by Lauren Carr
“If you wanted me dead, you would have left me there for the death squad to finish off. What I don’t trust is our technology. Whoever is behind this could be using any of it to track us.”
“We’re going to have to go completely off the grid,” Murphy said. “Since you’re holding the gun—you got any ideas?”
“First, we ditch this vehicle.”
Chapter Five
Harpers Ferry, West Virginia
Normally, federal agents would seek and confiscate a shooter’s vehicle for evidence. If that had happened, Helen would have been trapped in the city with no way to return home and help Chris. Without asking any questions, Ripley Vaccaro pretended not to notice when Helen ran into the parking garage where Chris had parked his truck and never returned.
After crossing the West Virginia state line, Helen’s first stop was the Matheson family farm, which rested along the Shenandoah River.
At sixty-five, Doris Matheson exuded a timeless beauty. Wrinkles added character, not age. Her thick blond hair framed her lovely face. The widow of a West Virginia State Police captain, she volunteered much of her time to her church’s mission work and animal welfare causes. As if having a full-time job as director at the library and volunteer work was not enough, Doris also taught yoga and swam three miles, four times a week.
Helen hoped she had as much energy and looked half as good when she was Doris’s age.
After crossing the river, Helen turned right and traveled downstream until she came to the driveway. She punched the security code into the keypad to open the gate and drove up the hill to the farmhouse.
The time on the dashboard of Chris’s truck read nine-seventeen. She could see that the main floor was illuminated, but the upper floors were dark. Aware that Doris had planned for a special weekend with Elliott Prescott, her first relationship since her husband’s death, Helen felt a tinge of guilt.
She hated to interrupt Doris’s date, but she’d want to know that Chris was in trouble—and that Blair was still alive.
Elliott would want to know as well. He was the leader of Chris’s book club.
After parking Chris’s truck in his spot next to the barn, Helen hurried across the barnyard to climb the steps to the wrap-around porch.
Recognizing the roar of his master’s truck engine, Sterling, Chris’s German shepherd met Helen in the mudroom. The hundred-pound dog repeatedly leapt, all four feet off the floor, to peep through the door. With an equal mixture of care to not hit the dog and eagerness to get out of the cold, she forced her way inside.
Sterling was not alone. Helen was also greeted by a Doberman pinscher, yellow lab, and a fifteen-pound French lop eared rabbit clad in a maroon lace wrap named Thor. The retired law enforcement K9, Sadie, and Mocha, a search and rescue dog, were Doris’s constant companions. Chris called them her entourage.
“Christopher, did you do something to make Helen mad?” Doris called out from the living room.
“Chris is in trouble.” Without bothering to take off her coat, Helen led the pack of critters through the country kitchen and into the living room where she found Doris perched on a stool in front of an easel.
Donning a painter’s smock over her jeans and turtleneck sweater, she was putting the first coat of paint on a canvas. “What kind of trouble did Christopher get himself into now?”
Helen fought the tears returning to her eyes. “He killed a man in the subway.”
Doris’s gray eyes, the same hue as Chris’s, tore away from the bananas she was painting. “Whatever for?”
“He was an international assassin. Chris said his name was Leonardo Mancini.”
“Leonardo Mancini! He’s one big gun,” Elliott’s voice came from the other side of the easel.
“That’s not all—” Helen rounded the canvas and uttered a shriek when she found the elderly man posing on the sofa with an array of fruit positioned around his naked body. A clump of strategically placed bananas concealed his private parts. After getting over the initial shock, she had to admit that Elliott was in fairly good shape for his age. Still, she would have preferred not to have that information.
“Was this assassin working at the time that Christopher took him out or was he off duty?” Doris asked.
“Chris said he had a gun shoved into Blair’s ribs.”
“Blair who, dear?”
Tears spilled from Helen’s eyes. “Blair.”
“Blair?”
“His wife. Blair. Blair Matheson. Katelyn, Nikki, and Emma’s mother.”
Doris’s face was blank. Blinking her eyes, she shook her head. “Blair’s dead, Helen.”
“Obviously not. Chris saw her.”
It was not easy to shock Doris Matheson. The news that her daughter-in-law was alive did just that. She stared at Helen with her mouth hanging open. Sitting on either side of her, Mocha and Sadie gazed up at their master as if to ask what they could do to help.
Spotting an unguarded carrot, Thor climbed up onto the sofa at Elliott’s bare feet. Sterling sniffed at the food arrangement in search of something he might like, with his snout zeroing in on what Elliott was hiding behind the bananas. Elliott tried to swat him away without moving. “Are you sure it was Chris’s wife? Did Mancini shoot her before Chris took him out?”
“Chris said she jumped on the train and left. He never talked to her.”
“Obviously, Christopher was mistaken.” With a renewed sense of resolve, Doris turned back to the canvas. “Elliott, stop playing with Sterling and hold still.”
“Doris, Chris doesn’t make those types of mistakes.”
“Helen’s right about that, Doris.” Elliott tried not to giggle at Thor chewing on the carrots near his toes. “Chris is not one to jump to conclusions.” He grabbed the head of romaine lettuce that Sterling claimed as his.
“The state department told us that Blair was dead. She had taken leave to go to France with some intelligence agent from Australia. She’d told Christopher that she was too busy working to spend time with him and the girls. That’s why he cancelled a trip to join her in Europe for the summer.”
“Did Chris or you see Blair’s body?” Helen asked.
“She was cremated there, and her ashes sent back,” Doris said. “Elliott, why did you give the lettuce to Sterling? Now we’re going to have to start over.” She put the brush and palette on an end table.
Sensing that his modeling session was over, Elliott put on his bathrobe and joined them at the easel.
“That’s strange that the state department cremated Blair’s body overseas before her family had the opportunity to see her,” Helen said. “Did Chris request that?”
“No,” Doris said. “As a matter of fact, he was furious when he found out. He and Blair had agreed to be cremated, but he wanted to say goodbye before it was done. The state department claimed it was a clerical error. They mixed Blair up with someone else.”
Elliott and Helen exchanged puzzled expressions.
“How did they identify Blair’s body?” Elliott asked.
Doris put the tip of her paintbrush to her lips. Her gray eyes narrowed.
Seated on either side of her, Mocha and Sadie’s eyes mirrored the question in their master’s. Across the room, Sterling climbed up onto the sofa to take Elliott’s spot. Thor was in bunny heaven chowing down on the lettuce and carrots.
After a long thought-filled silence, Doris removed the paintbrush from her lips and looked at Helen and Elliott. “To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure.”
While most people were turning in for the night, things were just getting started in the club district of Georgetown. It was difficult for Murphy to not run over college students dancing in the streets to the music blasting from nightclubs or rushing across to meet friends.
Chris directed him to turn down a side street leading to the warehouse district.
&nbs
p; The bright lights and party atmosphere quickly turned dark and ominous.
“Park over there.” Chris gestured to a vacant area next to what looked like a deserted building.
Murphy took the gun out of his ankle holster and tucked it into his jacket pocket as he climbed out of the car.
Chris opened the glove compartment. “Take out anything that we need to keep.”
Murphy opened the rear compartment and stuffed items into Hayes’s go-to bag. “Are we just leaving it here?”
“It will be gone in an hour.” Chris slammed the door shut and waited for Murphy to join him.
“Gone where?”
“Stripped.”
Murphy stopped. “This is government property.”
“Do you want to take it back to the motor pool? Possibly tip off whoever’s trying to kill us? Based on what I’ve seen tonight, they don’t care who or how many people they kill.” When Murphy didn’t answer, Chris turned around and trotted through a clump of bushes and a break in the wire fence to a jogging path.
Murphy slung the duffel bag over his shoulder and jogged to catch up. Chris led him along the river and back toward the street where they climbed through a break in another wire fence. They eventually came to the back of a brightly lit warehouse. The roar of power equipment filled the air.
“Moby Valente. Got out a few months ago.” Chris chuckled in the dark. “I knew he’d be back in business in no time.” He turned to Murphy. “We’re on my turf now. You keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking.” He crossed the back lot before stopping. “On second thought—when I saw you at the metro—do you remember that expression you had on your face?”
Murphy’s eyes narrowed. “What expression?”
“That’s the one. Go with that.”
Chris yanked open the back door to the warehouse and strode inside. Keeping his hand on the gun in his pocket, Murphy followed him.
The warehouse was filled with one luxury car after another, each one being worked on, either stripped or rebuilt, by a crew of sweaty, tattooed, mostly menacing workers. Many stopped to regard the visitors with suspicion. More than one reached into tool boxes. Based on their expressions, Murphy surmised they were not reaching for screw drivers.
Seemingly undisturbed by the attention, Chris threw open his arms like the long-lost son returning home and rushed toward a glassed-in office in the corner of the warehouse. “Moby! It’s good to see you back in business again! When did you get out?”
An enormous man spun around in his office chair and wheeled into the doorway.
Murphy quickly saw why Chris called him “Moby.” The man had to be close to four-hundred pounds. The whale of a man was white, not albino, but pale as in he never went into the sun.
A broad grin crossed Moby’s face when he saw Chris. “Georgie! My dear bud!” He remained in his seat while Chris bent over to give him a hug. “When did you get out?”
“I got out four months ago,” Chris said.
“Four months? Why didn’t you come look me up?” Moby told the other men milling about. “Georgie here was the best carjacker I ever had. He could boost a vehicle—any type, even the latest ones with all those anti-theft systems—in thirty seconds flat.”
“If he’s so good, how’d he end up in jail?” asked one of the younger men, who looked barely beyond his teenaged years.
“Trusted the wrong guy.” Chris cocked his head at him. “You kind of remind me of him.”
The young man slinked away under Chris’s glare.
“So why didn’t you look me up when you got out?” Moby asked.
“I didn’t know you were out until just this evening,” Chris said. “My bud, Wilder over there and I got ourselves in a jam. We need some wheels.” He gestured over his shoulder to Murphy, who was eying the slick operation.
“If you’re such a legend at boosting cars, why not steal one?” the kid asked with a note of disdain.
“Because we’re in enough trouble without getting pulled over for driving a stolen vehicle.”
“What kind of trouble you in, Georgie?” Moby asked.
“Wilder and I were cell mates in the joint.” Chris tapped Murphy on the arm.
In keeping with his role, Murphy shot him a glare.
“We saved each other’s butts more than once,” Chris said. “We swore to keep our noses clean when we got out, and we were doing just that until tonight. We went to a club up in Georgetown and wouldn’t you know it—Wilder’s ex-wife’s boyfriend was there. He recognized Wilder and next thing you know—”
“I take it that blood on his clothes is the ex’s boyfriend’s,” Moby said. “Is he alive?”
Chris tossed his head in the direction of the river. “He’s swimming with the fishes.”
“Oh, man!”
“It wasn’t Wilder’s fault,” Chris said. “We just need a set of wheels that isn’t too hot to get out of the area before they find his body.”
“I don’t know, Georgie.” Looking Murphy over, Moby rubbed his fat flabby face. He gestured for Chris to move in closer. “How well do you know this Wilder guy?”
“We were cell mates for close to a year.”
Moby lowered his voice. “He looks like a cop to me.”
Chris broke into a laugh so loud that it startled those around him—including Murphy. Chris’s chortle had an insane sound to it. “Hey, Wilder, Moby thinks you’re a cop!”
Murphy joined in the laughter.
Chris wiped tears of laughter from his eyes and turned to Moby with a serious expression. The shift in his demeanor was disconcerting. “You owe me, Moby. It was one of your crew who ratted me out.” He picked up a crowbar and smashed a work bench with it. “Seven years! I spent seven years in a locked room because of you—”
“I didn’t rat you out!” Moby said. “I lost a million-dollar business operation because that snitch turned on me, too!”
“I lost my woman!” Welding the crow bar over his shoulder as if he were ready to strike down Moby, Chris sneered. “She was gone faster than I could boost a bike.” He pointed the end of the crowbar at Moby. “You hired that rat. He worked for you. That makes you responsible for me getting locked up.”
Moby’s jowls quivered. “Okay. Okay. Okay. I’ll take care of ya. I promise. Right now, all we got here is hot. My crew is still working on them.” He called over to one of his men. “Hey, Alex, is that Beemer ready to roll?”
“Just put the tags on it.” Alex responded by tossing a set of keys to Moby, who caught them simply by raising his hand.
“How hot is it?” Chris asked.
“It’s closer to lukewarm than hot.” Moby tossed the keys to him.
“We’ll turn it in to the police as soon as this case is over,” Chris whispered to Murphy as they raced the red BMW out of the warehouse and onto the street.
Murphy waited until they were crossing the Potomac River, before saying, “You used to steal cars for that guy?”
“You’d be shocked and surprised at the skills I’ve developed during my career of working undercover.” Chris flashed a wicked grin. “If I was on the other side of the law, I’d be a very successful criminal. That’s what made me such a good agent.”
“I take it the rat that got Moby arrested wasn’t some kid on his crew, but you.”
Chris shot a wicked grin across the front of the BMW. “If my cover wasn’t still good, we would be dead right now instead of driving away in this nice luxury vehicle.”
Murphy set his leather seat back into a reclining position. “Nice hot luxury vehicle.”
“Not hot. Lukewarm.”
Chapter Six
By the time they got on the road, both men were hungry. Luckily, Chris had thought to pocket the wallet from the duffel bag. They couldn’t risk using debit or credit cards for fear of being tracked. It was at the fast food
drive-thru that Chris discovered his partner on the run was a vegetarian.
“Do you know how much damage complex carbs do to your heart over time?” Murphy said between spoonfuls of a fruit yogurt parfait. “Complex carbs break down into sugar which turns into cholesterol which turns into gunk that clogs your arteries and gives you a stroke when you reach middle age.”
“Isn’t there sugar in those apple slices?” Chris asked around a bite of a double cheeseburger.
Murphy waved an apple slice in his direction. “These are simple carbs.”
Chris responded by waving a fry at him. “You can’t get much simpler than a fry.”
“At your age, you should start watching what you eat.”
Stuffing the last bite of the cheeseburger into his mouth, Chris took a sip of his soda. “Let’s change the subject. Is your wife a health food freak, too?”
“No, she’s a junk food junkie. Loves, I mean loves, chocolate.” Murphy shot a glance in his direction. “How did you—”
Chris pointed at his left hand. “Ring finger.”
“I’m not wearing a wedding ring and don’t say anything about a tan line because there is none.”
“But there is an indentation where you usually wear a wedding ring. I’m assuming you take it off when you go on assignment so that your targets can’t go after your wife and family.”
With a nod of his head, Murphy said, “I’m sure you did the same when you worked undercover.”
“I quit undercover work when I got married. That’s not the type of work for a family man. I’d be gone for months at a time and the type of people I would be investigating—” Chris allowed himself to shudder. “They were the type of people that if my cover got blown, no one would find my body.”
“And yet your children lost their mother and still ended up being raised by a single parent,” Murphy said.
“Is your wife with the agency?”
“She’s in med school.”
“Ah, a doctor, eh?”
“A psychiatrist.”
“That should be helpful in your line of work,” Chris said. “Kids?”