by Regan Black
Too much late-night TV, she told herself.
Except the reassurance didn’t assuage the sensation that she was being watched. If anything, the farther along her long stride took her, the more the feeling intensified. And after another minute, she couldn’t help but check again. This time, she was almost sure she spotted someone ducking out of view.
“What the heck...” She stared down the length of road, debating what the best course of action might be.
Did she double back and confront whoever it was? Wait and see if they showed themselves, or maybe call the cops?
And tell them what? she thought. That I’m being followed in broad daylight on a pedestrian-busy street at, like, seven in the morning?
It wasn’t entirely unrealistic. Just a little absurd, considering the hour and the number of people milling around.
As if to emphasize the latter point, a group of teens stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop in her tracks. Right after that, three people on bikes sped by, one ringing her bell and making a jogger leap out of the way. The runner bumped against a stroller, which sprung from the grasp of the mother pushing it. It rolled along, teetering dangerously, and a man standing at a bus stop grabbed it just in time. The worried mother ran toward him, grateful words falling from her lips as she took a hold of the handle once more. It was chaos. But copacetic at the same time.
Still...
Norah looked around again anyway. Now she couldn’t see anything amiss. Of course. She pushed her lips together in mild consternation and decided to at least give herself until she arrived at the restaurant before she acted. If she still felt like someone was following her then, she’d call a friend at the Vancouver Police Department. She was acquainted with—and trusted—several members of the force.
Satisfied with the choice, she squared her shoulders and resumed her walk. But as her shoe hit the ground with a first step, a taxi sped to a halt just three feet ahead of her. For no discernible reason, the vehicle gave Norah a chill. Even when a man stepped up to the worn yellow car, the goose bumps that covered her skin didn’t abate. Maybe it was the way the taxi-goer wore a hood pulled up over his head, even in the bright sun. Something just didn’t sit right.
Norah forced herself to keep going, but she did give the cab and its patron a wide berth. Or she tried to. As she stepped to the side, the hooded figure thrust a hand toward her and dragged her in. And the only thing that stopped her from screaming was the glimpse she caught of the fingers that held her. They were small. Feminine. With the blue-painted nails chewed down to a point that was cringeworthy.
A woman.
It shouldn’t have made a difference. But it did anyway. Norah hesitated, her shriek stuck halfway up her throat. And the pause gave her assailant long enough to speak.
“Norah Loblaw?” The voice was absolutely female, albeit smoke-heavy. “If I flashed my badge and told you this is a matter of life and death, would you come with me, no questions asked?”
The odd query further delayed Norah’s fight-or-flight response.
“Doubtful,” she replied. “Anyone can claim to be a cop.”
“True,” said the woman, not letting go, and not tossing off her hood, either. “But would anyone tell you to call Chief Lawson to confirm her identity?”
“Anyone might, if she thought that was enough to convince me on its own.”
There was a pause. “I suppose you’re right.”
A new thread of worry slithered across Norah’s shoulders. And as contradictory as it seemed, the foreboding intensified when the so-called police officer released her hold. And the increase in concern was warranted.
“Then I guess we’ll just have to try a different tactic, won’t we?” said the unidentified woman.
With that, something—someone—slammed into Norah’s shoulder. The impact was just enough to send her off-balance. She stumbled back. Her wobble sent her in two directions—toward the cab and down. Trying to keep herself from smacking her face into the concrete, Norah stuck out her hands. Someone bumped her again. And she didn’t hit the ground. Instead, her fingers slid over worn leather. Her feet lifted. And too late, she realized she should’ve screamed immediately. Now it was too late. She was being forced into the taxi while a cloth bag was shoved over her head.
* * *
Jacob Pratt refused to relax, even marginally. His white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel of the rusted-out hatchback wouldn’t ease, either. He didn’t let himself turn on the radio. He didn’t allow his mind to wander, or his shoulders to roll. He did, however, crack the window just enough to let in a continuous blast of fresh air. The light wind bounced over his face, and it staved off the twisty, sick feeling in his gut.
The highway and surrounding scenery zipped by in a blur of grays and greens and brown. Not quite as quickly as Jacob would’ve preferred, but he didn’t dare go over the speed limit. A traffic stop was a sure-fire way to ensure that the last hour of escape would be wasted, and he was already risking enough. He didn’t want to expose himself just as he was beginning to feel like his subterfuge had been successful.
Was it too easy?
The question rolled through his mind for the umpteenth time, and for the umpteenth time, he responded by going over the steps he’d taken to get himself to the current moment.
First came the quick call to his house manager and his head of security, letting them both know that he was unplugging for a couple of uninterrupted hours in his home gym. Next came his instructions to the nanny to take the day off, but to stick around her in-house suite, just in case. He didn’t need any questions about why Desmond’s care provider was taking off, and he sure as hell didn’t want anyone to note the oddity. Lastly came the most complicated bit—trading places with his decoy. Even that, though, was relatively easy to accomplish.
The arrangement between them wasn’t a new one. It’d become a necessity several years ago when Jacob’s face had become too easily recognizable. The other man had joked a few times that he was like a stunt double without the hazardous work. This particular scenario, though, was different than the usual gig. Typically, Jacob used Steve to fool people out in public. The other man would let himself be spotted at a nightclub or an upscale restaurant or even a shopping market. A hint would be dropped on social media about “Jacob’s” whereabouts, which then left the real Jacob to do something else, unencumbered by prying eyes.
They had a good system for trading places. Today was no exception to the smoothness of it. After a quick meeting in Jacob’s home gym—converted from the old garage, and which backed onto a thick hedge that only required a bit of manipulation to sneak through—the ruse was in place. Now Steve was pumping iron. Maybe getting ready for a soak in the hot tub. And Jacob was far from enjoying himself.
But at least you’re not sitting on your hands, he thought.
Scrubbing his fingers over the fake beard—it did itch a little—he belatedly wondered if he should’ve warned his stunt double that maybe this time, the job could be hazardous. Steve hadn’t asked, so Jacob hadn’t told. If something happened to the other man, it would eat Jacob up inside. Guilt already niggled in. He wasn’t the kind of person who believed that the lives of others could just be viewed as collateral damage.
“It won’t come to that,” he said under his breath.
He stole a glance at himself in the rearview mirror. He stared for a scrutinizing moment, then turned his attention back to the road. His reflection wasn’t exactly unrecognizable, but it was at least disguised well enough not to attract attention. He’d done a quick fix with his face. Sponged-on eyebrow cream, professional-grade spirit gum and a dusting of crepe wool gave him the perfect illusion of two days’ worth of beard growth. Sunglasses covered his eyes. For good measure, he’d jammed on a ball cap and pulled it low. As a final detail, on the off chance that someone had spied the car—which was registered to his company, and that he
’d used for other incognito getaways successfully—pulling away from the road outside his estate, Jacob had put on a pair of coveralls that he’d pilfered from one of the tradesmen building his new gazebo.
And this will work, he told himself forcefully. It has to.
His eyes dropped to the single sheet of paper that sat on the passenger seat. His lawyer probably wouldn’t appreciate that he’d “borrowed” the template. Like everything else, though, the waiver was a necessity. Or it would be. Assuming that Lockley showed up with the negotiator in tow. He didn’t know what the hell he’d do if this whole thing didn’t go as he hoped.
Jacob’s hands tightened on the wheel even more, and he worked to loosen them. It was harder than he would’ve liked, and it grew harder still when the scenery outside began to change. The encroaching city was now visible. High-rises loomed ahead. Nearby, the wail of sirens blared to life. Everything screamed of concrete and congestion and it made him want to grit his teeth.
Even though Jacob’s estate was only twenty-five minutes or so from Vancouver, he never felt like he lived in the city. Scarlett’s place, on the other hand, was right in the sea of it. Or to give the location a more apt description...it was right in the thickest part of the storm. Her neighbors were—had been—a recovery shelter and a boarded-up church. Drug dealers and homeless people vied for space on the corners, and each time Jacob had set foot outside the building, he’d been propositioned.
The closer he got, the less he wanted to be there. The more he wondered if he should’ve picked somewhere else to meet with Lockley. He’d suggested it because it seemed to fit. He was pressed for time, it was a location they both knew, and also one no one would expect to see either of them there. Now he second-guessed the choice.
Would a coffee shop seriously have been so bad?
He knew a public hot spot wasn’t viable, but truthfully, he’d come out to the apartment less than half a dozen times since Scarlett’s death. Before that, just twice. Once, to give her some money. Second, to tell her he was cutting her off so long as she kept living the way she was living and with whom she was living, too.
A wave of regret lapped to the surface. He wished like crazy he could turn around and trade places with Steve. That he had nothing to do but drill out sadness and frustration under the weight of a bench press. But as quickly as the desire came, he buried it. Forcefully, he reminded himself that his wants were secondary, then flipped on his turn signal and eased the car from the highway to the exit. The congestion picked up immediately, reminding Jacob yet again why he chose to live outside the hub of the city. A throng of slow-moving vehicles in front of him crawled toward the very first light, and already a line had formed behind him. By the time he reached the intersection, he was already on the third red. Growing antsier by the second, he glanced at the flickering dashboard clock. Time was running short.
He wondered for a second if it’d be prudent to let Lockley know he was running behind. He dismissed the idea quickly. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. He’d left his regular cell phone with Steve to create a GPS trail. He’d forwarded all calls and texts to Scarlett’s number. Yes, her antiquated phone was in his pocket, but it wasn’t equipped with the ability to voice dial.
Doesn’t matter, he assured himself. Lockley will wait.
“She’d better,” he muttered, then laid on the horn as the light finally changed and an SUV cut in front of him. He breathed out. “Doing this for Desmond.”
At the sound of the name leaving his lips, a different, more jumbled bag of emotions took over. Jacob embraced it. He was thankful that it was a familiar, old feeling instead of another, new jab of fear. It was the same contradiction that always unsettled his mind. If Scarlett had lived, Desmond would never have become his. Yet, not getting guardianship of the boy—maybe never knowing of his existence—would mean that she was alive. It hurt like crazy to wonder which thing would be worse, so he chose to simply accept the one that was true. Desmond was his. Scarlett was gone. His priorities were clear. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to let threats from some robotic voice on the other end of a phone rip all of it away.
Copyright © 2021 by Melinda A. Di Lorenzo
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ISBN-13: 9781488071492
Her Unlikely Protector
Copyright © 2021 by Regan Black
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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