The window exploded inward. Glass rained down through every open space Mitch's broad back didn't cover. Her heart leapt from her chest and lodged in her throat, cutting off her scream.
* * *
Sprawled across the table, Mitch squinted through falling glass. Outside, the car he'd seen trolling the street seconds before, sped up as the passenger fired a silenced pistol at the front of the diner.
Hard-boiled rage filled Mitch. He pulled the trigger repeatedly and emptied his clip at the tires. You ain't goin' nowhere.
The front tire blew, then the back. The driver lost control and the sedan plowed into the car parked two up from Jess's Mustang.
"Stay down." Mitch pushed her further into the booth and lifted himself off the splattered syrup and coffee mess on the table. A teen girl screamed over and over again in her mother's arms. Others whimpered, huddled behind counters and beneath tables. He stalked to the door, furious. Did they really think they could get away with this? Shooting at innocent people? At Jess?
Not on their very short lives.
Pistol aimed at the ceiling, he ejected the cartridge and slapped a new one in. He chambered the first round, then yanked the door open hard enough to make it bounce off the firewall.
On the street, the sunshine felt too bright, too hot. A red haze dropped over the deserted street. The knuckles of his empty hand crackled as he clenched and unclenched them in an eager fist, as he started toward the car.
The driver threw the sedan in reverse, trying to dislodge the front bumper. The passenger shoved at his door, banging it against the rear fender of someone's Chevrolet.
At a telephone pole plastered with flyers, he exhaled, focusing. Murder won't get me answers. Visions of beating a name from these mooks kept him calm as he whipped the Browning around the pole in a two-handed grip, targeting the passenger. "Don't move!"
Pasty face ugly with frustration, the passenger twisted in his seat, ducked low and aimed at Mitch.
Despite the bad angle, Mitch risked a shot and nailed the gunman's upper arm. The pistol disappeared back inside on a stream of liquid curses. More shouts came from inside the vehicle.
Want more? Come and get it.
The driver jammed the car into drive and tried to plow his way out of the Chevrolet. Smoke poured from the remaining back tire, hazing the air with the acrid odor of scorched rubber.
Using the foul cloud as cover, Mitch started toward the sedan, eager to drag them out by their necks and wring answers from them. Footsteps on broken glass crunched behind him, audible as the driver switched gears again. He swung around, prepared to fire.
Jess stood on the sidewalk, her face white, her eyes wide. Mitch dove forward, forcing her down beside the door of her Mustang. He lifted the latch, and cursed when it wouldn't open.
"Unlock the door." He kept his tone calm, but acid washed his innards. Why the hell is she out here?
A bullet zinged past his ear, punching the door beside his head. "Get in the damned car, now!"
He stood, blocking Jess with his body, and opened fire on the driver. Behind him, the door opened and Jess leapt inside. He kicked the door shut without turning.
The sedan's driver started to get out. Mitch fired three quick shots, coaxing the fool back into his mangled vehicle. Desperate to get Jess to safety, Mitch hollered over his shoulder, "Drive away."
She didn't answer and he couldn't risk a look. Pasty-face crawled into the back seat, staying low enough Mitch couldn't get a good shot. He crouched forward and pressed his back to the telephone pole, fishing out the spare Glock from his ankle holster as he stood.
In the quiet after the volley of bullets, Mitch heard both the driver and Pasty open their doors, then the snick of both doors closing. The silence didn't last long. They shouted threats and curses–a typical intimidation tactic. Mitch wasn't impressed.
His back to the telephone pole, he could see Jess moving inside the Mustang. For chrissake, why doesn't she go?
"We're comin' for you!" Pasty yelled.
Mitch turned back. He'd have to whip around and shoot fast with both of them in the open. Guns ready, prepared for the double targets, he shifted his weight for the pounce, but stopped. In the glass window of the shop beside the diner, Pasty's reflection was perfect in the dazzling sunlight. Using the mirror image to gauge his aim, he fired.
The goon dropped to his knees, as if praying for his very bad day to end. Request granted, bastard. He fell face forward, nose hitting the sidewalk with a solid thwack.
Mitch sidestepped, keeping the pole between him and the remaining gunman. The driver wasn't aiming at him, wasn't even looking at him. He was after Jess. Mitch raised the muzzle of the Glock, but before he could shoot, a gun fired, loud, definitely not silenced.
He flinched back behind the pole. Confused, he watched the driver's image in the window fall out of sight behind the sedan. Mitch twisted back.
Jess stood on the curb, a Magnum in her shaking hand, her face tinted green with fear. "Oh, God."
Where the hell did she get that hand-cannon? Mitch jerked away from the pole, shoved her back to the Mustang and into the passenger seat. Get her out of here, away from the threat. Get her the hell out of Dodge.
Hand open, he shouted, "Keys!"
She flung the keys into his hand. Mitch gunned the engine and released the clutch, scorching the blacktop with a stripe of burnt rubber as the Mustang leapt onto the road. A car swerved around them, horn honking. The putrid, burnt smell of rubber, recently ignited gun powder, and the breakfast smeared on his T-shirt was cloying in the small car.
"Oh my god, I shot that man." Jess, her unbound hair hiding her face, trembled visibly.
"You didn't kill him. He's only wounded." Mitch hoped that was true. Pasty likely wouldn't be answering any questions, but the driver might. The cops would be on the scene soon, and when Jess was safe, he'd find out where the police had taken the two men. If all went well, he could be back in California by tomorrow morning with enough evidence to nail the man who'd hired these goons.
Jess stared blankly ahead, hands holding her hair high on either side of her face. "I shot him."
Mitch squeezed her knee. "He would have shot you, if you hadn't got him first." And you'd be dead.
She pushed his hand off her leg and turned on him, words spewing in a torrent. "What the hell have you gotten me into? Who were those guys? Why were they after you? Did I just shoot a cop? Are they bounty hunters?"
"They weren't…."
"Don't lie to me!" Tears shown in her pink-rimmed eyes, her lips trembled, twin spots of red bloomed on her pale cheeks. "No more secrets. I know you're up to no good. I know you want my dad to get involved with whatever scam you're into. Pull the car over. Pull over right now!"
Mitch didn't want to slow down, let alone stop. But in her state, she might do something crazy. Like jump from a speeding car. He found a nearly full parking lot that abutted Lake Michigan and pulled in. Engine running, he faced her. "Listen."
"No! I won't listen." She slapped at his hand as he reached for her. "I've just shot a man–a complete stranger. Who the hell were they?"
"They weren't cops, Jess." Mitch heaved a breath. They were wasting time. "Cops don't fire into crowded restaurants."
The panic faded from her eyes, but the haunted darkness remained. "All right. I believe that. But I want you out of my car. Get out. I don't want you anywhere near me or my family!"
"They weren't after me. They were after you." Mitch managed to keep from shouting, but it was a close thing. He didn't have time for this. She had to understand that there was no telling what kind of backup those creeps had and if he didn't report what had happened immediately they'd lose all credibility.
"I don't believe you." She fell silent, glaring at him.
"You have to." Mitch mentally apologized to Dan. "Your dad was supposed to talk to you, tell you what's going on."
Mitch had a feeling Dan would have put it off for as long as he could, but time was d
efinitely up. Jess crossed her arms and stared at a pair of seagulls fighting over a scrap of trash on the water's edge.
"There's a lot happening just now. You need to hear me." He touched her chin and tilted her gaze toward him. She jerked out of his fingers and glared. At least she's listening. "Your mother, Beth, sent me here, for you."
Her reaction was immediate and terrible. Her face crumpled and she opened the car door. "No. No way. This is crazy. No."
Mitch grabbed her arm. "Stay. There might be more men out there, waiting to take you out."
"Me?" She looked so broken he wished she'd welcome his comfort. "Why me? What have I ever done?"
"It's not what you've done, it's who you are." He inhaled a deep breath. "You're next in line to inherit a hundred and fifty million dollars."
Chapter Four "You're joking, right?" Jess wondered where Rod Serling was, where Allen Funt was, this had to be a lunatic's mix of the Twilight Zone and Candid Camera. Her stomach clenched on a sea of coffee. "You came into my life, into my home, and now you want me to buy that line of crap? You want me to believe that somehow all this was my fault?"
"You know that's not what I meant, Jess," Mitch said. "I only…want you safe."
Why did he have to sound so sincere?
She slumped back in her seat and slammed the door. The view from here was strange. She didn't think she'd ever ridden in the passenger seat before. It only added to the surreal quality of the whole day. "Take me home. I want to talk to my dad."
"I don't think we should." Mitch put her Mustang in reverse. "That's the first place they'll look for you."
Startled, her heart double-thumping, she turned to him. "What do you mean? My dad's in danger? Right now?"
He grimaced.
"Then why the hell are we sitting here?" Oh God, what next? Armageddon? "We have to warn him. Get going!"
"Jess." He sighed, hands tight on the steering wheel. "It's not a good idea. If you want," he paused, reached into his coat and for just a moment, she thought he was going to pull his gun out, instead, he brought out a cell phone. "Call him, tell him to meet us at the police station."
She didn't take the cell phone. "The police station? Are you out of your ever-lovin' mind? They'll have me in handcuffs before I get in the front door. Do you have any idea how hard they'll come down on someone like me? I'll never walk out of there."
"I won't let that happen." Mitch pushed the phone toward her. "Call your dad. We're goin' to the nearest station now."
The fear, the tears, evaporated in the fire of her anger. "You prick! You–"
Mitch shoved the phone in her face. "We ain't got time for this. Call your dad."
Jess sputtered, her head pounding from the knot on her forehead, the scent of the syrup and coffee smeared on his tshirt sickly sweet. Her universe had leapt galaxies, crossed through some psychotic wormhole, and dumped her into another reality. In this dimension, she had no control. No power.
This can't be happening.
She snatched the phone from his hand and called home. The phone rang and rang, no answer. Mitch steered to the exit, the wheels bouncing over speed bumps. She misdialed the number for the shop and had to try twice more. Nothing. The spit in her mouth turned to paste. Where was he? Was he hurt? She tried the house again. "There's no answer."
Mitch pulled into traffic. "Try again."
"I did." She dialed one more time, certain the line would go dead in mid ring, the killers cutting the wires and her father's last hope. She tried the parlor one last time. "Pick up the phone…pick up the phone, Dad."
The ringing stopped. Someone lifted the receiver, but no greeting, no hello from the dead zone. She swallowed to speak. "Hello?"
"Who is this?"
That was not her dad. She pressed Mitch's phone tighter to her ear, afraid the sudden shiver up her spine would make her drop it. "Who is this?"
"Jess?"
Relief flooded through her. She should have recognized his voice right away. "Jack! Is my dad with you? Is he okay?"
"He's fine, but you're not. They've got an APB out on you and your Mustang. Came over the radio five minutes ago. I got here as fast as I could."
Jack, the cop she'd dated last fall, was with her father. She breathed shakily. "It's not what it looks like, Jack. I shot in self-defense."
"You shot? Who's this guy you're with? Never mind. Just get here, pronto, before someone else picks you up." He hung up the phone, leaving her no room to argue, and forcibly reminding her why she had broken up with him.
She turned to Mitch. "We have to go back to my house."
"I already told you–"
"I know what you said, but the police are looking for us. Jack–a friend, a cop–he's with my dad. We can turn ourselves in to him."
Turn herself in. She cringed. It felt as though she hovered over a great, black gaping hole that led straight to Hell and she didn't have anything to grab on to. This morning, heck, an hour ago, if someone had said she'd be turning herself in for murder, she would have laughed in their face.
I'm not laughing now.
She blamed Mitch. He caused all this. A hundred and fifty million dollars? It had to be a joke, a hideous prank. And her mother…no, she wouldn't think about that faceless woman who'd never bothered to write, to call or remember a birthday, a holiday. There would be time enough to figure this out later. All she cared about was getting to her father and finding a way to avoid life in prison.
"Breathe, Jess, it'll be all right." Mitch changed direction, to her relief, and started back toward the house. "The police know I'm here. A friend at the LAPD called in for me."
"The LAPD? What the hell are you talking about?"
"Beth hired me to…protect her. I have a detective friend back home who alerted the Milwaukee P.D. Once we get to this guy you know, he can run my name and everything will be fine. You'll see."
"Everything will not be fine," she muttered. He just didn't get it. People like her, people who made an honest living in professions the law thought lawless–tattooists, motorcycle mechanics, bar tenders, club owners, bouncers–never got a fair shake.
She didn't argue with Mitch though, what would be the point? There was no going back, no reversing the past. She had to live with what she had done. Even so, she wanted to lift the Magnum from between her feet, point it at Mitch, and demand that they hightail it to Canada, leave the country, avoid her fate.
Two things kept her from taking just that course of action. She could never leave her father–especially if there was a chance he might be…hurt. Never killed, she couldn't imagine that, it would rip her in two. And the other; she couldn't touch the Magnum right now. If she did, the coffee sloshing in her belly would make a second appearance.
Shooting at the gun range was a hell of a lot different than shooting a man, regardless of how dangerous that man was. She couldn't get his face out of her head. Palms pressed to her eyes, she tried to obliterate that cold, brown stare, the surprised pain, the ugly eagerness to kill her. She'd done the right thing, but she felt all wrong about it.
Mitch took the alley so fast, they fishtailed for a moment before he straightened out.
She couldn't help herself. "Careful."
He didn't reply, but came to a jarring halt in front of a black-and-white cruiser, its lights mounted to the hood revolving, the siren silent.
Jack stepped from the parking lot and into the alley, her father right behind him. As soon as Jess saw the pair, her insides lurched. Her dad's face matched the grey in his beard, his blue eyes were wide and more frightened than she'd ever seen them. He's safe.
She was out of the car before Mitch had gotten his door open. Her father wrapped his strong arms around her and the dam burst. She was eleven again, returning from foster care.
"Jesus, Jess," his voice cracked, "what the hell happened?"
"I don't know, Dad." Jess stepped back, acutely aware of their audience. She wiped the wet off her face and inhaled deeply, pressing down pain and shame. A m
oment, that's all she could afford, a single moment to wallow in her shock and fear. She couldn't be weak now, not in front of Mitch and Jack. "Mitch said this is because of…my mother?"
He looked over her shoulder at the big man behind her. "You told her?"
She turned and caught Mitch's nod. "Some, not everything."
Jack eyed Mitch with that steel-gray lie detector look she had come to know all too well. He rested his hands on his hips above the police-issue holster, sandy blonde hair shimmering in the sun, his brow furrowed deeply. "I need your weapons. Don't," he said, stopping Mitch from reaching beneath his coat. "Place your hands on your head and turn around."
Jess waited for Mitch to argue, but he simply laced his fingers together over his scalp. The action parted his coat, revealing the shoulder holster and the breakfast mess on his shirt. The dripping stain pointed like an accusatory finger to the butt of the Glock he had only had time to shove in the front of his pants.
Jess recalled his hand emerging over her head, gripping the pistol. How brutal he'd looked stalking through the door. She struggled to understand what it all meant. The depth of his dark, brown gaze, the resonating low thrum of his voice as he said, "Your mother sent me."
Jack took the guns. "Are there more?"
Mitch shook his head. "I'm on file with your department. You can check it out. I'm in from L.A. on the Kramer case. Ring any bells?"
"No. But I've got the call in now. We'll wait and see." Jack turned to Jess. "Where's your Magnum?"
"In the car." How she wished they had a few more minutes. Who were the Kramers and what did they have to do with her? Was that her mother's name now? All her life she'd secretly dreamed of having a mother who loved her, protected her, and didn't leave. But the truth was, she didn't even know her mother's last name. Of course it wouldn't be Owen anymore, not after the divorce, not after all these years. Not if she had remarried.
Jack forced Mitch against the hood of the cruiser, palms flat against the glaring, white metal. "What's your name? You got any I.D. on you?"
"Mitch Conner. Wallet's in my back pocket."
My Biker Bodyguard Page 4