Agent Butler slid another photograph across the table. Caroline crossed her arms, body language rejecting what she was seeing in the photograph, and stared straight ahead. The agent was a good starer, better than she was. His gaze was steady and unrelenting, and with a shudder and a sigh, Caroline gave in and dropped her eyes to the photograph. Just a flicker of a gaze, but it was enough.
The photograph was very clear.
A slightly leaner Jack, with several days’ growth of beard, in camouflage, holding a big black gun. Dense, blindingly green foliage in the background, a line of wooden huts with tin roofs, African children playing in the dust, African soldiers standing guard.
There was a time stamp in white at the bottom. 11:21 A.M., December 21.
“That’s not Afghanistan,” the FBI agent said.
“No,” Caroline whispered. “It’s not.”
She wanted to pull the photograph closer for a better look, but she couldn’t. She was hugging herself, deeply chilled in the core of her being.
“That was shot by a UNOMSIL soldier in Freetown, seven days ago, just before Deaver headed into the hinterland for a village called Obuja, where there were rumors swirling around about a sackful of diamonds. He caught a pirogue going upriver to Obuja. Twenty-four hours after that photograph was taken, everyone in Obuja was dead, and he had found the diamonds. The UN is still looking for him there, but we’d got word that he’d flown back to the States.”
Caroline had to cough to loosen her throat. She licked dry lips as she counted the days. “But—but that would mean that he flew from Africa directly here.” She stopped, her throat hurting. “But…why. Why come here? It’s halfway around the world. It doesn’t make sense. Why here?”
“To see you,” Agent Butler said.
The quiet words seemed to fill the room, bounce around the walls, echo in her head. It took her several minutes to process the words. He didn’t hurry her, just watched her closely.
The tea she’d just had threatened to come up, and Caroline swallowed heavily.
“I—I’m afraid I don’t understand. He flew straight back from Africa to see me? Jack Prescott didn’t know me. I met him for the first time on Christmas Eve. He can’t possibly have flown something like ten thousand miles for me.”
This time there were two photocopies slid across the table. Caroline didn’t look at them. Didn’t want to look at them. Special Agent Butler tapped first one, then the other.
“He knew you all right. These photographs were found in his backpack, which he abandoned at the village. They were faxed to me by a UNOMSIL sergeant. Look at them, please, Ms. Lake. He came here for you.”
Caroline held his eyes, completely unable to read them. Finally, with a feeling that nothing would ever be the same, she looked down, then looked away immediately. A cold fist gripped her heart and squeezed.
“You found those in Africa?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Caroline hugged herself more tightly—cold, miserable, stomach roiling. She heard a vague whistling sound in her ears and wondered whether she was going to faint.
“Do you recognize these photographs, Ms. Lake?”
Caroline couldn’t speak. She could barely breathe.
“Ms. Lake?”
Sanders leaned forward. “Caroline, that’s your high-school photo, don’t you recognize it? And the other one—”
Special Agent Butler spoke without turning his head or taking his eyes from hers.
“Shut up. Sir.” His gaze was fierce and unblinking, focused tightly on her. “Ms. Lake, I’m asking you for the second time—do you recognize those photographs? And don’t even try lying because I can drag you to the Seattle office and make you swear all of this under oath, and you know what the penalty for lying under oath is.”
Caroline nodded jerkily. “Yes,” she whispered. “I do.”
“So what are those photographs of?”
“Me.” Her voice came out thin and reedy, almost a wheeze. “One is my sophomore high-school portrait. The other is—is a photograph cut out of a local newspaper. Of me at a piano recital. I must have been—what? Sixteen? How on earth could those photographs be in Jack Prescott’s possession?”
“That’s precisely what I want to know from you,” he said grimly. “Maybe the two of you were in it together?”
“What?” Caroline whispered, shocked.
Special Agent Butler nodded. “You could be a great alibi. Deaver couldn’t have killed the villagers, stolen the diamonds, because he was with his lady love over the Christmas holidays. It makes a crazy kind of sense, because he traveled under a fake name. If we didn’t have that photograph and the time stamp, well then, he could just say that he was curled up in his love nest, and who’d be the wiser?”
“Damn right,” Sanders said. “Caroline, you barely escaped. Why when I think of what could have happened to you if the FBI hadn’t been on this guy’s trail…God knows he’s violent enough to really hurt you. Even murder you, if he had to.” He didn’t look unhappy at that notion. The darker the picture of Jack, the brighter his star shone.
Caroline looked from Sanders’s smug face to the bleak, cold features of the FBI agent. She felt trapped, as if the walls of her shop were closing in on her. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead, her head swirled, her chest felt tight.
A younger, happier her looked up at her from the tabletop, a mocking reminder of life’s cruelties. She reached out a shaking finger to touch first Jack’s photograph then the photocopy of her high-school portrait, trying to make the connection between the sunny high schooler and the dark, dangerous-looking man in the jungle fatigues.
Sanders laid his hand over hers and squeezed. She whisked her hand out from under his.
It was the last straw.
Don’t touch me! The words were there in her throat, and she had to clamp her jaw closed to keep them in.
Suddenly, Caroline couldn’t stay in the same room with the two men, with the photographs and with the doubts about the man she’d made love to all weekend. The man she’d fallen in love with. Was half in love with, still. If she stayed in this room one second more, she’d vomit her misery all over the floor. She shivered violently, stood up and rushed out the door.
Jack parked on the other side of Hamilton Park just as it started to snow. Didn’t make any difference. He didn’t mind the cold, and he needed to stretch his legs after the long day spent in his SUV driving around offices. He needed the walk across the park on the way to Caroline’s shop, to clear his head.
Something was very wrong with Caroline. Jack could feel it in his bones. All day, as he’d gone about his business, he’d had the tickle of unease as a background noise in his head.
Pity, because otherwise it had been a good day, no doubt about it. An airtight security system was going up at Greenbriars tomorrow. Cost him the better part of $5,000, but it was worth it. Caroline didn’t have to know how much it cost.
A fabulous property in a busy downtown building which would be just perfect for his business was for sale at a very reasonable price, and he had an appointment the day after tomorrow with the Realtor. With luck, he could incorporate and start his new business by mid-January.
His day had ended with a visit to an estate lawyer, something that had been preying on his mind. No matter what happened to him, if he dropped dead this instant, from this day on, Caroline would be taken care of. She was his sole heir, and she could live in ease from the proceeds of his estate.
Very satisfying all in all, but he couldn’t relax until he cleared up what was eating Caroline. She’d been pale and silent over breakfast, looking worried and wan.
He hated that. He hated to see that look on her face. It was probably a mix of money worries, someone she considered a friend attacking her and that fucking son of a bitch breaking into her home.
Well, that wasn’t ever going to happen again. The new security system was airtight. The only way to break into Greenbriars as of tomorrow would be to blow up the door with Se
mtex or fire an RPG through the living room window of Caroline’s home.
His home. Soon.
The last thing he’d done in his busy day was price diamond rings. It hadn’t been fun making the rounds of jewelers, but it had to be done. His head swirled with technical data. Carats, clarity, hue. He didn’t give a fuck. All he knew was that he wanted something big and his on her ring finger. Big and bright and shiny enough so that it screamed back off! to every male who came within a hundred-foot radius of her.
He’d seen at least twenty rings that would do. Tomorrow he’d swing by again and bag one.
The irony of shopping for a diamond ring when he had a fortune in uncut diamonds in a safe-deposit box wasn’t lost on him.
Not for a second, though, was he tempted to use one of the diamonds in the cloth bag. They were tainted with blood, heartbreak and suffering. He’d never let one of them even near her. The stones would have to go as soon as he could arrange it. He wanted them out of his life and Caroline’s. There was a perfect way to wipe out the bad karma, and he was sure Caroline would approve.
That idea was for later, for when she’d accepted that they were together. Were meant to be together for a lifetime.
When could he give her the engagement ring? Not today—today she was upset, tired, worried. He was going to have to work overtime at loving her tonight, not that it would be a hardship.
Maybe he’d give it a week. A week of sex and food and rest, fixing up her house, making it safe and comfortable. Put the roses back on her cheeks, wipe the worry off her face.
Yes, this time next week, he’d find out what the nicest restaurant in the area was, take her out and propose. Or take her to Seattle. Or—hell—to Aruba. That sounded about right. Some luxury resort, days in the sun, nights making love. A candlelight dinner, the ring and the promise to love her all the rest of his days.
And he’d have Caroline for the rest of his life.
The idea wouldn’t leave his head once he’d planted the seed of it. Caroline—his forever. They’d have children, and he’d grow old with her by his side. It was the one thing he’d never even dared to dream, all those lonely nights thinking of her, and here he was, close enough to touch the dream.
The image filled his head so much he could see her, right before him…
Jack frowned. That wasn’t a vision—it was Caroline, running right into the park in the middle of the fucking snowstorm. His jaws clenched. Shit, she was without a coat and had on a pair of those fancy shoes that might be good in a heated shop but were ridiculous in the snow.
His frown deepened. She was going to catch pneumonia. Right after she slipped and broke her fucking neck.
“Caroline!” he roared. “Get back in the shop before you catch your death of cold!”
She looked up, saw him and froze, panic and fear etched on her face. Then she whirled and disappeared into the shrubbery lining the path. In a second, the only thing on the path was falling snowflakes.
A sudden gust of raw easterly wind parted the snow. Jack could see all the way across the park and the street to Caroline’s shop. He had only a glimpse before the snow curtain closed again, but it was enough.
Standing in the doorway was Vince Deaver.
The shock of seeing a man he’d left in custody ten thousand miles away sent him reeling.
His hands shook as he drew his weapon and checked it for ammo. It was second nature. He always had a full magazine. But he was operating on half his wits right now because the other half was scared shitless.
Vince Deaver, a man he’d watched blow kids’ heads apart, was here, gunning for him, and Caroline was caught right in the middle.
Weapon in hand, crouching, Jack started circling toward Caroline.
She’d taken him completely by surprise; otherwise, she’d never have left the shop. Not alive, anyway.
Deaver raced after Caroline Lake, but a curtain of snow drifted down and enveloped her before he could get out of the shop. She could have bolted in any direction.
Deaver stood in the doorway, senses wide open. He couldn’t let Caroline Lake get away. She was the key to the diamonds, and she was what would get him his revenge.
“Caroline!” a deep voice shouted from across the street. “Get back in the shop before you catch your death of cold!”
Jack Prescott! Deaver would recognize that voice anywhere. He was here! It was impossible to tell how far away he was, the snow muffled sound, but by God, he was here, Caroline Lake was here, and Deaver was so close to the diamonds he could almost smell them.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out the Beretta 92 Drake had acquired for him. The snick of the safety coming off sounded loud in the room. As did the sudden intake of breath behind him.
Fuck, he’d completely forgotten about McCullin.
“Hey!” McCullin said. “You can’t fire that thing. What if you hit Caroline? Aren’t there rules for you guys about using your weapon?”
“Shut up,” he growled. This guy yapping in the background was distracting him. He needed to figure out where Prescott was and where the Lake woman was so he could grab her without getting shot. Prescott was damned good with his weapon.
Well, fuck, so was he.
The snow was drifting in through the open door, melting onto the shop’s hardwood floor. Ordinarily, this was a bad position to be in for a firefight. No one stood in a lit doorway. But the weather was so severe, it didn’t make any difference. Deaver sighted down his weapon, tracking in quarters. First quarter, blink to black, second quarter…
McCullin tapped him on the shoulder, hard. Hard enough to make him miss the shot if he’d been about to take it. “Put that gun away, someone might get hurt.” He had the petulant voice of the rich. Don’t pull a gun, you might hurt someone. Another sharp tap. “Did you hear me?”
There he was! There was a break in the snow, and Deaver could see Prescott. He was dressed in black and contrasted with the snow. It had been just a glimpse, but Deaver had been able to make out his outline. Deaver didn’t see a weapon, but that didn’t mean Prescott wasn’t armed. Still, if he knew Caroline Lake was in the vicinity, it wasn’t likely he’d start shooting until he knew what the situation was.
Deaver had a little window of opportunity here. He didn’t want to kill Prescott—not yet at any rate. He wanted to wing him, disable him, and use the Lake woman as leverage.
Good thing he’d done some zone recon yesterday. Across the street from the bookshop was a little park. It didn’t offer much coverage—just some shrubbery and a little gazebo in the middle. It was perfect. Prescott would be afraid to use his weapon, and the Lake woman would have huddled up in the center.
There he was again! Up against the big oak in the center of the park, trying to get his bearings. Deaver bent his knees and brought his weapon up two-handed, at an angle to present as small a target as possible, ready for the next break in the snow. A heavy dump of it came, then the wind parted one of the sheets. Deaver was breathing regularly, feeling his heartbeat, waiting for the moment from one beat to the next, though at this range, he could hardly miss.
Now! A slight break in the snow. Deaver sighted…
A thump on his back broke his concentration just as he was gently squeezing the trigger. By the time he was able to focus again, the snow had come down like a curtain across a stage. He’d lost sight of Prescott.
Deaver twirled around, staring into McCullin’s arrogant, angry face.
McCullin had a finger up, pointed at him. “Listen, I won’t have you firing g—”
Without changing expression, Deaver grabbed the fuckhead by the shoulder to steady him, brought the muzzle of his Beretta up against McCullin’s chest, and fired right through the heart. That petulant voice stopped instantly, the arrogant expression going blank in the space of a heartbeat.
Deaver had turned back around before the body hit the floor.
He scanned the area outside the open door. The snow was so thick he couldn’t see farther than the lamp
posts, but he knew Prescott was out there. He wasn’t going anywhere, not with Caroline Lake in the park. But where the fuck had he gone? Deaver waited in vain for another break in the snow, but it didn’t come.
This wasn’t working. He’d have to go straight into the kill zone.
He loped across the street, invisible in the snow, stopping behind a huge elm, listening and waiting. This was it. If he played his cards right, he’d be leaving this godforsaken frozen burg soon with $20 million and a dead enemy.
“Ms. Lake, for God’s sake, come back in here! That’s a murderer out there! Get away from there, for your own safety!”
Caroline heard the words, muffled by the snow, but it took her a second to realize that the FBI Agent was talking about Jack. He meant that Jack, a murderer, was in the park. That Jack could kill her.
Wasn’t that precisely why she was hiding behind the gazebo? She hadn’t even thought it out. She’d seen Jack’s broad, dark outline and without thinking she’d darted into the bushes.
“Ms. Lake!” the agent called. “For your own safety, I must ask you to come back inside.”
Yes, of course. She was out in the open with a mass murderer. A man who, moreover, had boasted that he was always armed. Actually, he hadn’t boasted, he’d just said it matter-of-factly, but still. She had no doubt that he was armed right now.
For your own safety, the agent had said. Get away.
Jack was armed, Jack could hurt her. However painful that thought was, it was the truth. Wasn’t it?
An FBI agent, ready and willing to protect her, was right there, outside her shop. All she had to do was run to him.
So why was she hunkering down behind the gazebo, cheek pressed against the splintery wooden base, hands turning blue from the cold?
The cold was so intense, it was a wonder Special Agent Butler and Jack couldn’t hear her chattering teeth. She was in her shop shoes—pretty black pumps that were pathetic in this weather. They were waterlogged and stiff with the cold. The snow was already halfway up her shins, her feet lost in the cold, wet slush. She could barely feel them. If she was going to make a run for it, now was the time, before her feet froze, and she had to be carried out of the park.
The Dangerous Boxed Set Page 81