Colder Than Sin (Cold Justice - Crossfire: FBI Romantic Suspense Book 2)

by Toni Anderson

  “You were shot?”

  “Just a graze.”

  Eban spotted butterfly sutures running along a nasty scalp wound on the back of the man’s head, and he was one of the lucky ones. “Did anyone take your statement?”

  Chris shook his head. “Not really. A couple of the guys who first arrived on the scene asked what happened, and I told them. Another woman from the embassy checked on me when I arrived here. Nothing since then.”

  Everyone was at the scene. “Is it possible for you to talk me through what happened last night?”

  Chris shrugged. “Bunch of armed terrorists burst into the hotel and started shooting.” He rubbed the back of his head and winced. “That about covers it.”

  “How did you survive?” asked Eban.

  “I didn’t think I was going to.”

  “Can you tell me exactly what happened?”

  “I can try, but it’s all a bit hazy. I was in my room when I heard gunfire downstairs. I grabbed my pistol, but there was no way I was going to go up against bad guys with automatic rifles with nothing but a Glock and a couple of spare mags.”

  “How come you were the only one to have a firearm?” Getting hold of a weapon would have been too much hassle for most people attending a three-day symposium in a foreign country.

  “I’ve been working between Papau and East Timor for the last six weeks and got a local pilot to fly me into Nabat at a cut price.” Chris raised his brows. “I brought the Glock along as I don’t like being anywhere unarmed.”

  “What about security for the conference? Was there any?” Eban had been trying to reach the organizers, but no one was answering their phones. They were possibly all dead.

  “Meeting had security. Even had metal detectors to go through for the auditorium.” Chris wiped a line of sweat from his brow. It was hot as hell inside the hospital, even with the A/C going full blast.

  “Did they return fire when the terrorists arrived?”

  Chris smiled grimly. “They left along with the politicians after Quentin’s keynote speech.”

  “Quentin?” Eban asked sharply.

  “Quentin Savage.” The corners of Chris’s mouth dragged down. “He was an old friend.”

  “You know Quentin Savage?” Eban asked in surprise.

  Chris pressed his lips firmly together as if trying to get ahold of the emotions surging through him. “We were in the 101st Airborne together. Screaming Eagles.”

  Eban filed the information under interesting details he needed to follow up on. “Did you see Quentin during the shooting?”

  “Yep.”

  “What happened to him?” Eban said, trying to stem his impatience.

  “I got hit on the head by a falling beam in the hotel foyer and knocked unconscious.” Chris gingerly touched his scalp again. “Quentin appeared out of nowhere and saved me from burning to death. Him and Haley Cramer. She helped drag me out of there too.”

  That confirmed the link between the two.

  “Did you see the attackers?” Eban asked.

  Chris shook his head. “Not really. I wasn’t sure what to do when I heard the gunfire. I stayed in my room waiting for anyone to try and break in. I couldn’t exactly go John McLean and save everyone’s asses, but I could do some damage if anyone came for me.”

  Eban nodded.

  “It got to a point when I couldn’t stay in my room any longer because of the smoke. I put a wet cloth over my face and made my way downstairs. I couldn’t get near the front door, so I headed into the bar. Next thing I know, I’m trapped under burning rubble.”

  “Go on.” Eban was using minimal encouragers to keep the guy talking. It was one of the cornerstones of active listening devices—keep people talking.

  Chris reached over for a glass on the bedside table and took a long swallow of water.

  “I woke up and tried to free myself. Then suddenly, Quentin is dragging me outside and dumped me on the lawn. Then he and Haley ran back inside to rescue others.” Chris’s voice broke. “The roof came down on top of their heads right before I passed out again.” He swallowed noisily, but Eban was still trying to process his words.

  Quentin was dead?

  Eban’s theory that Quentin and Cramer had been somehow seized by the attackers and that was why their bodies hadn’t been found near the beach had just been blown out of the water.

  Shit.

  His throat closed, his skin suddenly drenched in sweat. Sorrow made him want to walk away and grieve, but he had a job to do. He could contemplate his loss later. First, he needed to find the people responsible.

  “You engaged with one of the terrorists?” Eban pointed at the wound in Chris’s arm.

  “Yeah.” Chris inspected his bicep. “There was one guy still in the lobby, waiting to ambush anyone who tried to escape, thankfully he was a lousy shot.”

  “You killed him?”

  “I don’t know. He might have been crushed when the roof fell in.” Chris grimaced. “It was hard to see.”

  “Do you know a man called Cecil Wenck?”

  Chris grunted. “Everyone knows Cecil Wenck. Is he dead too?”

  Eban shook his head. “He left before the attack.”

  “Lucky bastard.” Chris’s lip curled. “Last time I saw him, he was heading to his room with Haley Cramer. She was all over him.”

  That was new and unexpected information. When and how had Cramer ended up with Quentin?

  Eban was impatient for someone to interview Wenck, but the guy was an Australian citizen. The FBI couldn’t force their way into interrogating the billionaire, and his high-priced lawyer was stalling.

  Haley Cramer had been at the heart of everything that had happened. Maybe he’d have people dig deeper into her background too.

  “Any idea when I can get out of here?” Chris asked. “I’m taking up a bed that someone who is genuinely sick could use.”

  “Right now, you are the only survivor of this massacre who’s talking so we need to keep you safe.” Eban wanted Chris protected at all times.

  “I didn’t see anything,” Chris argued.

  “They don’t know that.”

  Chris frowned. “You think they’ll send someone after me?”

  “It’s a possibility. I wouldn’t go back to East Timor until we’ve rounded up the people responsible.”

  Chris swore. “I’ve got thirty well-trained and well-armed men to keep me company in East Timor.”

  Eban shrugged. “I can’t tell you what to do in Indonesia, sir, but why would you risk bringing about an attack on yourself and your own personnel?”

  Bloodshot eyes narrowed on him. “My guys can handle themselves.”

  “And who knows how many innocents might die in the crossfire?”

  Chris grunted. “I guess the guys can manage operations without my help.”

  “Once I have a written statement from you, I suggest going somewhere these people won’t find you for a while.” Eban scratched his head. “Raptor is organizing a medivac for Tricia Rooks back to the States. Maybe you can catch a ride with them?”

  “She woke up yet?” Chris asked.

  Eban shook his head.

  Chris gave a harsh laugh. “I doubt Raptor would want me onboard.”

  “I think they’d be willing to overlook old rivalries to help a fellow survivor.”

  Chris’s face softened into a smile, and he gave a shrug that was almost boyish. “I guess they might.” Then his face crumpled. “I wish Quentin was here…”

  Eban didn’t want to talk about his boss. The grief was like a hammer driving a nail slowly through his heart.

  “Would you be willing to write a statement while I go talk to the Raptor operative guarding Ms. Rooks to ask about that ride home?”

  Chris looked startled. “Yeah. Sure. Thanks. Grab me a pen and paper. It’ll give me something to do.”

  Eban hesitated. “The FBI would also appreciate if you could refrain from talking to the media until we’ve processed the scene and know m
ore about the attackers. We have to identify the dead and inform families.”

  Chris’s jaw hardened. “I’ll think about it but no promises. This is good publicity for my company, and I’m not going to waste it.”

  Eban raised his brows. He shouldn’t be surprised these guys were so mercenary given their profession. He pulled a pen and paper from his laptop bag and found a clipboard from the end of the bed for the guy to lean on. “As much information as possible. The slightest detail might prove important. I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Want me to grab you a coffee?”

  Chris nodded. “Black with two sugars.” He was already scribbling the date on the top of the sheet.

  “You are a very lucky man,” Eban said sincerely.

  “Doesn’t feel lucky to almost die in a terror attack and lose one of my best friends.” Chris gave him a hard stare.

  “I suppose not.” Eban walked away. When he was in line for coffee in the hospital foyer his cell phone started vibrating. “Winters.”

  “SSA Winters. My name is Alex Parker. I’m a consultant for the FBI. We need to talk.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Quentin woke up and lay staring into the thick blackness of the night. He took a few seconds to get his bearings and listen to the sounds of the camp in slumber. The woman pressed against his side was warm and soft, her legs tangled with his, her breath deep and peaceful.

  He hated to wake her. Hated that she was in danger and might die if he messed up. The odds were not in their favor.

  The noises of the Indonesian rainforest rang out like percussion. The terrorists had gone quiet, probably in bed after a hard night’s work the previous day, killing and burning. Despite his training, he couldn’t shake the feeling that now was the time to act, before they got weak, before their captors imagined they’d try to escape.

  He eased away from Haley and shook out his shoes before putting them on. Then he took a big drink of water, leaving enough for Haley to slake her thirst.

  Who knew the next time they’d have something to drink?

  He knelt near the doorway of the hut and observed for long minutes. The slumped silhouette of the guard remained unmoving beneath the same tree as earlier. Quentin scanned the darkness, although it was hard to make out anything else in the shadows. The village appeared asleep, and the guard also.

  Only one way to find out.

  Quentin broke a short, thin stick from the branches of the hut and worked his hand through the twigs and branches until he could reach the padlock. It was a big, old-fashioned iron one and it only took a few seconds to pop the lock. The guard didn’t stir.

  Quentin went back to the cot and gently shook Haley awake.

  She stiffened for a second, then found his hand and squeezed in recognition without saying a word. The fact she didn’t scream in terror spoke of a survival instinct as strong as any soldier’s on a mission. She groped around for her boots and shook them out before pulling them on.

  He handed her the water jug. “Finish it.” His words were a murmur on the warm air, but she heard them and raised the jug to her lips, draining it.

  He put the pitcher and earthen bowl on the bed and draped the blanket over it, even though he was tempted to steal the blanket. Still, the time it might buy them when dawn arrived and the guard glanced casually inside might prove vital. He had no idea how many hours of darkness remained.

  “Let me take care of the guard,” he whispered into her hair. “Then we’ll follow the path down the hill toward the beach. Our night vision should be good enough to see by. If we hear or see anyone on the trail, we fade into the bush, moving nice and slow and crouching close to the ground. Movement draws the eye faster than anything else.” Quentin glanced down at her long, pale limbs. Damn, it was the same dilemma they’d faced in the woods near the hotel. Her skin was too pale even in the darkness. Nothing in the jungle glowed like alabaster.

  He quietly scooped up the blanket. “You’re going to need this if we’re to have any hope of getting past them. Drape it around your shoulders like a cape.”

  He did it for her. Haley stood tense next to him as he tied the corners around her neck. She shook slightly, obviously terrified as anyone with a brain cell would be.

  “If you don’t want to do this we don’t have to,” he reassured her. But things would get progressively worse from now on. Having an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation of the United States of America would prove too tempting not to use and abuse. Wouldn’t be long until the video cameras would be rolling and the machetes sharpened.

  They hadn’t mistreated them too badly yet, because they were lulling them into a false sense of security. These were not merciful individuals. If they’d simply wanted money, they’d have grabbed twenty Western hostages all worth a hell of a lot more than he was.

  No, he was here for some sort of negative leverage campaign.

  They might keep Haley alive, but it wouldn’t go well for her either.

  Many men in positions of power abused women when they had the opportunity. Quentin liked to pretend humans were civilized, but he’d seen abuse regularly as a street agent.

  The US would come for them, guns blazing once videos surfaced on the internet. The US would annihilate this entire island if that’s what it took, and Haley would still be dead. Contrary to the advice he usually gave captives, it was better for them to attempt an escape now rather than sit here like lemmings.

  He went to the door of the hut and double-checked the guard hadn’t moved. He hardened his heart; he couldn’t afford weakness. Haley couldn’t afford for him to be weighing his humanity against their survival.

  “Stay here,” he whispered into her ear.

  He unhooked the padlock and worked it back inside through the rushes. He slowly pushed open the rickety door, which creaked like a gong on the night air. Quentin tensed. The guard didn’t move, instead a soft snore escaped.

  Quentin crept forward, using combat training skills he’d thought he’d long forgotten. He didn’t want to kill the man, but he had little choice. If the guard woke and checked on them during the night, their plans for escape would be sunk. Quentin steeled himself.

  Breaking someone’s neck was about as up-close and personal as two people got outside of sex. Quentin did not hesitate or give the guard a chance to call out a warning to his fellow terrorists. It was fast and brutally efficient. A small piece of Quentin shriveled up and died when the bone cracked. He’d take that slight loss of humanity over lying down and surrendering, especially if surrendering meant sacrificing Haley too.

  He propped the man gently against the tree and went through his pockets. He left the AK. No way could he take on a hundred terrorists in a firefight and win. Rifles were heavy and noisy. He took a pistol and knife and slid them into his waistband and back pocket, found a water canteen that was almost full, which he slipped over his head and shoulder. No phone, which was surprising as social media was huge in this part of the world.

  Was that intentional—the lack of phones? Had the paramilitaries figured out that the cell phone signals could be used to track them? Probably.

  Quentin went back to the hut, and Haley stepped out, the blanket keeping her from being too visible in the moonlight. He quickly shut the door and replaced the padlock with a dull click. Then he took Haley’s hand and found the path, moving silently down the hill and away from the people who wanted to chop off Haley’s nose and his head. Praying that luck was for once on their side.

  * * *

  They moved gingerly, the path wide enough and her night vision sharp enough that Haley could see where to place her feet and avoid any roots that might trip her.

  She’d watched Quentin Savage live up to his name as he killed another man, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to be anything except grateful.

  The jungle was raucous with sounds she didn’t recognize. A few nights ago, the idea of walking through the forest at night would have made her wig out. Now her ears were focused solely on listening for human
activity. Humans were the most terrifying predator of all.

  Twenty minutes into their escape, the chink of metal against metal had Quentin stopping and leading her quickly off the main path to hide behind a tree. He adjusted the edge of the blanket and pulled the musty wool up over her hair. Then he wrapped his arms around her under the blanket and tucked his nose into the crook of her neck.

  The mustiness tickled her nose, and she’d never been more afraid of something as simple as a sneeze in her entire life. Her heart hammered in fear. If they were caught, she knew they’d follow up on their evil threats, and she did not think she could survive being carved up for someone’s amusement.

  She could feel Quentin’s exhale through the coarse fibers of the wool and quieted her own breathing to match his. The strength of his arms felt like a buttress of support for her to lean into as a small group of men trudged up the pathway toward camp, laughing and joking. Staying still and quiet was the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life. Way harder than running away from home. Way harder than competing for business in a competitive and male-dominated world. She owed Quentin her life and her sanity. Even if they never escaped. Even if they died in the next few hours, she owed him everything.

  They waited a full minute after the men had passed.

  She raised her head, and Quentin ran his hand over her jaw, his touch warm and comforting. He pulled her back onto the path, and they increased their pace until they were almost jogging, the increasing sense of urgency punching her ribcage with demanding thuds.

  As soon as those men reached camp, they’d likely come upon the dead guard and raise the alarm. She and Quentin needed to be on a boat and out of here before that happened.

  Less than five minutes later, they could hear the steady, constant beat of the ocean. They slowed and approached cautiously, hiding in the brush along the edge of the beach. The yacht bobbed temptingly in the moonlight. Even more enticing, two rigid inflatable boats were moored close to the rocks on the far side of the cove. In between lay what looked like a small makeshift camp.

  “What do you think?” Quentin whispered in her ear.