He knew her secrets.
He knew Angela kept an undisclosed refuge. Most undercover operatives did, on the outside chance they needed to lie low during a mission.
From what I understand they went to college together.
The police chief’s words reverberated in his head. Words that reiterated the fact that Jessica Atwood and Angela had once been friends. There was a distinct possibility Angela had told Jessica Atwood about the cottage, particularly if Atwood was on the run from some abusive husband. Located on Wind River Island just a mile off the jagged coastline, it would make the perfect hideaway.
Finding her there might be a long shot, but Madrid had always been a gambler. He knew from experience that sometimes a long shot paid off.
“You can run,” he said aloud as he pulled away from the curb. “But you can’t hide.”
THE WATER SURROUNDING Wind River Island was fraught with dangerous undercurrents and high surf; not many people ventured to the small, heavily forested island. There were two marinas in Lighthouse Point, and within the hour Madrid was able to ascertain that Angela had owned an open fisherman named Riptide. Though she hadn’t signed it out, the boat was not in its slip.
He waited until dusk and rented a decent-size fishing boat under the pretense of partaking in some early season king salmon fishing. But instead of going upriver where the salmon were beginning to spawn, he headed out to sea.
With a storm barreling in from the northwest, the heavy surf tossed the boat as if it were a toy. It took every nautical skill Madrid possessed to maneuver the treacherous waters. Using the lighthouse on the south side of the island as a beacon, he finally located the only inlet. It was nearly midnight when he docked at a dilapidated pier and tied off. By the light of a three-quarter moon he set out on foot to find Angela’s killer.
The island was small, but on foot and operating in darkness, he took an hour to find the cottage. It was a rustic clapboard structure nestled in a sparse forest of hemlock and cedar. The cottage was built on a precipitous slope. On the west side, high cliffs ran a hundred feet down to where an angry sea battered the rocky shore.
The perfect place for a safe house.
Pulling his .40-caliber rubber-grip Taurus from his shoulder holster, Madrid approached the cottage from the rear. There was no smoke coming from the chimney. If Atwood was there, she was being careful. But he could see a dim light coming from inside.
“Gotcha,” he whispered, anticipation whipping through him.
He slithered along the siding at the rear of the cottage and peered around the corner. A screened porch overlooked a tangle of wind-mangled hemlock. He could hear the roar of the surf below. Holding the pistol ready, he stepped around the corner.
“Don’t give me a reason to kill you.”
He jerked at the sound of the female voice coming from directly behind him. For an instant he considered spinning, firing and maybe getting off a lucky shot. But the sound of a bullet being chambered changed his mind.
“Drop the gun,” she said. “Now.”
Madrid couldn’t believe he’d let a woman get the drop on him. A civilian. Not only was it humiliating, but dangerous. His ego was just big enough to be more bothered by the former than the latter.
“You got me,” he said, and dropped the Taurus.
“Get your hands up.”
He did as he was told.
“Turn around. Slowly.”
More disgusted with himself than frightened, he turned. The sight of her shocked him, like electricity snapping through every nerve ending in his body. She was not what he’d expected. Though he’d seen photos of her in the course of his research, none of them did justice to the doe-eyed beauty holding that deadly looking pistol.
“Who are you and what do you want?” she demanded.
“My name is Mike Madrid,” he said easily. “I’m a federal agent, and I’m looking for you.”
She blinked as if she hadn’t been expecting him to admit the truth so readily. Madrid studied her. Even in the dim light slanting through the window, he could see that she was small, but athletically built. She wore snug jeans and an oversize sweatshirt that revealed little of her figure beneath. But Madrid had a good imagination, especially when it came to women. He figured she was curvy in all the right places. A hell of a thought for him to be having when he was pretty sure this was going to end badly.
Her hair looked somewhere between blond and brown and fell in unruly tendrils to her slender shoulders. Her eyes were the same gray-blue as the ocean pounding the beach below. Her bow-shaped mouth was full and, despite the worried frown, perfect for kissing.
Not that he was going to be kissing her, he reminded himself. He might have a weakness for beautiful, dangerous women, but he drew the line at fraternizing with a cop killer.
“Why are you looking for me?” she asked.
“Because I’m going to take you in.”
She laughed, but it was a hopeless, humorless sound. “Get inside. Now.” She jabbed the gun toward the house.
“Whatever you say.”
That was when he noticed the sheen of perspiration on her forehead. Her complexion was ghastly pale, but her cheeks were tinged pink. Her eyes had a glassiness to them he hadn’t noticed before. A glassiness that wasn’t caused by adrenaline or fear. Drugs? he wondered, and prayed she hadn’t hurt the boy.
“Where’s the kid?” he asked as he opened the door.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He stepped inside and turned to her, careful to keep his hands up. “Give him to me and I’ll let you walk away from this.”
Anger flickered in her eyes. But the gun wavered as she closed the door behind her. “Why are you so interested in the kid?”
“Because I don’t want him hurt.”
“Or maybe you want to finish what you started.” Her teeth pulled back in a snarl that was distinctly feline, and she jammed the gun at him. “Here’s a news flash for you. I will not let you hurt that child. You got that, slick?”
Madrid was adept at reading people. Now his well-honed instincts were telling him this woman truly believed he meant the child harm. But why would she think that when she was the one who’d kidnapped him and murdered his mother? Was she mentally unbalanced? Psychologically unstable? Or was there something else going on he didn’t know about?
“The police found Angela’s body,” he said. “You’re the prime suspect. Surely you know you’re not going to get away with this.”
“I did not kill Angela.” Her voice broke on the name, but she took a shaky breath and continued. “She was my friend. She was helping me.”
“Your prints are on the murder weapon.”
“I picked it up, but I didn’t use it.”
“You took the boy.”
“To save his life.”
“From whom?”
“The police. They tried to kill both of us.”
“You ran. They think you’re a killer. That’s what happens.”
“I didn’t run. I mean, not at first. I took off when I realized they were going to shoot us down in cold blood.”
He didn’t believe her. Not one iota. “Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know.” Wincing slightly, she motioned toward a chair at the small table. “Sit down.”
Madrid didn’t take the chair. He stood his ground and faced her. “What are you doing to do? Kill me, too?”
“I haven’t killed anyone. I’m just trying to stay alive.”
He watched her closely as she snagged a length of rope from the coatrack near the door. She leaned heavily against the table as she passed by it. She was shaking now. The tendrils of hair framing her face were wet and pasted to her skin. Fever, he thought. Was she sick?
“How did you find me?”
“That’s what I do. I find people.” He lifted a shoulder, let it fall. “It wasn’t that hard.” He cut her a hard look. “It’s only a matter of time before the police figure out where you
are.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the darkened windows beyond. In her eyes Madrid saw the worried look of a hunted animal. One that was tired and ready for the hunt to end. Good, he thought. She was exhausted and scared, that gave him an edge. He moved closer.
She turned to him abruptly, jabbed the gun at the chair. “I told you to sit down. Put your hands behind your back.”
“You’re not going to get away with this. Why don’t you make this easy on both of us and give it up before someone gets hurt?”
“Someone already has been hurt,” she snapped. “Angela is dead and for some reason unbeknownst to me, the police think I did it. Now they’re trying to kill me and that innocent little boy.”
She used the back of her sleeve to wipe the sweat from her forehead. Her face was so pale the skin looked translucent. Her pistol hand shook, and she blinked as if she were having a difficult time focusing.
Madrid stepped toward her. “You look like you need a doctor.”
“What I need is to know why the police are trying to hang this on me and why they want to hurt that little boy.”
“Let me help you figure it out.”
Raising the pistol, she choked out a desperate laugh and took a step back. “Stay away from me or I swear I’ll pull this trigger.”
“Jessica, give me the gun.”
“Don’t make me use—”
He lunged at her, shoved the muzzle toward the ceiling. A cry escaped her as his fingers closed around her gun hand. A gunshot exploded, and bits of plaster floated down. She was surprisingly strong for her size, but Madrid overpowered her with ease. One twist and the gun was his. Grasping her other arm at the shoulder, he shoved her back.
“Settle down,” he snapped.
She fought well, but he doubted she weighed much more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. She’d been no match for his six-foot-three frame and 180-pound bulk.
“I’m taking you in for the murder of Angela Matheson,” he said.
“I didn’t kill her.” She staggered, using her arm against the wall to regain her balance. “You have to believe me.”
“Tell it to the judge, honey.” Tugging cuffs from his belt, he started toward her. “Turn around and show me your wrists.”
Before he could enforce the order, she staggered again. She grasped the doorjamb to maintain her balance. But her eyes rolled back white. Her knees buckled and she reached out as if to break her fall. Then she pitched forward like a dead weight.
Chapter Two
Madrid caught her just in time to keep her from falling. He knew the faint was a ploy. A feeble attempt to regain control of the situation—or the gun. He was forced to rethink that assumption when he noticed fresh blood on the sleeve of her sweatshirt.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
She was like a rag doll against him. Her skin was hot to the touch and slick with sweat. She was burning up with fever. The scent of sandalwood and sweet vanilla titillated his nostrils as he swept her into his arms. He was aware of the brush of her hair against his face and the soft curves of a very female body. Details he shouldn’t be noticing about a woman who’d shot and killed a fellow agent.
Cursing, he looked around the dim interior of the cottage. The small kitchen opened to a living room, where a leather sofa was piled high with Navajo-print pillows. He carried her to the sofa, shoved the pillows aside and laid her down. At some point her sweatshirt had ridden up. As if of its own accord, his gaze flicked to an exposed midriff that was curvy and flat. He saw the silhouette of smallish breasts. Lower, the denim hugged shapely hips and slender thighs. She didn’t look like a killer, but he knew from experience that looks could be deceiving.
Dragging his gaze away from details he was a fool to notice at a time like this, he tugged the sweatshirt down and tried to ascertain where the blood was coming from. Turning on the lamp beside the sofa, he knelt, located another stain on her sleeve the size of a saucer. Definitely blood.
Madrid had seen enough shootings in the course of his career to know when someone had been shot. He wondered why Mummert hadn’t mentioned it. In most police departments the firing of a weapon called for at least a ream of paperwork. Had he known there was a possibility she’d been shot, Madrid would have checked area hospitals. Had one of Norm Mummert’s men shot her? Or had Angela done it while trying to protect herself?
Madrid tugged the sleeve up. The knotted gauze on her left biceps was blood soaked. From the look of it, she’d tried to bandage it herself, but hadn’t been able to manage with one hand. Quickly he untied the haphazard bandage and removed it.
The bullet had grazed her, digging a trench through flesh and muscle. The wound wasn’t dangerously deep, but it had bled plenty. If he wasn’t mistaken, infection was setting in.
Considering what this woman had done, there was a part of him that thought she deserved whatever bad luck fate could dole out. But the human part of him hated seeing a pretty woman hurt.
She thrashed about and a moment later her eyes fluttered open, though they remained unfocused. “Didn’t…do…it.”
“Take it easy,” Madrid said roughly.
“No.” She lashed out with her fists. “Cops…tried to…kill me.”
“Stay still.”
“Please…don’t let them…hurt Nicolas.”
The reference to the boy gave him pause, but only for a second. “Where’s the boy?” he asked.
“Angela asked me to…keep him safe…from the cops.”
Madrid felt himself go still, wondering if she’d just said what it sounded like. “What did you say?”
She mumbled something unintelligible that ended with the only words he could understand. “She gave me…photo.”
“What photo?” he pressed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
But her eyes rolled back. She groaned and her body went slack. Frustration more than concern washed over him when she lapsed into unconsciousness.
He stared down at her, hating the fact that he wasn’t going to be able to cuff her and drag her to jail by the scruff of her pretty neck. That maybe this wasn’t as simple as he’d thought.
Cops…tried to…kill me.
Her words rang in his ears as he sat back on his heels and tried to decide what to do next. He told himself he shouldn’t believe a word of what she’d said. The woman had shot a federal agent, assaulted a police officer, kidnapped a minor and gone on the run. She was desperate and would do anything to save herself.
But there was one thing missing: motive. Because of that he couldn’t quiet the niggling little voice in the back of his mind warning him that things might not be as they appeared.
Madrid had been an agent far too long to take anything at face value. He trusted no one, he believed very little of what he was told.
But he also knew that many times delirium was like a truth serum. When people were sick out of their minds they didn’t have the wherewithal to lie. Especially an elaborate lie and a bullet wound to back it up.
Outside, the storm had broken. Rain lashed the roof with the same violence as the sea pounding the rocky coast. Thunder rattled the windows, and wind gusts shook the cottage. Heeding nature’s message, Madrid accepted the fact that he would not be taking this woman back to the mainland tonight.
He considered calling Mummert’s office to let him know he had her in custody. But something stopped him. He didn’t want to acknowledge the doubt nipping at the back of his consciousness. But it was there, like a headache waiting to be reckoned with. Angela had been a top-notch agent; she’d had good instincts when it came to people. So why had she opened her door to this woman? Why had she told her about this cottage? The answer disturbed him as much as the questions themselves.
Angela had trusted Jessica Atwood.
Madrid stared down at her sweat-soaked face, the bloodstain on her shirt. All the while her words echoed hollowly in his ears.
Angela asked me to…keep him safe…from the cops.
Madrid knew be
tter than anyone that people weren’t always who they said they were; first impressions could be deceiving. After all, he was a master at deception himself. But he’d learned a long time ago to trust his instincts. He didn’t like it, but right now his instincts were telling him something was amiss.
He’d wanted to end this tonight and take this woman in. He wanted her to pay for taking a life and leaving a little boy without a mother. He’d wanted to prove a point to Sean Cutter. Madrid hated it, but none of those things was going to happen as quickly as he’d wanted.
“Who the hell are you?” he whispered above the din of rain against the roof.
Recalling she’d mentioned a photo, he looked around, found nothing, then glanced down at her. Her eyes were closed, but her limbs were restless. He wondered if the photo really existed or if she’d been delirious. Or lying. Would the photo answer any of the questions zinging around in his head?
He wasn’t above searching a woman, unconscious or otherwise. Especially if it might help solve the murder of a fellow agent. The sweatshirt had no pockets, but her jeans did. Frowning, he slid his hand into her front pocket and felt around. Nothing. He shifted her slightly and tried the other, found it empty. Turning her onto her side, he checked the rear pocket. His fingertip brushed something slick—plastic. He slid it from its nest. A plastic bag…with a picture inside it.
The quality was grainy, but clear enough for him to discern the dozen or so young women jammed into what looked like a small room. He removed the photo and studied it. Most of the women appeared to be of Asian descent. Some were bound, a few looked battered. All of them looked frightened.
“What the hell?”
The floor creaked behind him. He reached for the pistol he’d taken from Atwood, and swung it around. The sight of the little boy standing a few feet away hit him in the gut like a punch. He was five or six years old, tops, and wearing a pair of baggy blue jeans, a red sweatshirt and a Giants baseball cap. In his arms he clutched a stuffed hippo.
“Mah-mah.”
For the first time since arriving, Madrid felt as if he were out of his element. He might be a whiz at chasing down killers, but when it came to kids he hadn’t a clue. “It’s okay,” he whispered.
Operation: Midnight Rendezvous Page 2