At least, I hope it will be a short period of time, he mused as he sent them inside to get comfortable while he walked the perimeter. Mack really didn’t relish being Cassie’s jailor, or having to entertain Ange while he did it. He fired off a quick text to Grambling to let him know they’d made it to the safe house and asked for an update. It was normal interaction in a situation anything but.
His partner was kicked back on the couch, with an empty yogurt cup on the floor next to her when he walked in, still absorbed in her magazine. “He call yet?” she inquired without looking up.
He dropped into the Mission Style chair next to her and crossed his feet on the coffee table. “No, don’t expect him to until tomorrow. You know Grambling needs his beauty sleep.”
“He needs all the help he can get, then.” Ange snorted and looked down the hall toward the closed bathroom door. When she looked back at him, her expression was stark. “She needs help, too. The quiet’s not natural. It’s like a heavy blanket’s been thrown over her personality and is smothering the hell out of it. I don’t know about you, but that kind of protection is definitely above my pay grade.”
Mack nodded, but had no helpful solutions. There was a lot about this that didn’t make a whole lot of sense, starting with why they’d been called in the first place. “Did Grambling tell you anything at all?”
Ange shook her head and tossed her magazine by his feet before rising and taking her trash to the kitchen. “He said he got a call and needed me to fly out with him, and then I’d be coming back with you and the witness. Said it was high profile, high risk kind of thing, quick extraction. Who it was and why weren’t on the table.” She paced around the room, stretching her long legs and keeping an eye on the slit of light from beneath the bathroom door.
That struck his ears wrong. The kind of man Grambling was, ambitious to the point of almost single-minded sociopathy, would definitely have wanted to brag about the coup of picking up Cassie Witt. Not to mention the other question, “Why the hell wasn’t the Vegas office notified? I was having dinner with two of their Inspectors, I would have thought since she was on their turf…” He let his thought trail off as he pondered it further. Vegas should have been the obvious first call. He and his partner being there made no sense.
Thankfully, the bathroom door came open and Cassie emerged in green plaid pajama pants and a Yoda t-shirt that declared her a “Jedi In Training”, wet hair braided down the sides of her head, eyes puffy like she’d been crying. He looked to Ange, who nodded and headed down the hall. “Hey, chica, surprised you’re not waterlogged. Why don’t we turn in for the night?”
“I’ll lock up,” Mack called from the living room, going to each and every point of entry and checking its security again. Something about this was wrong, way wrong, and the last thing he wanted was to overlook something and lose a witness because of a mistake. Pulling out his phone as he walked, he dialed. “Eli? Yeah, I’m so sorry I had to run out. You got a minute? I have some questions.”
* * *
Cassie figured there was only so much time she could spend curled up in a ball on the shower floor before they came looking for her. Once the hot water hit her skin, the tears she’d been fighting flowed easily, and the bone-deep grief could surface unabated. So many thoughts, images raced around her brain while she eased the pressure valve on her emotions. She could hear her father saying Clint got what he had coming, since her friend assumed the job that had been her old man’s. She’d never been sorry for hiring him, and now, since he had no real family other than her, she wouldn’t even be allowed to bury him.
She’d emerged from the shower after she figured there were just no more tears left, and gotten into her jammies. The house was nice enough, not at all unlike the house she grew up in, in Santa Fe, but not like the places she’d been staying in the last couple years since her albums had gone multi-platinum and her singles topped the charts. A large part of her success was directly attributable to her late manager, and while she still had Trista, the shock of the evening had worn away, leaving her with a nearly overwhelming sadness.
Mack and Angela were in the living room, seemingly awaiting her appearance, or her drowning, whichever. They were deep in a conversation that had both of them looking like they could chew glass, intense enough she figured her escape to the bedroom would go unnoticed. No such luck, though, since Ange volunteered to put her to bed. It seemed surprisingly natural coming from her.
The female Marshal checked the windows before pulling out a pair of black yoga pants and a Diamondbacks jersey from her suitcase. “I’ll be right back in a minute, all right?” Like she needed to ask permission. Cassie nodded out of politeness rather than actual acknowledgement of the words.
How the hell am I supposed to sleep? she wondered as she stretched out in the twin bed farthest from the door. Her mind, full of images and sounds of the evening: Clint’s hug and words of encouragement before she went onstage, Trista’s face when she burst into the concierge’s office, the face of the man who put her manager down like a lame horse, churned in a continuous loop like the half-hour rotation on a cable news channel. Ceaseless.
When the female Marshal returned, she looked like a real person and not a fashion goddess. It was hard for Cassie to imagine she carried a gun, much less used it. Now she looked like the older sister she never had with her hair down in braids on the side of her head like her own and her Montero #26 jersey and black capris. “Are you okay?”
Cassie figured she’d have to hear that question a lot in the coming days, but it didn’t make it any less galling. “I’m…here.”
Ange smiled and hopped into her own bed and made sure her gun and phone were within easy reach. “I get it. I do.” She stopped speaking, and then seemed to change her mind, finishing with, “You grieve however you need to, and we’re here to keep you safe, okay?”
She nodded and reached for the bedside lamp. She did her best brooding in the dark. They lay like that for a while, listening to the fan from the swamp cooler and the occasional vibration from the Marshal’s cell phone. Cassie thought about her phone in the Marshals’ possession, but didn’t want to keep Ange up half the night from the light as she responded to the half a billion text messages she possibly had. Another thing to add to tomorrow’s already unreasonable to-do list.
Her mind coiled in on itself as she lay there examining the darkness in minute detail. The sheets were scratchy, the bland border that encircled the room near the ceiling was starting to peel at the corner closest to her, and her manager was still dead. Dead, hauled out in a black zippered bag on a gurney, extra long.
To distract herself, she asked of the darkness, “Did you lose someone, too?”
Ange chuckled softly, surprising Cassie that she was still awake, much less willing to talk to her. “Yeah, going on four years now.”
“I’m sorry,” Cassie gulped out of reflex. Maybe it was the way she’d paused earlier, like she had something more to add. She didn’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories for the other woman.
Ange hummed her dismissal. “Thank you. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t think about her. She’s always going to be a part of me, like Clint will be for you.”
The kind words pricked her skin, bringing tears to her eyes again. Rubbing the bridge of her nose to stave them off, she asked, “Your mom?”
“No, my wife.” The lack of follow up filled the darkness with all the answers Cassie needed.
“I’m so sorry,” Cassie repeated in a whisper that was swallowed by the oppressive darkness. She could tell they were both awake, like each was waiting for the other to cut the somber veil that descended between them. Her thoughts were invaded by everything her manager had done for her, salvaged her career from the shambles her father had left her with, taken her farther than she ever dreamed possible in country music, been there when she needed him, regardless of time or place, and now she just had a hole in her life. In her heart. She couldn’t get past the feeling she’d lost her fath
er, though even when she’d voluntarily cut the man whose biology she shared from her life, she hadn’t felt this bereft, adrift. She was left with one question. “Does it ever stop hurting?”
“No. You learn to live with it, eventually, but it doesn’t go away. Some marks are permanent.” And with that bleak proclamation hanging in the air, they both drifted off to a restless semi-slumber peppered with fever dreams and night sweats, even in the cool of the room.
Cassie woke to what she thought was thunder, feeling like she’d only dipped her toes into the waters of Lethe, but it was nothing so peaceful. Mack burst into their bedroom, catching the door from slamming into the wall, and said only one thing.
“We’re compromised.”
Like they’d arranged it ahead of time, Ange was on her feet in an instant, gun out, hustling her out of bed and out to the garage to the car, while Mack gathered things and tossed them in after her. Ange drove with one hand and messed with the radio with the other while he sat stoically in the back seat with her, thoroughly abusing the touch-screen of his phone while he texted. He looked strung out, stressed, intense, and dangerous.
It was impossible not to notice earlier in the evening when he’d escorted her to her room and stood guard at the door while she packed. Not that he explicitly said so, but he made no secret of his thorough check of the room before her entry or how evenly he divided his attention between desultory conversation with her and the status of the door’s electric lock. Mack was deceptively dangerous, she’d thought then. Classically handsome, in a refined way that struck her as a bit odd, on the leaner side of muscular, the way he moved told her anyone who challenged him would have been in for a surprise.
Now, he looked downright lethal. Red-eyed and mean, and quite possibly ready to bite the next person who spoke to him. Fortunately for her, it was Ange who bit that bullet.
“What’d he say?” Her calm voice was unnerving given that they’d all just been rousted out of bed due to some unknown danger. The casual disregard she had for conventions like posted speed limits and overall traffic laws was honestly more upsetting than the other circumstances surrounding them.
Mack’s answer was more of a growl than actual words. “I got a call that just said we needed to get out ASAP. He said he’d fill us in at the alternate.” He texted some more before shoving his phone in his pocket and glaring out the window. Turning to her, he pinned her down with a speculative gaze. “What did you see?”
“Mack,” Ange drew his name out with a warning tone from the driver’s seat.
Cassie would have preferred if she paid more attention to the driving at light speed than the backseat conversation, but she figured this was not unusual for them.
Cassie blinked, completely unprepared for the question. “I…my friend…the party was…” Every sentence she started made her stomach churn, and she dug her nails into her palms to keep herself together.
“I need to know.” He reached out and took her hand in an unexpected gesture of kindness. “We need to know what we’re walking into so we know how to protect you.”
“Mackenzie,” his partner barked. “This is not—”
He shook his head. “This is most definitely the time. Grambling won’t tell us what the hell is going on, and I’m not taking fire or getting knifed in my sleep without some kind of explanation.” The hands that had been cradling hers with surprising gentleness tightened as he spoke. When she pulled back, he shook his head absently and muttered, “Sorry,” before turning back to his partner. “I’ve lost count of the number of unorthodox things about this situation, not the least of which is our lack of knowledge about the players.”
Ange nodded tightly. “None of which are her fault, either. We’re almost there, you can ask him yourself. Leave her alone.” The way she said it seemed to dare him to contradict her, but he didn’t, sinking back against the seat and continuing to hold Cassie’s hand.
It was only a couple more minutes before they pulled up to a house that could have been on the other side of the world as fast as they’d been travelling, and she felt Mack stiffen up beside her. He held the door as he handed her out to the gravel driveway already occupied by three other dark and conspicuously nondescript sedans.
It was a one story Spanish mission kind of house with a long curved driveway and a fountain in the middle. Ange and Mack took up positions flanking her as they approached the heavy antique wooden door. It opened before they had a chance to knock.
“I apologize for the time,” Grambling started and he held out an arm to welcome them inside. “It seems we’ve had a few…complications.” His phrasing was as delicate as his voice was light, doubling the feeling of foreboding that had started in the pit of her stomach since she’d been awakened.
“Oh, I can’t wait to hear this,” Mack snarled as he shoved past him.
Chapter 4
Nothing about this situation had sat right with Mack since the urgent call at dinner. The Vegas Marshals would have handled it since it was their turf, and they never go into a situation without a plan or at least a little bit of foreknowledge. It was dangerous enough without not knowing who they should guard against. That was the problem with having a pencil-pusher as a chief, no practical understanding of the job and how it’s done. That was going to stop today, though.
Grambling had a collection of goons in blue Marshal jackets stationed around the house like they were keeping a federal prisoner and not a pop princess. There weren’t guys Mack knew or recognized by face, but their presence solidified his thinking that this threat was much greater than what he’d been led to believe.
One look at Ange and she nodded. “Cass, do you wanna go lie down and go back to sleep? Have a snack? A glass of water?” It was good to have a partner who knew and understood him, who shared in his desire to keep their witness away from any bloodshed, no matter how necessary.
The young woman nodded, and the bright recessed lights in the ceiling made the shadows under her eyes stand out starkly against her skin. “Yeah, a snack might be good.” They headed in the direction he presumed would be the kitchen, accompanied by one of Grambling’s troops, leaving Mack and Grambling more or less alone, not counting the one or two who stood watching dutifully out the back window.
“What’s with the Bulletheads?” Mack asked, dispensing with the niceties outright. One who had been dutifully stationed by the window looked over at him with the raised eyebrow, but he was in just bad enough of a mood to chance it. He hadn’t even had a chance to change clothes from dinner, having passed out in the recliner in the living room after checking the locks and alarm. He was feeling grungy, mean, and most of all—lied to. Maybe not quite that far, but definitely kept in the dark, and sins of omission were still sins in his mind.
Grambling sniffed and wandered into the kitchen, returning with two steaming mugs of coffee. He set one down on the wooden side table next to where Mack paced and took a sip of his own brew.
“We’ve run into a few snags, and I didn’t want those to compromise Miss Whitfield’s safety while we sort them out.”
Mack watched the man perch delicately on the edge of an armchair that, with the couch and end tables, formed a sort of blockade around the coffee table. “Sort it out, like it’s a mix up on a take-out order.”
His boss shrugged and sipped, as carefree as a sorority girl on vacation. “Just a small snafu, infinitesimal, really.”
The breezy way the younger man dismissed his sarcasm immediately had Mack’s back up. “How about you let me judge the severity. What did you do, Austin?”
The use of his first name had Grambling’s eyes narrowing. “We ran into an issue with putting Miss Whitfield into the program.” His pause and shifting in his seat told Mack the DOJ had the same misgivings about her entry to the program as he did, and Grambling got to hear all about it. In lurid and painful detail.
“So, I take it your plan to advance your career on her back flamed out spectacularly. That about right?” It was three in the mornin
g, and Mack’s ability to be deferential had long been in bed asleep. “What does that mean for her exactly?”
“That is a specious accusation! I was concerned about her welfare and safety!”
The look of feigned indignance and shock made Mack want to vault the back of the couch and pound his superior’s face in, obviously a Career Limiting Move. Still, he thought about it. “Can you even spell ‘specious’?” he asked slowly, actively fighting to rein in his temper. “You still haven’t answered my question. Since she’s not allowed to be in the program, what do we do from here?”
Grambling set his mug on the table—on a ceramic coaster naturally—and turned to face him primly in his chair. “Well, we have to return her to Vegas. I’ve already cleared it though her people and—”
“I’m sorry?” Mack’s shock spoke before he’d fully collected his thoughts. “She was determined to be in so much danger in Vegas that you had her spirited away several hundred miles, and then, when your funding fell through, we’re just going to throw her back to the wolves?” He didn’t like the way his voice was rising as he spoke, but his temper was rapidly approaching critical mass. Grambling’s trained monkeys apparently heard him and moved a little further out of the way, just in case.
His boss stood and brushed the wrinkles from his pants in a fluid, practiced motion before raising his hands in a gesture Mack assumed to be placating. “She will have extra security twenty-four-seven, she will be accompanied at all times—”
“You made a promise,” Mack growled, stalling the chief’s clearly-prepared speech. “You made a promise and conscripted me and my partner into said promise. Now you’re just going to walk away because she’s no longer useful to you. That is un-fucking-acceptable!”
Bulletproof Princess Page 4