The accountant was running. Innocent people didn’t run. She’d been his first suspect since her name had come up in the previous audit. Didn’t help that she’d spent the past week behaving like a textbook example of a guilty person. She was edgy and jumpy—rarely leaving her desk—even for meals. She didn’t want anyone messing with her computer. She didn’t want anyone to know what she was doing. Innocent people had nothing to hide.
Strike one.
Corbin pushed open the door to the garage, and his blood froze.
A man had his arm clamped around Beth’s waist, the other hand covering her mouth.
His adrenaline surged. She kicked and clawed. Her heels scuffed along the cement, and one of her shoes tumbled free. A car idled opposite the exit, a shadowy figure in the driver’s seat, presumably the getaway vehicle. Ducking behind a pillar, Corbin rapidly scanned the garage. He’d backed his nondescript sedan into the spot opposite Beth’s. The proximity was purposeful. If she was planning on disappearing, he wanted to know. He crouched and crossed the distance, then fished out his key fob and hit the button twice, remotely starting his car.
The man holding Beth spun toward the noise. The next instant he yelped and stumbled backward, clutching his face.
Beth held her arm extended, a canister of pepper spray in her outstretched hand. Writhing in pain, the man lurched away from her assault. He groped blindly in the direction of his waiting vehicle. Corbin dove into his car and slammed the transmission into First. He roared out of the space, positioning the passenger side before Beth.
Her face pale, she glanced up from her crouched position.
He leaned over the console and pushed open the door. “Get in!”
She scooped up her purse, her frightened gaze swinging between him and her car.
The pepper-sprayed man had reached the getaway vehicle. Still blinded, he fumbled with the handle.
Beth shook her head. “No.”
“Get in!” he ordered. “There’s no time.”
A bullet ricocheted off the hood.
The getaway driver had a gun. The noise propelled her forward. She leaped into the passenger seat and slammed the door. Another bullet shattered the windshield of her car. Beth threw her arms over her face and crouched behind the dash.
Corbin shifted into Reverse and braced his hand on the back of the passenger seat. Looking over his shoulder, he sped down the garage ramp in reverse. When they reached the next level, he spun the wheel. The tires squealed and smoked, circling the car forward.
“Put on your seat belt,” he ordered gruffly.
Her fingers fumbling, Beth complied. The parking-garage gate was open, and he raced through the exit. He didn’t live in the city, but he’d gotten to know the layout over the past two weeks.
Glancing at the rearview mirror, he caught sight of the car following them. “Hang on. This might get bumpy.”
He couldn’t get a good look at the men driving. Average height and build. Sunglasses despite the cloudy sky. One of them was wearing a dark ball cap with lighter lettering. He squinted into the rearview mirror. Maybe a Bears hat. It was too difficult to discern.
The sky was overcast, creating an early twilight. He wove through the Friday afternoon traffic and turned on to a side street packed with orange cones and graded for resurfacing. He only needed a few twists and turns. The men following them were liable to give up easily. Traffic was heavy, and there were too many witnesses. A Friday evening in downtown Chicago meant extra police patrolling the tipsy happy-hour crowds.
He took a corner and then another. Cars filled in behind them, and he drove toward the freeway ramp. Soon they were caught in the rush of traffic. Concentrating on the road and keeping a watch for a tail kept his attention focused. Beth remained silent; her hands braced against the dash. He raised an eyebrow. Though she had her phone, she hadn’t dialed the police. A cop’s daughter who didn’t call the police after an attack.
Strike two.
Once he was confident the men following them had given up, he exited the freeway and drove toward a park near his rented house. The lot was empty save for a single vehicle. A young couple played Frisbee in the distance, oblivious to the darkening sky.
He turned toward Beth and came face-to-face with her container of pepper spray.
Lifting his hands, he said, “Easy there. Don’t shoot.”
He’d been pepper-sprayed in the army, and he’d prefer not to repeat the experience.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Corbin Ross. You might remember me from the finance meeting this morning. The one with the stale donuts and the endless PowerPoint.”
His joke lifted one edge of her mouth.
“Sam must have had over a hundred slides,” she said.
“And half of them were charts.”
Her blond hair had come loose from the severe bun she wore at the nape of her neck and tumbled over her shoulder in a gilded wave. Though her hands shook, she stared him down with a steely determination in her leaf-green eyes. Her words were light, but her intentions were deadly serious. His heartbeat kicked. This wasn’t personal. This was business. The first rule of undercover work was never get involved with your subject. Fraternizing with a suspect was a surefire path to the unemployment line.
The container wavered. “Take me back to my car.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, soothingly. “Someone may be watching your car. Your apartment isn’t safe, either. I’ll take you to the police station.”
“No.” Her gaze narrowed. “No police.”
“You can’t run from this,” he said. “Whatever you’ve done, it’s time to own up.”
A series of suspicious transactions with Cayman Holdings had brought Quetech Industries to the attention of the Cyber Division of Homeland Security. Two years before, Corbin had worked with the FBI on a case involving the same bank. A forensic accountant, Timothy Swan, had claimed to have evidence against Cayman Holdings, Limited. Beth Greenwood’s name had come up during the investigation. With no suspects in Swan’s death and insufficient evidence to pursue the fraud, the case had languished.
When the bank had come to the attention of Homeland Security once more, Corbin had volunteered for the undercover assignment. Beth Greenwood’s employment at Quetech Industries had been too much of a coincidence. She’d worked with Timothy Swan before. She’d spoken to the accountant about the case before his death. This was the second time her name had been linked to Cayman Holdings.
For the past two weeks, Corbin had worn a suit and tie and gossiped over the water cooler. Two weeks hadn’t given him enough time to unravel the complicated financial dealings. All he had were his suspicions, but they were adding up quickly.
“If you tell the truth,” Corbin said. “I’ll do what I can to help you.”
He wasn’t lying to her. Not exactly. As long as she turned over state’s evidence, he’d put in a good word with the prosecutor.
“What are you saying?” Beth rapidly shook her head. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Those men attacked me.”
“What did they want?”
She ducked her head. “How should I know?”
“Then why aren’t we going to the police station?”
Since he’d left the army for stateside government work, he’d seen plenty of embezzlement scandals. In his experience, white-collar criminals didn’t hire killers when they were caught red-handed—they bought boats and disappeared in the Caribbean. Beth and Quetech Industries were involved in something far more sinister than simple embezzlement.
She shook her head. “It’s complicated. The less you know, the better.”
“Look, I’d rather be listening to Janice’s rendition of ‘Total Eclipse of the Sun’ than having this conversation, but those men had guns. They used bullets.”
One of them was embedde
d in the hood of his car. Evidence he’d check later.
The dark gray clouds overhead gave way, and a steady drumming of rain tapped against the car roof. The couple playing Frisbee dashed toward their vehicle, giggling and holding hands. The man held the Frisbee over the woman’s head in a poor attempt to shield her from the rain.
Beth’s distress tugged at Corbin, cementing his resolve. He had to keep his distance, both mentally and physically. He’d seen how her sort operated. Once she knew she was caught, there’d be a sob story, a tearful plea for clemency.
Except he wasn’t in the business of providing sanctuary. “Do people just randomly kidnap you, or is this Friday special?”
The canister of pepper spray shook violently, and her breath came in quick, sharp gasps. “What about my car?”
As the shock penetrated her defenses, her bravado slipped.
“Your windshield is shot out. We caught them off guard. You’re fortunate you weren’t hit.”
Her breath came in sharp huffs. She glanced through the rain-streaked windshield at the park, a frown puckering her forehead. “I can’t just abandon my car.”
“Breathe,” he said. “They’ve probably stolen your car.”
“Are you always this positive?”
“It’s a gift.”
Beth Greenwood didn’t look like someone who’d launder money for terrorists, but what did he know? His midwestern childhood had been poor training for covert military ops. Everyone lied. Four years ago, his brother had trusted the wrong person, and that one mistake had cost his life. The loss had devastated their entire family. His sister-in-law and his nephew had suffered the worst. When Corbin had followed in his brother’s footsteps and joined covert ops to settle the score, he’d kept the truth from his family. They’d been through too much already.
His parents didn’t know what he did for a living now, or what he’d done in the army. They thought he was a desk jockey, and he let them believe the lie. He didn’t want them to worry. After seeing what his sister-in-law was going through, raising a child alone, he’d known he had to choose between having a family and having this profession. He’d called off his engagement to his high school sweetheart. He’d chosen the job.
“I c-can’t seem to stop s-shaking for some reason,” Beth stuttered.
He tamped down a wave of sympathy for his frightened passenger. His personal life and his work life never mixed. Never. He existed in two different worlds. When he was with his family, the job didn’t exist. When he was on the job, everyone else was an enemy. His ex had complained he kept too much hidden. She’d taken his secrecy personally. She’d never understood that it was all part of the job.
“It’s the adrenaline.” He slipped out of his jacket. “Take deep breaths and focus on a pleasant memory.”
“Like what?” Beth asked. “I can’t think of anything.”
Her chest rose and fell in an uneven cadence. The sight of her bare foot, the painted toenails curled against the cold, tugged at something in his chest. She was going to hyperventilate soon.
“What was your favorite hobby as a kid?” he asked, an emotion he didn’t want to identify spreading through him.
He didn’t want to like her. He didn’t want to feel sorry for her. This was a job, and in this job, the risk of betrayal was the difference between life and death.
“Horseback riding.” She covered her mouth with her free hand, her words muffled. “I loved horseback riding.”
She hesitated a moment before lowering the pepper spray. As she reluctantly accepted his coat, his fingers brushed against the silk of her blouse. The rumble of the car engine and the steady patter of rain faded into the void.
“That’s a good memory,” he said. “Think about that.”
“Sometimes we’d take drives on Sunday,” Beth’s voice grew quiet, and her eyes focused on something beyond the rain-dotted windshield. “I’d pretend I owned a horse, and my dad was taking me to the stables.” Her breathing had slowed, and her vacant gaze drifted over him. “We didn’t have the money. It was just a way of pretending. You know, how kids do sometimes?”
“Sure,” he said. “What about your mother?”
“She died when I was six. Car accident. I don’t remember much of her. Just impressions.”
He’d only known Beth for two weeks, but he’d become familiar with her routine. He recognized the floral scent of her perfume and the steady cadence of her walk when she passed his office. He didn’t know why she fascinated him, and he didn’t like the feeling. Not one bit. Feelings had a way of making a person distracted and weak.
She wrapped her arms around her body and chafed her upper arms. “Take me back downtown.”
“I live near here.” He stalled. “I need to stop by my house. Then I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
There was a bullet hole in the hood of his car, and the woman sitting next to him had become a liability to a terrorist cell laundering money. He didn’t know the extent of her knowledge, and he wasn’t letting her out of his sight.
She raised the canister once more. “All right. But I have the pepper spray, remember?”
“I’m not likely to forget.” That stuff was potent. Residue had both their eyes watering in the confined space of the car. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I did save your life. A simple ‘thank you’ would suffice.”
He considered his original cover story. Considering the shock she’d had, he doubted she’d read too much into his earlier conversation. The less she knew at this point the better. He had a greater chance of inspiring her confidence if she didn’t see him as a threat.
“I’m sorry.” She ducked her head. “But I don’t trust anyone from Quetech Industries right now.”
“Why not?”
“I have my reasons.” She swiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “Are you former military? I heard rumors.”
“I served.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong. I promise you that.”
“Sure.” He blinked rapidly against the sting of the toxic spray. “Don’t rub your eyes, it will only make them worse.”
He shifted into gear and pulled out of the parking lot. His rental house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac populated by nondescript houses in a bedroom community. The previous occupants had been college kids, and his neighbors preferred having a quiet, single man next door instead of a noisy frat house. Keeping a low profile had been difficult with the welcoming bandwagon of visitors and casseroles.
He parked in the drive and left the engine running. He glanced at Beth’s shivering frame and cranked the heater.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
“Okay.” Her complexion ashen, she clutched the passenger door handle as though she might leap out of the car at any moment. “Please don’t take long.”
She was terrified, that much of her story he believed. Were they blackmailing her? Somehow that was easier to swallow—picturing her as the innocent victim. What did it matter? That sort of thinking got people killed. He had a mission to accomplish. This wasn’t the time to go soft.
“I’ll be quick,” he said.
A little time alone gave her a chance to stew over her present circumstances. Given the current technology, even if she stole his car, she wouldn’t get far. Without transportation, she was at a considerable disadvantage. It was cold and raining, and she was in a strange neighborhood. There was no place to hide.
He took the shallow porch stairs two at a time and punched his security code into the panel. Once inside, he quickly unlocked his safe and retrieved his Glock. He strapped the holster around his shoulders.
Glancing outside, he caught sight of Beth’s silhouette shimmering in the rain against the soft glow of the streetlight. If she finally decided to call the police, he’d deal with the interference. The police tended to be battering rams when he needed finess
e, but at this point, he didn’t have much choice.
Keeping vigil before the window, the lights doused to prevent glare, he retrieved his phone from his pocket and dialed a memorized number.
The voice on the other end answered with a curt, “What do you have?”
“A problem.”
“Go ahead.”
A pair of headlights flashed across the window. A vehicle pulled into the next driveway over, and Corbin squinted through the sheeting rain. He recognized his neighbor’s familiar battered minivan with a parade of stick people marching across the back window.
“This is more than embezzlement,” Corbin said. “Someone tried to grab the accountant in the Quetech parking garage. They were professionals. Armed.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.” Corbin raked his hand through his hair. “The civilian prevented an engagement.”
“Then you were right about the terrorism connection.”
“Looks that way.”
“We’ll see if they left any evidence behind in the garage. Anything else?”
“Cayman Holdings isn’t listed in Quetech’s public records, but I traced an email about the bank.”
“Where’s the accountant now?”
“She’s with me,” Corbin said.
As long as she didn’t bolt, she had a chance at partial immunity. Maybe she hadn’t meant for things to go as far as they did. Maybe she hadn’t realized where the money was being funneled. Maybe she wanted to repent. The Bible said there’d be more joy in heaven for one sinner who repented than for ninety-nine righteous men.
Or maybe he just wanted to make excuses for her because he’d seen her hovering near the door of the break room during the monthly celebration of birthdays and anniversaries. She’d lingered just beyond the crowd of coworkers as they laughed and joked, looking in, but never crossing the threshold.
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts, then turned and snatched his identification from the open safe.
None of that mattered. She was in his custody, whether she knew it or not. She was suspicious of him, a disadvantage. Right now, she was probably weighing her options. Trying to decide if she was more afraid of him, the police, or the men in the garage.
No Safe Place Page 2