were still talking as she circled back the way she’d come, knowing she’d better get out of the woods before they spotted her.
But she realized it was already too late when she heard a shout of alarm.
“Hey, somebody’s spying on us.”
Her heart in her throat, she started running flat out for her car, hearing the crack of twigs and the rustle of underbrush behind her. She fumbled in her bag for the car remote, clicking the lock as she pelted through the woods.
She was only seconds ahead of them as she jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. As she pulled away, she heard the sound of gunfire.
The back window and a taillight shattered as she sped away. But she made it onto Military Road and out of the park, and they didn’t pick up her trail because they’d had to double back and circle around to get to the other parking area. She’d made it to the nearest police station, and the rest was history.
Her attention snapped back to the present when Wyatt spoke.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“The Federal prosecutor has the pictures you took of the men. All you have to do is tell him exactly what you heard and exactly what happened.”
“Then I suppose I’ll have to show up in court for Bobby Thompson’s trial.” He was the only one of the men who had been identified and arrested. He was locked up in a maximumsecurity facility while the others were still at large.
“Not for months.”
“Does that mean we’re going to be together for months?” she asked, sorry she couldn’t keep the snappish tone out of her voice.
“NOT NECESSARILY,” WYATT ANSWERED. Not if he could help it. He wanted out of this situation, but not until he got a suitable replacement.
He slid Carrie a sidewise glance, noting the way she was twisting her fingers together in her lap. He wanted to reach over and press his hand over hers, but he kept his arms at his sides because he knew that touching her was a bad idea.
His gaze traveled to her short-cropped dark hair. When they’d first met, it had been long and blond, but he’d made her cut and dye it—to change her appearance. She hadn’t liked it, but she’d done it—then refused contact lenses that would change her blue eyes to brown. And there was no way to disguise her high cheekbones, cute little nose or appealing lips. She was still a very attractive woman, even with the change in her hair and the nondescript clothing he’d purchased for her. As they rode into town, she looked like a Federal employee who’d come in on a Saturday to catch up on her work.
They made the rest of the trip into the District in silence, a silence he’d tried to maintain since he’d first met her. She probably thought he didn’t like her. The problem was just the opposite. He liked her a lot. She had courage and determination, and she wasn’t like a lot of rich women who thought that the world owed them special consideration. She was hardworking, smart and good at her job. She had all the qualities he admired in a woman, which was why he couldn’t allow himself to get close to her.
To his relief, the long ride was almost over. At least they wouldn’t be confined to the backseat of a car for much longer. While she talked with the prosecutor, he could wait in the reception area.
“The building’s just ahead,” he said in a low voice, breaking the silence inside the sedan.
Beside him Carrie sighed. “I guess the sooner I get this over with, the sooner I get my life back.”
“Makes sense,” he answered, wondering if she ever would get her life back. Would she ever feel safe again tramping around in the woods by herself, photographing the subjects she loved to capture in their natural environment? For just a moment he pictured himself going on those expeditions with her, carrying her equipment, making sure that nobody got out of line with her and no wild animals attacked her. Then he ruthlessly cut off that avenue of thought before it could go any further. He and Carrie Mitchell were from two different worlds. She had had every advantage growing up. She could have lived off her dad for the rest of her life, but she was trying to make a name for herself in a difficult profession. He was an ex-spook who came from a family in Alexandria, Virginia, that was barely making it. His dad drove a cab. His mom was a waitress, and he’d known he wanted a different life, which was why he’d joined the army and then the CIA. He’d seen a lot of the world, but he was home now and working private security. And even if their backgrounds matched better, he was too damaged to even think about a relationship with someone like her—or anyone else, for that matter.
They were meeting Skip Gunderson, the Federal prosecutor, in a yellow-brick government building as nondescript as Carrie’s clothing. Five stories tall, with a security barrier at the entrance. As a precaution, it wasn’t the building where Gunderson normally worked. The meeting was at another facility that was off the radar of the D.C. press corps.
That was one of the unfortunate aspects of this whole situation. Although Carrie’s identity was supposed to be confidential, somehow a cable news reporter had gotten wind of her name. Now everyone and his brother knew that she was the woman who had foiled a major terrorist plot. At least they hadn’t been able to ferret out the location of the safe house where she was staying. Or photograph her disguise—he hoped.
“Showtime,” Carrie murmured, as the big car made a right turn and pulled up at the metal stanchions that blocked the entrance to an underground garage. Next to the barrier was a guardhouse, where a man in a blue uniform and policetype cap stood as if he had an iron pipe rammed up his butt. Wyatt watched him. Usually these guys were relaxed, but the guard’s posture pegged him as being on edge.
As their car stopped, he stepped out.
Wyatt hadn’t seen him before, but then, he hadn’t seen a lot of the men assigned to security duty at this place.
“Identification, please,” the guard said to Joe Collins, the driver, who rolled down his window and reached into his pocket for the papers.
Wyatt had heard the request every time they’d arrived here, yet today something was just a bit off—perhaps the hint of edginess in the man’s voice or the way he had his cap pulled down low. That thought had barely crossed Wyatt’s mind when the man raised his arm, aiming an automatic pistol toward the open window of the car.
Acting on instinct and experience, Wyatt pushed Carrie down, blocking her body with his as he pulled out his own weapon and wrenched himself around to face the guard.
He was a split second too late to prevent disaster.
Joe went down in a spray of blood. Wyatt fired at the bogus guard, striking him in the chest and knocking him backward into the glass booth. But undoubtedly, he wasn’t the only threat. Before the man hit the ground, Wyatt lunged across the car and opened the opposite door, pushing Carrie out ahead of him.
She gasped as she came down on the hard cement of the driveway.
“Sorry. We’ve got to get the hell out of here, but not onto the street.”
Looking up, he confirmed that assessment as he saw eight armed men racing down the driveway toward them—men who didn’t look like cops or security guards.
Carrie followed his gaze, gasping as she took in the situation.
Grabbing her hand, he helped her up, leading her toward the right and behind a row of cars in the garage, giving them some cover. But he was badly outnumbered and outgunned. He wasn’t going to shoot it out with these guys in the garage if he could help it.
“This way.”
He’d studied the layout of the building, and he hurried her along the wall and around a corner to a service door and was relieved to find it unlocked.
“We have to call the police,” she whispered when the door closed behind them.
“No. We can’t trust the police or anyone else. Somebody gave up the meeting.”
As he spoke, he considered their options. Going down would trap them in the lower floors of the garage. Which left only one alternative.
“We’re going up.”
They had just reached the third level when Wyatt heard gunfire blasting below.
He led Carrie through a door into the building, then pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed the safe house.
Gary Blain answered. “Wyatt? Is something wrong?”
“Yeah. We’re in the building where Carrie was supposed to meet the prosecutor. Somehow the terrorists knew we were coming.”
“Is she all right?”
“Yes. But there are shooters in here.”
“Where are you?”
“Near the south stairwell. Armed men were blocking the garage entrance. Can you pick us up on the roof?”
“Negative. Unless we get clearance for a helo flight into D.C.”
Wyatt answered with a curse.
A burst of gunfire from below interrupted the conversation.
“Gotta go.”
He led Carrie down the hall to another stairwell then up two more levels. He was pretty sure the attackers had thought they’d get him and Carrie in the garage, which meant they probably hadn’t stationed anyone up here. Yet.
Cautiously he opened the door and looked out into the hallway. Nothing was moving—particularly the dead body lying in a pool of blood in the center of the tile floor.
When he hesitated, Carrie pressed against his back and looked over his shoulder.
“Oh, God,” she breathed as she gazed at Skip Gunderson, the Federal prosecutor she’d been coming to meet.
“We can’t stay here,” Wyatt said.
But when he glanced back at Carrie, he saw the blood had drained from her face and she had gone stock-still.
“Carrie!”
Her gaze stayed on Gunderson. “We have to…” she whispered.
He gripped her arm, squeezing hard. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing you can do for him now.”
When she still didn’t move, he tugged on her arm. “Come on. Before we end up the same way.”
He watched her expression harden as she shook herself into action and let him lead her down the hall, although she kept looking back.
“This is my fault,” she said, as he tried to determine the best place to hide.
“You’re not responsible.”
She made a snorting sound. “Of course I am. He was here to meet me.”
“Because he was doing his job. Maybe you should blame the building security for letting terrorists in here. Or whoever leaked the meeting information.”
He hurried Carrie down the hall, opening doors as they went. Most led to small offices, but one was larger, which had the potential for more hiding places. He stepped inside, looking around. The blinds were partially closed, which would give them more cover. Crouching behind the broad wooden desk was too obvious, but a bank of storage cabinets blocked the view from the door.
“Get back there.”
“What about you?”
“I’m coming.”
Carrie hesitated, then crossed the room and wedged herself into the corner. Crossing to the desk, he opened drawers, looking for anything useful. When he found a box of pushpins, he threw them onto the polished tile floor, watching them scatter. Then he crossed to the cabinets and stepped in front of Carrie, gun drawn.
Of course, if he had to shoot, he’d alert every terrorist in the building.
As he pressed his back to her front, he could feel the tension humming through her.
“Wyatt?”
“I’m here to make sure you get out of this.” He wanted to turn around and take her in his arms. He wanted to stroke her back and hair to comfort her, but he knew that facing the enemy was more important than giving her reassurances.
Down the hall, Wyatt could hear rapid footsteps and doors opening and slamming shut again. When the door to the office where they were hiding opened, every muscle in his body tensed. He saw a shadow flicker on the wall—the shadow of a man holding a machine gun. The guy stood still for a moment, then started across the tile floor toward their hiding place.
Chapter Two
Wyatt waited, his body coiled for action.
In a couple of seconds, if the trap he’d set didn’t work, the invader was going to spot them—and shoot. But before he reached their hiding place, the man stepped on the pushpins and lost his footing.
Wyatt sprang around the corner, reaching for the guy’s gun arm and pulling him forward across the slippery surface. Off balance from the pins and the man yanking on his arm, the gunman scrambled to stay upright while he tried to get his weapon into firing position. Before he could do either, Wyatt kicked him square in the back, sending him sprawling on the tile floor, yelping as the sharp points of the pins dug into his hands and face.
He was a blond guy, young and muscular, and totally unprepared to be attacked by the quarry he was hunting.
Wyatt was on him as he went down. As the guy struggled to respond to the changed circumstances, Wyatt raised his own weapon and bashed the terrorist over the head with the gun butt. The man went still.
“Cover him,” he told Carrie, handing her his Sig while he looked for something to tie the guy up.
She held the weapon in a two-handed grip. He noted that she was savvy enough to stand a couple of yards away so that the man couldn’t grab her leg if he came to and went into attack mode.
Wyatt’s glance raked the desk. Grabbing the phone, he yanked the cord from the wall, then disconnected the cord from the phone to the receiver.
While Carrie kept the gun trained on the guy, Wyatt tied him up using both cords. When he was finished, he took a closer look at the terrorist’s appearance. Definitely not from the Middle East. In fact, he looked like a typical Midwestern farmer with sunburned skin, blond hair and pleasantenough features.
“You know him?” Wyatt asked. “Was he one of the men in the park?”
“No,” Carrie answered.
“Well, that’s a clue to the scope of the organization. Looks like the initial three you spotted in the park weren’t the only ones involved in the plot.”
She nodded.
As Blondie started to stir, Wyatt took back the gun while he debated what to do.
The man’s eyes blinked open. When he tried to move and found that his hands and feet were secured, he swung his murderous gaze from Wyatt to Carrie and back again. Carrie recoiled, but Wyatt ignored the threatening scowl. “How many men are in the building?”
“Enough to kill you and the bitch.”
“I don’t think so.” He wanted to ask how the terrorists had discovered the time and location of Carrie’s meeting with the Federal prosecutor, but he knew that would only be a waste of time.
The guy smirked at him. “You won’t get out of here alive. And once you’re dead, there won’t be anyone to testify against Bobby.”
“They have the pictures she took of your meeting.”
“So what? In this day and age, they could be faked. And—”
To stave off another smart remark, Wyatt bashed him on the head again, and he went still.
Carrie made a low, distressed sound. “Why did you do that?”
“Don’t tell me you wanted to keep listening to his line of crap?”
“No.”
Wyatt found packing tape in one of the desk drawers, and wound it around the guy’s head and over his mouth so he couldn’t call for help. Then he pulled him behind the desk.
“It looked like you handled my gun all right,” he remarked.
“Yes. My father made sure I was able to protect myself.”
“Good.”
He handed her his automatic and took the terrorist’s weapon for himself before crossing to the door and looking out. The hall was clear. But they’d come back when they realized their buddy was missing.
Wyatt led the way, and they sprinted to the end of the hall and into another office.
He locked the door, even knowing it would be a dead giveaway to their position. At least it would buy them a few seconds if somebody tried to get in.
“Up here the windows open. We can get out,” he told Carrie.
“Five stories up?”
“There are step-back roofs.” He hurried to the window and slid the glass open.
Carrie looked out, seeing the roof below them. “It’s pretty far.”
“Not if you lower yourself by your hands. I’ll go first.”
She kept her gaze on him. “You’re all business. All the time. I should be thankful for that.”
He bit back a retort. There was no time for anything but escape from a building that had turned into a death trap.
He slung the weapon over his shoulder, then climbed out the window and lowered himself, thankful that he was in good shape.
Controlling his descent, he eased down the wall, then let himself drop the four feet to the gravel surface of the roof below. Turning, he held up his arms to Carrie.
She shook her head. “I can’t do that.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll catch you. Hurry, before they find us.”
She stuffed the gun into her shoulder bag, which she wrapped across her chest, then maneuvered herself out the window. Turning around, she lowered herself until her body was dangling from the frame. But her grip wasn’t strong enough, and she fell. Wyatt was there to catch her, taking her weight as she came hurtling down.
They both wavered on their feet, then he steadied them.
“Thanks,” she said.
“We’ve got to do that again.”
She made a strangled sound but followed him to the edge of the roof. Again he went first, lowering himself to his full length, then dropping six feet to the roof below.
When he turned and glanced up, he saw Carrie watching him. She looked as if she wanted to protest; instead, she grimly climbed over the edge and lowered herself by her arms. This time she must have made a concerted effort to control her descent. She didn’t let go until her full length was dangling from the edge. Again he caught her and staggered back, almost losing his balance. But he stayed on his feet, then went to check the next drop-off point.
A scuffling sound made him whirl around. He saw that Carrie had turned and was holding the pistol he’d given her in two hands—pointed at a man who was looking over the edge of the roof above, his weapon aimed downward.
Carrie fired, hitting the would-be assassin in the arm. Before he could recover, Wyatt delivered a chest shot, and the man went down, toppling over the edge and landing on the gravel surface a few yards from where they stood.
Carrie gasped as she stared at the body.
Wyatt hurried back to her, catching her look of horror as she realized what she’d done.
“I…I think he couldn’t believe a woman had the guts to fire at him.”
“His mistake,” Wyatt said in a gritty voice. “Thank God you did.”
She stood rigidly, and he reached for her hand.
“Gotta go.”
At his touch, she shook herself into action, and he hustled her to the edge of the roof. This time there was a bonus feature: a ladder leading down to ground level.
Wyatt sent Carrie down first, alternately covering her descent and checking for more pursuers on the roof above. When he joined her, she was shaking, and he knew she was still reacting to what had happened.
“I shot a man,” she whispered as though she were just now taking it in.
He pulled her toward him, at the same time easing her against the side of the building where it would be harder for anyone looking down from above to see them. Wrapping his arms around her, he held her close. “You shot in self-defense. He was going to kill you.”
“It’s not like shooting at a target.”
He didn’t point out that he’d fired the kill shot. Or that he’d killed a lot more men. This was no time for a philosophical discussion on the morality of protecting oneself.
She let her head drop to his shoulder, clinging to him, and he cradled her against himself, breathing in her scent, absorbing the curves of her slender body before easing away.
“We can’t stay here. Another one of them could come across the roof at any minute. And there’s a big clue up there about which way we went.”
She shuddered, then looked around. “Why didn’t we see any cops?”
“They may not know about it yet.”
While he’d been holding her, he’d been thinking about escape routes. Before coming down to the government building with her today, he’d scouted out the area around the building as well as the interior, and he was mentally plotting a route that would get them onto the city streets.
He looked up one more time, scanning the roofline for terrorists before leading Carrie away from the building, toward a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. He was wondering how they were going to get over it when he saw that the lock on the gate was broken and the barrier was open a crack.
“This must be how they were going to get away,” he muttered as he pushed the gate farther open.
She nodded, following him through and into an alley.
He looked at the assault rifle in his hand. “I guess I can’t take this out onto the street.” First he used his shirt to wipe off his fingerprints. Then he set the weapon on the ground before hustling Carrie along the alley.
When they had turned a corner, putting another building between them and the scene of carnage, he called the safe house.
Gary Blain answered again. “Wyatt?”
“Yes. We got out of there. We’re coming back. We won’t have the town car.”
“Thank God you’re okay.” He paused. “What about Collins?”
“He didn’t make it.”
Gary absorbed that bit of bad news, then asked, “What are you going to do for transportation?”
“There’s a Zipcar agency a couple of blocks away. We can rent one of those.”
“Be careful down there, man.”
“I always am.”
When he hung up, Carrie looked at him. “What’s a Zipcar?”
“Cars you can rent by the hour. Like bicycles in Europe.”
“I didn’t know about that, either.”
Probably a function of her living in a million-dollar condo in Columbia Heights with a spectacular view of the city. He was tempted to say something about her dad’s money making it unnecessary for her to rent anything, but he decided there was no point in needling her. Not after they’d narrowly escaped getting killed—and after he’d seen what she was made of. He’d known she had the guts to turn in men plotting against the U.S. government. He hadn’t known the rest.
“Are you going to call the police now?” she asked, breaking into his thoughts.
“We still can’t trust them. We still don’t have a handle on how those guys found out about your meeting. For all we know, the terrorists have a spy in the D.C. police department.”
She winced. “How would that be possible?”
“It just takes one bad cop who wants to supplement his income.”
“But he’d know he’d be setting us up to get killed.”
“Some people will do just about anything for money. Do you know how many people got killed because Aldrich Ames, that turncoat in the CIA, blew their cover?”
“I don’t know the exact number, but I get your point.”
“Which means I’m not taking any chances,” he answered as he led her down Tenth Street to the storefront with the Zipcar office.
The blond young man behind the counter, wearing a dress shirt and tie, looked up as they stepped in.
“We’d like a vehicle with four-wheel drive,” Wyatt said. Carrie looked surprised but said nothing.
“How long will you be needing it?”
“At least a day.”
“There will be extra charges if you turn it in later.”
“Understood.”
“Driver’s license?”
Beside him Carrie tensed. He touched her arm reassuringly, then dug into his wallet and pulled out an alternate ID.
He handed over a license that said he was Will Hanks.
The clerk filled out the paperwork, and they were out of the office and on the road in less than fifteen minutes.
Carrie sank into the passenger seat of the Chevy Equinox, leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes. He watched her take a few moments to catch her breath before she turned to him. “You always carry fake ID?”
“Yeah.” His gaze alternated between her and the road. “You did good back there.”
“What choice did I have?”
“A lot of people would have gone to pieces or frozen up when the crap hit the fan. You didn’t.”
She huffed out a breath. “I guess I didn’t go to pieces when I spotted those guys in the park, either.”
“True.”
She made a snorting sound. “One minute I was taking pictures of a happy little eagle family. Then I was in the middle of an action-adventure movie.”
“More real than 3-D.”
“Yeah. When they shoot at you in a 3-D movie, you can’t get killed.”
He turned onto Connecticut Avenue and took that route toward the suburbs.
“Why did you get a four-wheel-drive car?” she asked.
“We might not be going in the front entrance to the safe house,” he answered, then switched the subject. “I want to find out who ratted you out. Who knew about your meeting downtown?”
She sighed. “I did discuss it with my dad because he wanted to stay informed.”
“He asked me questions about the meeting, too.”
She turned her head toward him. “But he wouldn’t tell anyone. He doesn’t even trust the government. He hired you and your team because he wanted to keep me safe.”
Wyatt nodded. “Other people are at his house. Someone might have heard.”
“No one there would set me up like that.”
Although Wyatt heard the note of conviction in her voice, he wasn’t so sure. He’d be the judge of who might have betrayed Carrie. Right now, though, his primary goal was to get her back to safety, and he needed to make sure nobody was on their tail.
He wanted to speed back to the safe house, but he allowed himself to go no faster than five miles above the speed limit as he watched the rearview mirror for any signs that they were being followed. He saw none.
Pulling out his phone again, he dialed the secure number. This time he waited eight rings, but nobody picked up. A very bad sign.
Instead of leaving a message, he clicked off.
“What?” she asked.
“Nobody answered.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t like it.”
They were on a secondary road that led through the rolling Maryland countryside. As he’d suggested he might do, he turned off onto a dirt track that circled the safe-house property, staying on the alert for signs of trouble.
“What are you doing?”
He gave her a quick look. “I’m not taking you in there until I know everything’s all right.”
“It’s supposed to be secure. That’s why it’s called a safe house.”
“And right now the vibes are all wrong.”
“Then why are we going back at all?”
“A couple of reasons. There’s equipment in there that I need. And the rest of the team could be in trouble.”
THE NEWS OF the ambush at the Federal Building had hit the cable channels. Tuned in to the CNN broadcast, the watcher felt anger flare up. A lot of money had crossed hands—for results—and now it looked as though everything was going to hell in a handbasket.
After clicking off the TV, the individual walked down the hall, stepped into a darkened bedroom and dialed a cell phone number, hand tightening on the phone while waiting for someone on the other end of the line to pick up.
“Yes?”
The caller spoke in a low, steady voice, working hard to hold back screams. “What the hell is going on?”
“A glitch.”
“You call that a glitch? The attack on the Federal Building has hit all the major news stations. The only bodies they found were that Federal prosecutor—what’s his name—Skip Gunderson? And two of your guys. I assume that means the agent and the girl got away.”
“Yeah. A real screwup.”
“There better not be any blowback.”
“The dead guys won’t talk. And we got the rest of our men out before anyone else showed up.”
“How did you make such a mess of a simple assignment?”
“You neglected to tell us how good Wyatt Hawk is.”
“I’m as surprised as you are.” The caller made a throatclearing noise. “Where are Hawk and the girl?” Maybe that news would be better.
“We don’t know for certain. We figure they’ll come back to the safe house. We can get them there.”
“You’re sure?”
“It’s a good bet.”
“What if that doesn’t work out?”
“We go to plan B.”
“That’s just perfect.”
Before the caller could ask another question, the man on the other end of the line hung up, leaving nothing but dead air.
The caller had thought of a foolproof scheme. Apparently, that held true only if you weren’t working with morons. More proof that if you wanted something done right, you’d better do it yourself. Too bad it took special training to handle this job.
FIFTY MINUTES AFTER leaving the Zipcar office, Wyatt pulled the Chevy Equinox into the woods, torn between bad and worse alternatives. He could leave Carrie in the car or hiding in the underbrush while he went in to find out what was going on at the hideout. Unfortunately, that would mean she was vulnerable if someone was lurking nearby. Or he could take her with him, which would expose her to whatever danger might be waiting ahead.
He made a decision and turned toward Carrie. “I don’t want to leave you here unprotected. We’re going to approach the house from the right side. I want you to stay behind me, and do exactly what I say. If I tell you to hit the deck, you do it.” His gaze burned into hers. “Got that?”
“Yes.”
“Wait in the car until I signal you to get out.”
She answered with a tight nod.
Hoping he could count on her not to freeze up, he climbed out of the vehicle and checked the area before motioning for her to follow.
As they approached the property line, they came in low, making themselves as small a target as possible. The first real evidence that something was wrong hit Wyatt when they reached the electric fence. He threw a stone at it and was only half surprised to find that it was no longer working. Somehow the current to the wires had been disrupted.
He threw another stone, then took a chance and crept forward to touch the fence. Nothing happened. Dead as a drowned rat.
Again he considered leaving Carrie but decided against the tactic.
He was able to lift the wire fence and scoot under, then hold it for her.
She came up beside him, her gaze focused on the house.
“It’s quiet,” she whispered.
“Too quiet. You might think we’d hear the TV. Or guys talking.”
Too bad he didn’t have a pair of binoculars. But he hadn’t anticipated the need to spy on a facility that had been perfectly safe when they’d left.
His instincts warned him to turn around and get the hell out of there, but he couldn’t do it. Not when he felt an obligation to the men who’d taken this assignment with him. What if they were injured? Or being held under threat of death?
“Stay low,” he whispered.
Carrie did as he’d asked.
Taking his time, he moved forward until they came to the flat stretch, where the fields for a hundred yards around the structure had been cleared to make it difficult for anyone to sneak up on the safe house. Great planning when you were on the inside, but not so advantageous if you were trying to get close to the house.
Unfortunately, he found he didn’t have to get close to understand what had happened. The evidence was big as life and twice as plain—a body lying sprawled across the back steps.
Chapter Three
Carrie heard Wyatt mutter a curse.
Alarmed, she followed the direction of his gaze.
From her hiding place, she saw a dark-skinned man with a shaved head lying at the bottom of the back steps, his arms spread and a gun still clutched in his hand. As she realized who it was, her chest constricted painfully. The man was Gary Blain, one of the bodyguards who’d gone out of his way to be nice to her during guard duty. It looked as though he’d been trying to get away when he’d been gunned down.
She choked back a sob. Another casualty. On her account. “No.”
Wyatt put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her against his side, and she turned toward him, closing her eyes and pressing her forehead against his chest.
“Well, we know why he didn’t answer the phone,” he said in a raspy voice.
“What about the rest of them?”
“We’ve got to assume they’re dead, too. Probably in the house. And Gary almost got away.”
“My fault—again,” she whispered.
“No. The bastards are determined to get you. When we escaped from the Federal Building, they probably came here. Or maybe they sent a team here as a precaution in case we got out of the trap they’d set.”
“How did they know about this place?”
“Obviously, somebody gave away this location.”
“Could they have followed you? I mean, sometime earlier?”
“I don’t think so,” he answered, but she heard the tiny note of doubt in his voice. Still, he continued, “We have to assume it’s the same person who told them about your meeting this morning.”
Carrie fought the sick feeling rising in her throat. Death and destruction were following close on her heels. It was hard to imagine everything that had happened today and harder still to believe that someone was deliberately trying to kill her. But apparently, that was what happened when you ratted on terrorists.
“What are we going to do?” she murmured.
“For starters, thank God that we didn’t go charging in there.”
“You mean thank your instincts.”
“Whatever,” he answered dismissively. “We’d better get the hell back to the car before somebody spots us.”
Even as he spoke, it was already too late. Lookouts must have been stationed in all directions, because in the next second, gunfire erupted from inside the house, and men charged outside, sprinting in their direction.
Wyatt grabbed Carrie’s hand, leading her back the way they’d come, heading for the screen of trees. Behind them she heard running feet closing the gap.
Lord, no.
“On my own turf, I’ve got a little surprise to slow them down,” he said. He reached into his pocket, pulling out something that looked like a cell phone. As they ran, he pressed a series of buttons. In back of them, small explosions began to erupt from the grass, sending sprays of dirt and stones into the air.
She heard a loud curse, as someone behind them took a hit.
The explosions continued, but Wyatt didn’t slow his pace, so she kept running beside him, her lungs burning as she struggled to keep up with him.
She was beginning to think they were in the clear when the gunfire stopped. But after the last explosion, she heard a sound that made the hair on her arms prickle. Someone must have escaped Wyatt’s trap and he was pounding along behind them.
At first the thuds were faint. Whoever was back there had lost ground because of the charges, but he was catching up, and now he began shooting as he went.
Wyatt whirled and returned fire, but his weapon was no match for his opponent’s. Unfortunately, they were still a long way from the electric fence and the car, and she could hear the pursuer steadily gaining on them.
She glanced at Wyatt, seeing the grim set of his jaw. Apparently, he didn’t think they were going to make it to the fence.
When they came to a place where the land had been contoured into several small hills and valleys, Wyatt stopped.
“Get down. And stay down, no matter what happens.”
She remembered when she hadn’t liked Wyatt. Now she obeyed his orders without question, because she knew that was the only way she was getting out of this trap alive.
Dropping behind a hillock, she dragged in great gasps of air and pressed her hand against her side, her gaze fixed on the man who was charging toward them, firing his weapon as he ran.
She ducked and slung her arms over her head, as if that would stop a bullet. Her heart was pounding as she waited for Wyatt to drop the guy. But in the next moment, Wyatt made a strangled sound and fell back against the ground.
Carrie felt her heart stop. He’d been hit!
With a whoop of victory, the gunman closed the last few yards between them and swung his weapon toward her, taking a long moment to meet her terrified gaze.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
But Wyatt obviously had no intention of letting her get murdered. He leaped from behind the mound and shot the guy in the back at point-blank range. The attacker went down with a gasp of surprise.
Wyatt charged toward her, snatching the assault rifle from the man’s grasp.
“Why didn’t you shoot him before he got so close?” she gasped as she stared at the terrorist. He was another perfectly normal-looking young man. If you saw him on the street, you never would have known what was in his mind.
“Because I only had one bullet left, and it had to count,” Wyatt answered.
He turned to look back the way they’d come, and she followed his gaze toward the bodies of two men sprawled in the field. Neither was moving.
“Are they dead?”
“We can’t go back to find out. Come on. Before another one comes after us,” he said.
Reaching down a hand, he helped her up. She swayed on her feet for a moment. Then they ran back toward where they’d left the car. She was out of breath when they reached the fence, and he held it up for her. She dived beneath the wires, and he followed.
They made it to the vehicle, and she allowed relief to flood through her as she climbed in and locked the door. Wyatt shoved the weapon he’d appropriated onto the floor between his seat and the console, then turned the ignition and slammed the shift into Drive, speeding away before any other terrorists could figure out what had gone wrong with their foolproof plan.
She sat for a few moments gripping the edges of her seat, willing her heart to stop pounding and her breath to slow. Against all odds, they had gotten away again. Thanks to the man beside her.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Then she remembered the sound he had made as the terrorist was charging toward them. When she opened her eyes and swung her gaze to the left, she saw the blood oozing through the fabric of his shirt.
“You really are hit,” she gasped out. “You weren’t just pretending to get his attention.”
“It’s not bad.”
“How do you know?”
“I can move my arm all right. I can drive. The bone’s not broken.”
“You have to—”
“—get us the hell out of here before they figure out which way we went.”
She saw the set of his jaw as he kept driving along the narrow country road, watched him grimace when he had to turn the wheel, putting distance between them and the safe house that was no longer a refuge.
She wanted to ask what they were going to do now, but she was sure he’d tell her when he figured it out. It was amazing how much her thinking had changed in the past few hours. She’d thought Wyatt was a grim lone wolf, and she had wondered why her father had hired him. Now she understood that he was the best man for the job. Maybe the only man. Could anyone else have saved her life so many times today?
She heard him curse under his breath, and alarm shot through her.
Jerking upright, she looked in all directions but saw no suspicious cars.
“What?”
“I shouldn’t have gone back there,” he muttered, and she knew he was blaming himself for the latest shoot-out.
“You had your reasons.”
“They were a mistake.”
He clenched his teeth, and she could tell he was fighting the pain in his arm. If she’d known where they were going, she would have ordered him to let her drive, but the safe house was in an isolated part of the county, accessible only from a series of narrow, winding roads, an area she barely knew.
All she could do was divide her attention between their surroundings and Wyatt, watching the sinister red patch on his sleeve grow bigger as he drove.
He saw her watching him. “It’s not an artery.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I’d already be dead if it were.”
She made a snorting sound.
He kept driving, clenching his teeth every time he made a turn and checking the rearview mirror frequently to make sure they weren’t being followed. When signs of civilization began appearing, he slowed his speed. Finally they approached a strip mall, and he pulled into the parking lot of a drugstore, finding a spot near the door. “I’m going to stay here. Can you go in and get a few things?”
“Of course.”
“I need gauze pads, antiseptic, adhesive tape, and if they have men’s shirts, get me something I can wear that’s not bloodstained.”
She nodded and climbed out, looking around to make sure nobody was paying any attention.
Inside, she grabbed a shopping cart and took a moment to orient herself, then headed for the first-aid section. She found the required items and added a bottle of painkillers, a bottle of water and a roll of paper towels. Then she went to the clothing department. It wasn’t large, but she did find a long-sleeved, button-down-the-front sports shirt that looked as if it would fit Wyatt.
At the cash register, she started to reach for her credit card, then remembered a credit transaction could be traced. Instead, she paid in cash and hurried back to the car. Wyatt was sitting with his head thrown back and his eyes closed. They snapped open, and his hand went to the gun when she opened the passenger door. When he realized it was her, he relaxed.
He’d gotten them to the shopping center, but now his skin was gray and covered with perspiration. He was in shock.
“You’re not in any shape to drive,” she said.
She expected an argument, but he got out of the car and walked unsteadily to her side. She switched places with him, then drove around the back of the shopping center.
He stared around in surprise. “What are you doing?”
“Having a look at your arm.”
The strip mall backed up onto a wooded area, and she drove to the side of the blacktop, parking under some lowhanging maple trees.
“Let me get my shirt off.”
He heaved himself up and climbed out, where he stood studying the area. When he established that they were alone, he started unbuttoning his shirt. She could see that moving his arm was hurting him.
Joining him, she said, “Let me.”
Standing in front of him, she began working the buttons, exposing his broad chest, which was covered with a dark mat of hair and what looked like an old scar.
“What happened to you?” she asked as she gently touched the scar.
“I was in a war zone,” he clipped out, telling her by his tone that he wanted her to drop the subject.
Pressing her lips together, she tried not to focus on his buff physique as she helped him take his good arm out of his sleeve, then gathered up the fabric so that she could ease the other sleeve down his arm. The blood had already stuck the fabric to his skin, and he made a small sound as she peeled the shirt away. There was a trash can nearby. Balling up the shirt, she started toward it.
He stopped her with a firm command. “No. I don’t want any evidence left around here.”
“Oh, right.”
He walked back to the passenger seat and sat down heavily, giving her access to the arm. Gingerly, she examined the wound. It looked as if the bullet had torn a path across his skin, leaving a deep canyon in his flesh.
He turned his head and inspected the track. “It’s not bad. Which is good, because spending time in an emergency room could be dangerous.”
“Why?”
“That’s a logical place to look for me.”
“How would they know you were hurt?”
“I left some blood on the ground.”
She made a low sound. She had been so wound up with getting away that she hadn’t even noticed.
After opening the paper towels, she pulled a couple off, wadded them up and wet them with the water, then gingerly wiped at the dried blood on his arm, being careful not to start the wound bleeding again.
She’d barely spoken to the man in the week she’d been with him. In the space of a few hours, she’d gotten to know him a lot better. Now she felt the intimacy of this encounter. He was half-naked, and she was tending to him with handson closeness. She might have tried to speed through the first aid. Instead, the situation made her want to linger. Too bad they were parked in the back of a shopping center, a location that wasn’t exactly private.
“How did my father happen to hire you?” she asked.
“He was looking for someone to guard you, and he got a recommendation from one of my former bosses at the CIA. I guess he liked what he heard.”
“You quit the Agency?”
“I got into a situation in Greece.”
“What kind of situation?”
“I got my partner killed,” he snapped.
“It probably was as much his fault as yours.”
“Her.”
“Oh.”
“I should have known better than to get involved with her.” The way he said it told her this was another subject he didn’t want to talk about. She wouldn’t press him. Not now when he was injured, although she couldn’t help wondering what had happened.
She opened the bottle of antiseptic. “This may sting.”
He answered with a tight nod.
She poured the clear liquid onto his arm, hearing him wince as it pooled in the wound.
When she was satisfied that she’d cleaned it well, she taped on the gauze pads.
Next came the shirt, which she pulled out of the bag and unbuttoned. Reversing the process, she helped him get his arms through the sleeves, which turned out to be about an inch too short, so she left the cuffs unbuttoned.
Before she finished, a blast from a car horn startled her, making her lose her balance and fall forward, pressing her breasts against Wyatt’s face. Quickly she pushed herself away. Turning, she saw a white Jeep with an orange dome light on top. A middle-aged man in a security guard’s uniform was leaning out the driver’s window, staring at them with narrowed eyes.
“This side of the lot is for store owners and employees only. You can’t come back here and make out,” he said in a stern voice.
When she started to object that they’d been doing no such thing, Wyatt put a hand on her arm.
“Sorry, Officer,” he said.
“Button up your shirt and move along.”
“Yes, sir,” Wyatt answered.
She’d never expected to hear him cave in the face of authority, and she knew he probably hated doing it, but she also knew he was avoiding any kind of confrontation, avoiding having the guy come over and see the bloodied shirt or the gun in the car. While Wyatt and the guard had exchanged pleasantries, she’d bundled the supplies back into the drugstore bag and thrown them in the backseat. Now she hurried around to the driver’s door. The security guy stayed where he was while she pulled away, then followed her to the parking lot entrance. She waited for the light to change and pulled out, heading down the road in the opposite direction from where they’d come.
Wyatt had leaned back in his seat but now he sat up suddenly and cursed.
Carrie’s gaze shot to him in alarm. “What?”
“We have to get rid of that gun.”
“Like throw it in the bushes?”
“No. Like put it in the trunk.”
He craned his neck to look at a road sign. “Turn off on a side road and look for a place where there aren’t any houses.”
She followed directions, and they both got out. She blocked the view from the road while he stowed the weapon out of sight.
Back in the car, he directed her to the Intercounty Connector. When they’d gotten onto the high-speed road that cut across the D.C. area, he said, “Get off at Route 29 and head for Columbia. There are a lot of motels over there. Find something that’s part of a midpriced chain.”
When they reached Route 29, she slowed, and he looked at her inquiringly. “What are you doing?”
“I have to call my father and tell him I’m okay.”
“When we know we’re safe.”
“He’ll be worried.”
“We’ll be in Columbia in less than thirty-five minutes. If you were dead, he’d know it. The news stations would have already broadcasted it.”
She winced.
He leaned back and closed his eyes, and she took the highway he’d suggested, which turned out to be a toll road that cut across Montgomery County to Howard County.
ALTHOUGH THE SAFE house had been deemed an easy target, four men had been given the job of taking it down and waiting for Carrie and Wyatt to return. Now two of the men were dead and one was wounded. The guy who was still functional walked down the access road and into the woods, where he and his partners had parked a white van out of sight. The standard anonymous utility vehicle. In this case, perfectly suitable for getting rid of the bodies of three large men who’d been at the wrong place at the wrong time. And two terrorists who’d gotten themselves killed by taking off after the fleeing man and woman.
The four-man team had caught the hired guards by surprise because the bitch they’d been minding had been out of the house, which was reason enough for them to relax. The unwanted visitors had disabled the security system at the safe house—as a further means of gaining access unawares. Nobody had been looking out the windows when they’d crept up through the fields and made the dash across the cleared land around the house. Only one of the guards inside had been on his toes enough to make it outside, and he hadn’t gotten any farther than the back steps. Too bad his body had alerted the guy with Carrie Mitchell that something was wrong at the house. And too bad he’d come sneaking up from the side yard. Apparently, he was an efficient and cautious fellow.
The men who’d taken the house were named Harry, Sidney, Jordan and Bruce. Sid was the only one not wounded or killed.
He wished he’d turned down the job. He hadn’t signed up for this gig because of any ideological convictions. He was in it strictly for the cash. Now he was cursing himself for getting lured in by easy money. It flitted through his mind to climb in the van and drive away. Then keep driving. He already had the first payment from the patron who’d hired him and the others.
But he didn’t think escape was a practical solution. You didn’t just quit a job like this. Once you were in, you were in for the duration. And from where he was sitting now, it looked as though it was going to be a longer haul than he’d been led to believe. The only way they were getting out of this was to finish the mission—or die trying. Harry and Jordan were already dead. And Bruce had a mangled leg. Two of the guys in the downtown end of the operation had also bought the farm.
Although Carrie Mitchell and her bodyguard had made it out of the area, Sid didn’t call in for instructions right away. Instead, he spread tarps in the back of the van and started the annoying process of loading the five bodies into the vehicle before cleaning up the blood on the floor inside the house and moving dirt around to cover the blood outside, as per the instructions he’d been given to leave as little evidence as possible.
Bruce watched him work with dull eyes. Usually he was the one in charge. Now he was in too bad a shape to do more than nurse his wounded leg. “I’m hurt bad, man,” he moaned.
“We’ll get you back to headquarters.”
“Shouldn’t I be in the hospital?”
Sid gave him a considering look. “Hang on. That’s what you’d say to me if our situations were reversed.”
“It’s a long way back to the hideout.”
“Not that far, and it’s real private.”
Bruce cringed, probably thinking that his partner was considering leaving him in the same condition as the bodies. He closed his mouth and let Sid finish the quick and dirty cleanup. The rushed job wouldn’t hide the evidence if the cops came in with luminol. But it was probably going to be a long time—if ever—before the authorities got to the safe house.
Who was going to call them? Not Wyatt Hawk. He was too conscious of maintaining the secrecy of his assignment. Which was going to make it difficult to find him and the woman. Hopefully, plan B would flush them out. And hopefully Sid could go back to his normal life of petty crime.
Chapter Four
As Carrie drove toward Columbia, she glanced at Wyatt. He was sitting with his head back and his eyes closed. She wanted to reach out and press the back of her hand to his cheek, but she had the feeling that if she did, he’d come instantly alert, and she’d find a gun pointed at her side. Which meant it was prudent to keep her hands on the wheel.
She knew Wyatt was being cautious when he’d asked her to drive so far away from the safe house. Would the terrorists really start checking every motel within a twenty-mile radius of their last known location? She doubted it, with so many motels in this area. But maybe they’d do it if they were desperate enough. And they’d certainly seemed determined to stop her from testifying.
Beside her Wyatt made a strangled sound, and her eyes snapped to him, seeing him looking around and getting his bearings.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Okay.”
Probably it was a lie—designed to reassure her. How could he feel okay after getting shot?
He shook his head and started to stretch, then stopped abruptly, undoubtedly because the pain in his arm had hit him. He dragged in a breath and let it out.
“How long was I sleeping?”
“A half hour.”
“How close are we to Columbia?”
“We’re here, but I don’t know where to find a motel. They built the place so you can’t find anything.”
He laughed. “It was the original plan not to spoil the view with big signs. Then they realized that they needed to make the commercial areas more obvious.” He looked around. “Head down Route 108, then turn at the Palace Nine shopping center. You’ll find the right kind of motels along 100 Parkway.”
She took his advice, stopping at a chain that advertised breakfast along with a room for less than a hundred bucks a night.
“You stay here. I’ll check in,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want the clerk to see a man and a woman together and remember the two of us if anyone comes asking questions. And a lone male is less suspicious than a lone female.”
She nodded and pulled into a parking space near the door. When he got out, she watched him steady himself against the car door, then square his shoulders.
She gave him a critical inspection as he headed for the lobby. He looked like a guy who wasn’t feeling 100 percent, but there was no way to know that he’d been shot a little more than an hour ago.
She glanced around, glad to see that nobody was paying her any particular attention.
PATRICK HARRISON STRUGGLED not to let his taut nerves overwhelm him. He spared a quick glance at his watch. It had been two hours since he and Carrie’s father had heard the news of the attack in Washington, D.C., and he felt the tension humming around the comfortable, wood-paneled home office.
He sat in one of the leather guest chairs. Douglas Mitchell sat behind his broad rosewood desk. They were both staring at a flat-screen television tuned to CNN. There had been nothing new to report for the past hour and a half, but the commentators were attempting to fill the air. At the moment the network was running a background piece on the Mitchell family, discussing the way Douglas Mitchell had taken the twenty million dollars he’d inherited from his father and turned it into over a billion—by buying up companies in distress and gutting them. The tactic had made him popular with the investment group he’d formed but not so much with the men and women who’d lost their jobs under his tender loving care.
Next came candid shots of Carrie as a teenager riding in horse shows and more shots of her all grown up and out on dates in D.C. with various eligible bachelors. She was also shown with her father on a trip to Europe they’d taken two years ago. There were no shots of Patrick, of course. He was invisible as far as the family history was concerned.
Next were some of the nature pictures Carrie had taken close to home and across the U.S. Patrick realized that if she survived this ordeal, her career was going to get a big boost. Or if she died, perhaps her pictures would sell for hundreds of dollars more than they had the day before.
Patrick shot a glance at Douglas’s rigid profile. The man had one hand pressed to his forehead as though trying to ward off a headache.
Patrick tried to make his voice reassuring. “Carrie’s in good hands. I’m sure she got away.”
Douglas whirled around in his swivel chair, his eyes fierce. “I’m not interested in your half-assed opinion. You don’t have any more information than I do.” He was as wired as a cat caught in a clothes dryer. Of course, he had a right to be. Since the moment his daughter had come home to the Mitchell estate to tell him about overhearing a terrorist plot, he’d been sick with worry about her.
Not that you could tell what he was feeling, unless you knew him well enough to see below the surface of his bluff exterior.
His attitude came across as annoyance and anger, but Patrick had been with him long enough to understand the old man’s anxiety. His daughter had come forward to testify against a gang of domestic terrorists, putting herself in immediate danger. She’d been hiding out for a week, and she’d gone downtown to meet with the Federal prosecutor. Unfortunately, the terrorists had been waiting for her and her bodyguard, Wyatt Hawk.
From the news accounts, it seemed that Hawk had gotten her out of the building. But where were they now?
Patrick took a calming breath. He’d known Carrie all his life, and he hated feeling as though there was nothing he could do, but he didn’t see any effective course of action open to him.
The old man picked up his phone and punched in Hawk’s cell number once again. The results were the same as every other time Douglas had tried to make the call. There was no answer.
“Damn him!” the elder Mitchell growled. For a moment, it looked as if he would throw the phone across the room.
“Remember your blood pressure,” Patrick murmured.
“I don’t need your damn advice,” Mitchell shot back, slapping his hand against the desk. After a moment, he took a breath and said, “Sorry. I’m on edge. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
“I understand.”
“But I need to know what’s going on.” This time he dialed the safe house where Carrie had been staying for the past week. The results were the same.
“What can I do to help?” Patrick asked.
“Bring me a scotch and soda.”
“Is that wise?”
“Don’t question me.”
Patrick sighed and got up. Again he sneaked a glance at his watch. How long was this ordeal going to last?
Maybe he could have a drink, too. And maybe he’d have another discussion with Douglas about hiring security for himself, although the man was firm in his conviction that he didn’t need it.
He had just crossed the thick carpet to the bar when a noise alerted him that something was wrong. He whipped around to see two men standing in the office doorway. They wore ski masks over their faces and carried automatic weapons.
Patrick leaped toward the desk, putting himself between Douglas and the two men.
“What the hell?” Douglas turned.
“Out of the way.” One of the men charged toward Patrick and hit him on the side of the head with the butt of a gun. He cried out in pain and went down, struggling to cling to consciousness.
While he was on the floor, the other intruder crossed to Douglas Mitchell. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“You’ll find out.” The man grabbed Douglas by the arms and hustled him toward the door. When Douglas struggled, the man shoved a gun into the older man’s back. “Cooperate, or you’re going to get killed.”
The man turned to address Patrick. “Tell Carrie Mitchell that if she doesn’t turn herself in, her father’s dead.”
“We…we haven’t heard from her,” he managed to say.
“Well, you’d better hope she calls. And oh, yeah, if you contact the cops, you can kiss Mitchell’s ass goodbye.”
THE LONGER CARRIE waited for Wyatt to come out of the motel office, the more her tension grew. So many bad things had happened in the past few hours that she couldn’t stop herself from waiting for the next one.
To her relief, Wyatt returned with the key in under five minutes and directed her to a room around back. One room. She didn’t love that arrangement, but she understood why he’d done it.
Inside, the accommodations were pretty standard, with two queen-size beds and enough room so that they could keep out of each other’s way.
Wyatt pulled back the spread on one of the beds, kicked off his shoes and lay down heavily.
“I’m going to call my father,” she said.
“Go ahead.”
She dug her phone out of her purse and clicked it on. It beeped immediately.
“There are messages for me.”
“Call your father first,” he said as he leaned back against the pillow and closed his eyes.
“Right.” She clicked the automatic-dial button for her father’s house. The call was answered on the first ring, not by Douglas Mitchell. It was Patrick Harrison, her father’s chief of staff. His mother had been a maid in their house, and she’d died in an automobile accident twenty-five years earlier. Since there had been no relatives willing to take the three-year-old boy, her father had unofficially adopted Patrick, and he’d been a member of the household ever since. He’d gone to college at Ohio State, then come back home to work for the senior Mitchell.
“Carrie, thank God,” he said. “I’ve been trying to call you, but there was no answer.” He sounded near hysterical.
She kept her own voice calm as she answered, “Wyatt told me to turn off my phone so they couldn’t use it to pinpoint our location.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. But the men at the safe house are dead.” She gulped. “All except Wyatt. We were going back there, but it was an ambush. Like at the Federal Building.”
“Thank God you’re all right,” he said again.
Something in the tone of his voice told her he wasn’t just worried about her.
“What happened?” she asked, praying that her father hadn’t had a heart attack or a stroke.
“There’s no easy way to say this.”
“Then spit it out!”
“Your father’s been kidnapped.”
“Lord, no!”
At the sound of her raised voice, Wyatt surged off the bed. Crossing to her, he took the phone out of her hand.
“What did you just tell Carrie?” he demanded, clicking on the speaker so that they could both hear.
“Her father’s been kidnapped.”
“How? Where?”
“Two men came to the house.”
“Are you all right?” Carrie interjected.
“One of them hit me with the butt of his gun, but I’m okay. They’re demanding that Carrie turn herself in, or they’ll kill Douglas. And they said they’ll kill him if I call the police.”
Carrie gasped, hardly able to believe what she’d just heard.
“Are you sure it’s the terrorists?” Wyatt demanded.
“I…guess. I don’t know for sure. Who else would they be?”
“What did they look like?”
“They were wearing ski masks.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“I was on the floor, hanging on to consciousness by my fingernails.”
Carrie made a low sound. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I mean, I’m still here. Maybe so I could give you the message about your father.”
“Yeah,” Wyatt agreed.
Patrick switched subjects. “Where are you?”
“Somewhere safe,” Wyatt answered.
“We have to go home,” Carrie said.
“No.” Wyatt fixed his gaze on her. “Patrick just said that men broke in and took your father, but they want you. They’ll keep him alive as long as they don’t have you. If you turn yourself in, you’re dead, and so is he.”
Carrie stared at Wyatt. A few minutes ago he had seemed as if he needed a good night’s rest before he would be fully functional. Now he looked like the agent in charge again. “I want to know what happened, but I’m not going to take that information now, in case this call is being traced.”
“By whom?” Patrick asked.
“The terrorists. I’ll call you back soon.”
“But—”
Wyatt clicked off.
ON THE OTHER end of the line, Patrick Harrison cursed. Slamming down the phone, he stood for a moment, struggling to control his temper as he reminded himself to breathe in and out slowly. Hawk had said he would call back. When, exactly?
Patrick had just been through a terrible ordeal, and now he didn’t like the way Wyatt Hawk was handling the situation. No, for starters, he didn’t like it that Hawk was on the case at all.
Patrick had come up with the initial list of bodyguards. Then he’d found something questionable in the guy’s background. He’d told Douglas not to hire Hawk, but the man had always had a mind of his own. He might listen to advice, then do the exact opposite because he was sure he knew better. In this case, he’d decided to go ahead with the former CIA operative, even though the man had messed up on his last job.
Patrick had lived with Douglas Mitchell’s arbitrary decisions for years. Since he’d come back from college to work for the old man, he’d thought more than once that he should have struck out on his own. But he’d been comfortable here, and when Douglas had made him a good offer, he’d known that the man wanted him to stay—and valued his work ethic.
But he’d found out soon enough that working for Douglas could be an exercise in frustration. Never more than at this moment. He’d have liked to have Carrie home at the family compound so he’d know exactly where she was. But Hawk had her stashed Lord knew where. It could be somewhere close. Or they could be in the next state by now.
He banged his fist against the rosewood desk, then struggled for calm again. Hawk had said he’d call back. Then Patrick would get more information. Or not, depending on Hawk’s mood.
He cursed again, more softly this time. Wyatt Hawk was turning out to be the biggest mistake he could imagine making.
CARRIE’S STOMACH ROILED as she stood in the middle of the room, clutching her cell phone. “My father—”
“—is a hostage.”
“Which is my fault. And the men who snatched him hurt Patrick.”
“Carrie, none of this is your fault. You were just doing your duty as a citizen. What were you going to do, let them blow up the U.S. Capitol and pretend you hadn’t heard anything?”
When she started to protest, Wyatt reached for her and pulled her close, pressing her face to his shoulder. “We have two jobs here. The first one is to keep you safe. The second is to get your dad back.”
“What if I think that’s the wrong order?” she asked in a strained voice.
“It’s not. And we will get him back.”
“How?”
His tone was soothing as he rubbed her back. “We don’t do it by running off without a plan. We’ve got to consider all the angles and proceed carefully.”
He kept his arms around her, rubbing her neck and shoulders, and she leaned into his strength as she thought back over the awful conversation with Patrick. Thank goodness she hadn’t been alone. If Wyatt hadn’t stopped her, she would probably have told Patrick where she was, and the terrorists could be on their way to the motel already if they’d been listening.
“They can’t find us through the phone?” she murmured.
“We didn’t speak long enough for them to trace the call. But I want to get rid of both our phones so they can’t use the GPS.”
She nodded against his shoulder.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked.
“Shouldn’t that be my line?”
He managed a low laugh. “I’m fine.”
“You were shot a little while ago. You were resting when I got ahold of Patrick.”
“I’ve been hurt before, a lot worse than this.”
“That scar on your chest.”
“Yes.”
“And you were in the hospital, right?”
“I said it was worse than this.” He eased away from her. “We need to get a couple of prepaid phones so we can use them and throw them away.”
“Okay.”
He gave Carrie a direct look. “You trust Patrick?”
“Of course!”
“Who else is at your house?”
She thought for a moment. “There’s Inez, our maid.”
“How long has she been with you?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Does she need money?”
“Everybody needs money.”
He nodded. “Who else could have heard you talking to your father about your plans to hide out?”
She felt as if she was being interrogated, but she knew he needed to know the answers. “There’s a gardening crew that comes by a couple of times a week. They could have been eavesdropping.”
“Anyone else?”
“Not on a regular basis.”
His eyes narrowed, and she could see he was considering contingencies. “I don’t want to leave you here, and I don’t want to take you to the store, but I think that sticking together is better at the moment.”
She nodded, assuming he was probably afraid she’d call Patrick if he left her.
He carried the cell phones to the bathroom and crushed them under his heel, then stuffed the pieces into his pocket.
She winced, thinking about the contacts and the pictures he’d just destroyed.
He glanced at her, apparently reading her expression. “You can get a new one later.”
“Right.”
“I’m going out first.” He opened the door and looked out, then crossed to the car and motioned for her to follow.
As she got in the car, she asked, “They couldn’t have found us here already, could they?”
“Probably not, but I didn’t think they would show up at the safe house before we got back there. It appears that this operation is bigger and better organized than we assumed initially.”
“Oh, great.”
Minutes after they’d entered the motel room, they were back on the road.
This time, Wyatt took the driver’s side. She wanted to protest that he should be resting, but she was pretty sure he wouldn’t pay any attention to the suggestion. Obviously he was the kind of man who wasn’t going to let a woman drive him unless he was incapacitated.
As he drove, he tossed away the pieces of the phones, then turned to her. “I have Patrick’s bio. He’s been with you for twenty-five years, right?”
“Yes.”
“And does he have any reasons to dislike your family?”
“Why would he? My father did everything for him. He treated him like a son, actually. He had a bedroom down the hall from me. He ate all his meals with us. My father sent him to the same private school I went to. He paid his tuition at Ohio State.”
“So he was a good student?”
“Yes.”
“Did he ever give your father any trouble?”
“You mean like rebelling?”
“Yes.”
“He and I did a couple of stupid things—like borrow my dad’s car when we were both fifteen.”
“What happened when your dad found out?”
“He didn’t. We covered for each other.”
“You like him?”
“He was as close to me as a brother.” Memories flooded her. “We hung out together, because Dad was usually busy. You could say he was the kind of father who didn’t have a lot of time for his kids, but I knew he loved me.”
“We were talking about Patrick, not your dad.”
“I was trying to explain why Patrick and I were so close.”
“And he loved Patrick?”
She hesitated. “That might be too strong a word. I know he’s fond of him. And he’s certainly come to rely on him.” Again she paused before continuing. “Patrick didn’t have to come back and work for Dad, but he did that on his own.”
“Okay.” Wyatt checked the rearview mirror. “What about your mother?”
“Dad never talks about her.”
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
She thought for a moment. “When I was maybe six. I went into her room, and she was packing.” The pain and confusion of that long-ago moment came zinging back to her again. “She said she loved me, but she needed to leave. She said she’d be back to see me, but she never came back.”
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