by Nora Roberts
“Jack.” She stroked his hair. The sun was in her eyes, his weight was on her, and the grass was damp against her back. She thought it one of the finest moments of her life. “Jack,” she said again, and sighed.
He nearly had his wind back. “Maybe there’s something to country living after all.” With a little groan, he propped up on his elbows. And felt his stomach sink. “What are you crying for? Are you trying to kill me?”
“I’m not. The sun’s in my eyes.” Then, feeling foolish, she flicked the single tear away. “It’s not that kind of crying, anyway. Don’t worry, I’m not going to blubber.”
“Did I hurt you? Look, I’m sorry, I—”
“Jack.” She heaved another sigh. “It’s not that kind of crying, okay? And I’m done now, anyway.”
Wary, he studied those gleaming eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Then she smiled. “You coward.”
“Guilty.” And he wasn’t ashamed to admit it. He kissed her nose. “Now that we’ve got all this extra luck, we’d better get going.”
“You’re not going to try to pull a fast one, are you?”
He thought of the way she’d taken his face in her hands and told him she was sticking. There had never been anyone in his life who ever made him that one simple promise.
“No. I guess we’re a team.”
“Good guess.”
M.J. waited until they were back on the highway, heading toward civilization, before she asked. “Okay, Jack, what’s the plan?”
“Nothing fancy. Simplicity has fewer pitfalls. The way I see it, we’ve got to get to whoever’s pulling the strings. Our only link with him, or her, is the guys in the van and maybe the Salvinis.”
“So far, I’m with you.”
“I need to have a little chat with them. To do that, I have to lure them out, maintain the advantage and convince them it’s in their best interest to pass on some information.”
“Okay, there are two guys with guns, one of whom is the approximate size of the Washington Monument. And you’re going to convince them to chat with you.” She beamed at him. “I admire your optimism.”
“It’s all a matter of leverage,” he said, and explained how he planned to accomplish it.
Thunder was rumbling in a darkened sky when he pulled up in the lot at Salvini. It was a dignified building, separated from a strip mall by a large parking lot. And it was locked tight for the Monday holiday.
In the smaller, well-tended Salvini lot sat a lone Mercedes sedan.
“Know who owns that?”
“One of the creeps—Bailey’s stepbrothers. Thomas, I think. Bailey said they were closing down for an extended weekend. If he’s inside, I don’t know why.”
“Let’s poke around.” Jack got out, wandered to the sedan. It was locked tight, its security light blinking. He checked the front doors of the building first, scanned the darkened showroom, saw no signs of life.
“Offices upstairs?” he asked M.J.
“Yeah. Bailey’s, Thomas’s, Timothy’s.” Her heart began to race. “Maybe she’s in there, Jack. She rarely drives to work. We live so close.”
“Uh-huh.” And though it wasn’t part of his plan, the worry in her voice had him going with impulse and pressing the buzzer beside the door. “Let’s check the rear,” he said a moment later.
“They could be holding her inside. She could be hurt. I should have thought of it before.” Toward the west, lightning forked down like jagged blades. “She could be in there, hurt and—”
He turned. “Listen, if we’re going to get through this, you’ve got to hold it together. We don’t have time for a lot of hand-wringing and speculation.”
Her head jerked back, then she squared her shoulders. “All right. Sorry.”
After a short study of her face, he nodded, then continued to the back, where he took a long look at the steel security door. “Someone’s been at the locks.”
“What do you mean, ‘at’?” She leaned over his shoulder as he crouched down. “Do you mean someone picked the locks?”
“Fairly recently, no rust, no dust in the scrapes. Wonder if he got in.” He rose, examined the sides, the jambs. “He didn’t try to jimmy it or hammer against it. I’d say he knew what he was doing. Under different circumstances, I’d say it was just your average break-in, but that’s stretching it.”
“Can you get in?”
That wasn’t part of the immediate plan, either, but he considered. “Probably. Do you know what kind of alarm system they’ve got?”
“There’s a box inside the door. It’s coded. I don’t know the code. You punch some numbers.” She caught herself before she could indeed wring her hands. “Jack.” She struggled to keep her voice calm. “She could be in there. She could be hurt. If we don’t check, and something goes wrong…”
“Okay. But if I can’t deal with the alarm, and fast, we’re going to get busted.” Still, he got his tools out of the trunk and went to work.
“Watch my back, will you?” he told her. “Make sure none of those holiday shoppers next door take an interest over here.”
She turned, scanned the lot and the strip mall beyond. People came and went, obviously too involved in the bargains they’d bagged or those they were hunting to take notice of a man crouched at a security door of a locked building.
Thunder walked closer, and rain, long awaited, began to flood out of the sky. She didn’t mind getting wet, considered the storm only a better cover. But she shuddered with relief when he gave her the all-clear.
“Once I open this, I’ve probably got a minute to ninety seconds before the alarm. If I can’t disengage it, we’ll have to go, and fast.”
“But—”
“No arguments here, M.J. If, by any chance, Bailey’s in there, the cops’ll be along in minutes, and they’ll find her. We’ll take our show on the road elsewhere. Agreed?”
What choice was there? “Agreed.”
“Fine.” He swiped dripping hair out of his eyes. “You stay right here. If I say go, you head for the car.” Taking her silence for assent, he stepped inside. He saw the alarm box immediately, lifted a brow. “Interesting,” he murmured, then signaled M.J. inside. “It’s off.”
“I don’t understand that. It’s always set.”
“Just our lucky day.” He winked, took her hand, then flipped on his flashlight with the other. “We’ll try upstairs first, see if we get lucky again.”
“Up these stairs,” she told him. “Bailey’s office is right down the hall.”
“Nice digs,” he commented, scanning the expensive carpeting, the tasteful colors, while keeping his ears tuned for any sound. There was nothing but drumming rain. He blocked M.J. with an outstretched arm, and swept the light into the office.
Quiet, organized, elegant and empty. He heard M.J. let out a rusty breath.
“No sign of struggle,” he pointed out. “We’ll check the rest of the floor, then downstairs before we go into phase one of plan A.”
He moved down the hall and, a full yard before the next door, stopped. “Go back in her office, wait for me.”
“Why? What is it?” Then she caught the heaviness in the air, recognized it for what it was. “Bailey! Oh, my God.”
Jack rapped her back against the wall, pinned her until her struggles ceased. “You do what I tell you,” he said between his teeth. “You stay here.”
She closed her eyes, admitted there were some things she wasn’t strong enough to face. Nodded.
Satisfied, he eased back. He moved down the hall quietly, eased the door open.
It was as bad as he’d ever seen, and death was rarely pretty. But this, he thought, trailing the light over the wreckage caused by a life-and-death struggle, had been madness.
Life had lost.
He turned away from it, went back to M.J. She was pale as wax, leaning against the wall. “It’s not Bailey,” he said immediately. “It’s a man.”
“Not Bailey?”
“No.” He put
a hand to her cheek, found it icy, but her eyes were losing their glazed look. “I’m going to check the other rooms. I don’t want you to go in there, M.J.”
She let out the breath that had been hot and trapped in her lungs. Not Bailey. “Was it like Ralph?”
“No.” His voice was flat and hard. “It was a hell of a lot worse. Stay here.”
He went through each room, checked corners and closets, careful not to touch anything or to wipe a surface when he had no choice but to touch. Saying nothing, he led M.J. downstairs and did a quick, thorough search of the lower level.
“Someone’s been in here,” he murmured, hunkering down to shine the light into a tiny alcove under the stairs. “The dust’s disturbed.” Considering, he stroked his chin. “I’d say if somebody was smart and needed a bolt hole, this would be a good choice.”
Her clothes were clinging wet against her skin. But that wasn’t why she was shivering. “Bailey’s smart.”
He nodded, rose. “Keep that in mind. Let’s do what we came for.”
“Okay.” She cast one last look over her shoulder, imagined Bailey hiding in the dark. From what? she wondered. From whom? And where was she now?
Outside, Jack secured the door, wiped the knob. “I figure if you need to, you can get over to that mall on those legs of yours in about thirty seconds at a sprint.”
“I’m not running away.”
“You will if I tell you.” He pocketed the flashlight. “You’re going to do exactly what I tell you. No questions, no arguments, no hesitation.” His eyes flared into hers, made her shiver again. “Whoever did what I found upstairs is an animal. You remember that.”
“I will.” She clamped down ruthlessly on the next tremor. “And you remember we’re in this together.”
“The idea is for me to take these guys down, one at a time. If you can get to the van while I’m distracting them and disable it, fine. But don’t take any chances.”
“I’ve already told you I wouldn’t.”
“Once I have them secured,” he continued, ignoring the impatience in her voice, “we can use their van. I can have a nice chat with them. I think I can get a name out of them.” He examined his fist, then smiled craftily over it into her eyes. “Some basic information.”
“Oooh…” She fluttered her wet lashes. “So macho.”
“Shut up. Depending on the name and information we get, and the situation, we either go to the cops—which would be my second choice—or we follow the next lead.”
“Agreed.”
He opened the door of his car, waited until she slid over the seat, then picked up her phone. “Make the call. Stretch it out for about a minute, just in case.”
She dialed, then began to ramble to Grace’s answering machine in Potomac. She kept her eyes on Jack’s, and when he nodded, she pushed disconnect. “Phase two?” she said, struggling for calm.
“Now we wait.”
Within fifteen minutes, the van turned into the lot at Salvini. The rain had slowed now, but continued to fall in a steady stream. In his position beside an aging station wagon, Jack hunched his shoulders against the wet and watched the routine.
The two men got out, separated and did a slow circle of the building.
The big one was his target.
Using parked cars as cover, Jack made his way over, watching as the man bent, picked up M.J.’s phone from the ground. It was a decent plant, Jack mused, gave him something to consider in that pea-size brain of his. As the big man pondered over the phone, Jack sprang and hit him at a dead run, bashing into his kidneys like a cannonball.
He took his quarry to his knees, and had the cuffs snapped over one steel-beam wrist before he was flicked off like a fly.
He felt the searing burn as his flesh scraped over wet, grainy asphalt, and rolled before a size-sixteen shoe could bash into his face. He made the grab, snagged the sledgehammer of a foot and heaved.
From her post, M.J. watched the struggle, wincing as Jack hit the ground, praying as he rolled. Hissing as fists crunched against bone. She started quietly toward the van, glancing back to see the progress of the bout.
He was outmatched, she thought desperately. Was going to get his neck broken, at the very least. Braced to spring to his aid, she saw the second man rounding the far corner of the building.
He’d be on them in moments, she thought. And Jack’s plan to take them both quickly and separately was in tatters. She sucked in the breath to call out a warning, then narrowed her eyes. Maybe there was still a way to make it work.
She dashed out from behind cover, took a short run toward Salvini, away from Jack. She skidded to a halt when she saw the second man spot her, made her eyes widen with shock and fear. His hand went inside his jacket, but she held fast, waiting until he began closing in.
Then she ran, into the curtaining rain, drawing him away from Jack.
Both Jack and his sparring partner heard the shout. Both looked over instinctively and saw the woman with the bright cap of red hair racing away, and the man pursuing her.
Never listens, Jack thought with a bright spear of terror. Then he looked back, saw the big man grinning at him.
Jack grinned back, and his swollen left eye gleamed bright with malice. “Gotta take you down, and fast,” he said conversationally as he rammed a fist into the man’s mouth. “That’s my woman your pal’s chasing.”
The giant swiped blood from his face. “You’re meat.”
“Yeah?” There wasn’t any time to dally. Praying M.J.’s legs and his neck would hold out, he lowered his head and charged like a mad bull. The force of the attack shot the man back, rapping his head smartly on the steel door. Bloodied, battered and exhausted, Jack drove his knee up, hard and high, and heard the satisfactory sound of air gushing out of a deflated blimp.
Blinking stinging sweat and warm rain out of his eyes, Jack wrenched the man’s arms back, snapped on the second cuff.
“I’ll be back for you,” he promised, as he retrieved the phone and tore off in search of M.J.
Chapter 12
Jack had told her, if anything went wrong, to head for the shops, to lose herself in the crowds. Scream bloody murder if necessary.
With that on her mind, M.J. veered that way, her priority to lure the second gunman away from Jack and give him an even chance.
But as she raced toward the stores, with their bright On Sale signs, she saw couples, families, children being led by the hand, babies in strollers. And thought of the way the man chasing her had slipped a hand under his jacket.
She thought of what a gun fired at her in the midst of a crowd would do.
And she pivoted, changed direction on a dime and ran toward the far end of the lot.
Pumping her arms, she tossed a quick look over her shoulder. She’d left her pursuer in the dust. He was still coming, but lagging now, overheated, she imagined, in his bagging suit coat and leather shoes. Slippery shoes on wet pavement. Just how far would he chase her, she wondered, before giving up and turning back to pick up his friend?
And stumble over Jack.
Deliberately she slowed her pace, let him close some of the distance, in order to keep his interest keen. Part of her worried that he would simply use that gun, slam a bullet into her leg. Or her back. With the image of that running riot in her head, she streaked into a line of parked cars.
She could hear her own breath whistling now. She’d run the equivalent of a fifty-yard touch-down dash in the blistering heat of a midsummer storm. Crouching behind a minivan, she swiped sweat from her eyes and tried to think.
Could she circle back, find a way to help Jack? Had the gorilla already pounded him into dust and set off to help his buddy? How long would her luck last before some innocent family of four, their bargain-hunting complete, ran through the downpour and into the line of fire?
Concentrating on silence more than speed, she duckwalked around the van, slid her way around a compact. She needed to catch her breath, needed to think. Needed to see what was
happening behind the Salvini building.
Bracing herself, she put one trembling hand on the fender of the compact and risked a quick look.
He was closer than she’d anticipated. Four cars to the left, and taking his time. She ducked down fast, pressed her back into the bumper. If she stayed where she was, would he pass by, or would he spot her?
Better to die on the run, she thought, or with your fists raised, than to be picked off cowering behind an economy import.
She sucked in a breath, said another quick prayer for Jack, and headed for new ground. It was the ping on the asphalt beside her that stopped her heart. She felt the sharp edge of rock bounce off her jeans.
He was shooting at her. Her heart bounced from throat to stomach and back like a Ping-Pong ball, and she skidded around a parked car. Another inch, two at the most, and that bullet would have met flesh.
He’d tagged her, she realized. And now it would only be a matter of running her down, cornering her like a rabbit. Well, she would see about that.
Gritting her teeth, she bellied under the car, ignored the wet grit, the smell of gas and oil, and slid like a snake beneath the undercarriage, held her breath as she pulled herself through the narrow space and under the next vehicle.
She could hear him now. He was breathing hard, a wheeze on each inhale, a whistle on the exhale. She saw his shoes. Little feet, she thought irreverently, decked out in glossy black wing tips and argyle socks.
She closed her eyes for one brief moment, trying to get a picture of him planted in her mind. Five-eight, tops, maybe a hundred and sixty. Mid-thirties. Sharp eyes, a well-defined nose. Wiry but not buff. And out of breath.
Hell, she thought, going giddy. She could take him.
She scooted another inch, was just preparing to make her move when she saw those shiny wing tips leave the ground.
There in front of her eyes were a pair of scuffed boots. Jack’s boots. Jack’s voice was muttering panting curses. Her vision blurred with relief and the terror as she heard the muffled thump that was the silenced gun firing again.
Skinning elbows and knees, she was out from under the car in time to see the gunman running for cover and Jack starting off in pursuit.
“Jack.”
He skidded to a halt, whirled, sheer relief covering his battered face. And it was then that she saw the blood staining his shirt.
“Oh, God. Oh, God. You’re shot.” Her legs went weak, so that she stumbled toward him as he glanced down absently, pressing a hand to his side.
“Hell.” The pain registered, but only dimly, as his arms filled with woman. “The car,” he managed. “Get to the car. He’s heading back.”
His hand, wet with blood and rain, locked on hers.
Later, she would remember running. But none of it seemed real as it happened. Feet pounding on pavement, skidding, the jittery thud of her heart, the rising sense of fear and fury, the wide, shocked eyes of a woman carrying shopping bags who was nearly mowed down in their rush.
And Jack cursing her, steadily, for not doing as she was told.
The van screamed out of the lot as they skidded down the incline. “Damn it all to hell and back again.” His lungs were burning, his side shot fire. Desperately he dug the keys out of his pocket. “In the car. Now!”
She all but dived through the window, barely maintaining her balance as he burned rubber in reverse. “You’re hurt. Let me see—”
He batted her worried hands away and whipped the wheel around. “He got his three-ton friend, too. After all that trouble, they’re not getting away.” The car shimmied, fishtailed, then the tires bit the road as he swung into the chase. “Get the gun out of the glove box. Give it to me.”
“Jack, you’re bleeding. For God’s sake.”
“Didn’t I tell you to run?” He punched the gas, screaming on the van’s rear