True Shot

by Joyce Lamb

  “I’ve got good news, sir,” Natalie said. “I obtained the police report that the owner of the stolen Camry filed.”

  “ And?”

  “He reported that there’s a cell phone in the car, in the storage cubby between the front seats. It has GPS.”

  “It’s on?”

  “I already tried to get a lock on it and yes, it’s on.”

  Flinn rubbed a hand over his still-damp jaw and began to pace, excited energy sparking along his nerve endings. “Tell me you know where they are.”

  “Charleston, sir. It’s kind of odd, actually. They’re headed toward the coast. We assumed they were going to Lake Avalon, but—”

  “Do you have men on them?”

  “Not yet, sir. It would take several hours to get anyone to the area, so I wanted to check with you before—”

  “I’ll take care of it.” He clicked off the call as he strode into his office. After waking his laptop out of sleep mode, he Googled “bail bonds” in Charleston, South Carolina. He visited a couple of Web sites until he landed on one for AAA Bail Bonds that displayed the photo of a huge, muscled man wearing a cheap suit and a friendly smile. The tagline read: “I Handle State and Federal Bonds. No Job Too Big or Too Small. MasterCard and Visa Accepted.”

  Flinn dialed the number.

  A young woman who sounded as if her world had ended that morning answered on the third ring. “Triple A Bail Bonds.”

  “I want to hire a bounty hunter to track down a couple of fugitives.”

  “Hold, please.”

  Flinn waited, tapping his fingers on his desk.

  “Lloyd Gould. How can I help you?”

  “There are two fugitives in your area who are worth a large amount of cash if you retrieve them for me.”

  “Do you have access to the Internet? You can fill out a form on our Web site and—”

  “I’d like to avoid the formalities. How does ten thousand dollars sound?”

  A pause, and then, “What’s the location of these two fugitives?”

  Mac clutched the McMuffin in one hand while he steered with the other. Next to him, Sam tore into her breakfast as though she hadn’t had a decent meal in months.

  “Mmm, this is so good,” she said.

  “Guess you’re not feeling sick anymore.”

  She stopped chewing and cocked her head as if to think about it. “Guess not.”

  “Maybe you were sick because your stomach was empty.”

  “Or maybe I’m—”

  He glanced sideways at her, curious as to why she’d broken off so abruptly. She was looking straight through the windshield, her blank stare a sharp contrast to the amused tone of her voice just before she’d stopped talking.

  “What?” he asked.

  She didn’t react. Didn’t chew. Didn’t swallow. Didn’t blink.

  “Sam?” She looked catatonic again. Damn! He hated this empathy shit.

  Before he could begin the process of pulling the car over, she turned her head to blink at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

  Relief let him breathe again. “Where did you go just now? Were you having one of those empathic moments?”

  “No. I wasn’t even touching you.”

  “I know, but you zoned out like you do when you . . . you know.”

  “Oh. No. It was nothing. Just . . . thinking.”

  “About what?”

  She looked down at her half-eaten McMuffin as though considering wrapping up the rest and tossing it. The pink that had hued her cheeks while they chatted faded away, leaving her complexion pale again.

  “Sam?” he prodded.

  “I wasn’t thinking about anything.”

  He knew a lie when he heard one. At least from her. But he also knew when to let it go. She didn’t want to share, and he wasn’t the kind of guy to try to force her to. As if he’d get anywhere if he did.

  Silence filled the car as he drove and they finished their breakfast sandwiches. By the time they’d crumpled up their wrappers and stuffed them back into the bag, Mac was steering the Camry onto the street where former South Carolina governor Arthur Baldwin resided. Typical of island roads, gravel shoulders flanked the narrow street, the rough asphalt humming under the Toyota’s tires. Massive beach homes sat high above the ground on stilts on both sides of the road, towering above the luxury cars parked underneath. Most of the homes looked new, or at least sported a fresh coat of pastel paint in pink, blue or yellow.

  “I think it’s at the end of the street,” Mac said.

  As he parked at the end of the driveway, he took in the white-shuttered, blue gray beach house somewhat camouflaged by surrounding palm and magnolia trees. It wasn’t as big as its neighbors, meaning it didn’t look like something a millionaire would live in, but who knew what kind of extravagance resided inside?

  Mac shut off the car and glanced at Sam. “Ready?”

  She nodded but made no move to open her door.

  “Sam?”

  “Maybe it’s stupid, but I hope that whatever we learn in there doesn’t change . . .” She shook her head with a soft laugh.

  “Change what?”

  “Nothing. It’s foolish to think there’s anything even to change.”

  “You mean, between us?” he asked, surprised. And hopeful.

  “It’s been two days.”

  His point exactly. “Well, I am your only friend right now. It’s like you’re Jason Bourne and I’m . . . I guess I’d be the . . . well, the resourceful girlfriend who gets killed at the beginning of the second movie. Hmm, not sure I care for that comparison on a couple of levels.”

  He glanced at her, expecting an exasperated but slightly amused expression. Instead, her brows had drawn together in a way that looked suspiciously like hurt.

  He rushed to amend his point. “I mean, I’m your only friend that you know of. Because of the amnesia. Of course you have other friends. I was just—”

  “It’s okay. You’re probably more right than either of us knows anyway. Not that it matters. So, shall we?”

  Before he could respond, she pushed open her door and stepped out into the ocean breeze.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  As Sam strode up the walk, the fresh and salty ocean breeze in her face, she pushed stray hair out of her eyes and studied the front of Arthur Baldwin’s home. Nothing about it sparked recognition, but all that could mean was that she’d had contact with him somewhere other than here.

  Her stomach did an ominous dance, and she pressed her hand to her abdomen, willing her nerves to calm. Had to be nerves, right? Couldn’t be . . . anything else. Couldn’t be. And she refused to even think it anyway. Nothing she could do about anything until she got her memory back or figured out why her boss wanted her dead . . . whichever came first.

  At the door, with Mac reassuringly beside her, she knocked and waited.

  The door opened after about thirty seconds, and Arthur Baldwin stood there in frozen shock. “What are you doing here?” His raspy voice, as though he’d smoked a carton a day for the past forty years, carried not one tiny welcoming note.

  His longish white hair was brushed back from his face, a contrast to the golden brown of his skin. In red plaid shorts and a yellow polo shirt, he appeared to be on his way to the golf course. The man had to be well into his seventies, but he had a healthy glow about him that most likely came from a privileged life of eating well and regular exercise.

  “May we come in and talk to you?” Mac asked.

  Sam jolted at the sound of his voice. She’d been so focused on trying to recognize Arthur Baldwin beyond the picture she’d seen on the newscast last night that she’d forgotten to say anything.

  Baldwin shifted electric blue eyes to Mac. “Who the hell are you?”

  Mac held out his hand. “Mac Hunter, sir.”

  Baldwin seemed to shake his hand automatically before Mac continued his pitch. “Sorry to bother you on such a beautiful morning, but my friend and I would like to ask you a few questions.
”

  Sam marveled at his professionalism—and the absolute conviction in his tone that Baldwin would invite them in with a hale and hearty hello. Perhaps they could sip mint juleps on the back porch.

  Then, amazingly, Baldwin stepped back and gestured them inside. His eagle gaze remained on Sam the entire time, and she imagined that if looks could kill, she’d be well on her way to the embalming table. Her stomach clutched at the thought that however she knew this man, it wasn’t pleasant.

  Once Baldwin shut the front door, he turned to face them. “If your boss sent you here to shake me down for more money, go ahead and try. I already told him I’ve got nothing left.”

  “Money?” Sam repeated. Not what she was expecting.

  Baldwin’s face twisted into a mask of such hatred that she took a step back.

  And then he lunged at her, his hands going for her throat.

  Mac cleanly cut Baldwin off from his assault and shoved him against the far wall with a thump, where he pinned the man with a forearm across his throat.

  “Easy!” Sam shouted, grabbing onto Mac’s arm.

  He backed off as fast as he’d attacked, leaving behind a wad of wrinkles where he’d grabbed Baldwin’s shirt, and cast a chagrined glance at her. “Sorry.”

  Baldwin straightened away from the wall and smoothed a hand over the front of his polo. To Sam, he said, “It doesn’t matter what your muscle does to me. I’ve got nothing.”

  Mac snorted. “You think I’m the muscle? You obviously haven’t seen this woman in action.”

  Baldwin kept his hard eyes on Sam. “Apparently you don’t know her as well as you think you do.”

  Sam took a steadying breath. Her stomach was staging a revolt against the Egg McMuffin, and she feared a coup if she didn’t sit down soon. “Look, can we sit and talk?”

  “I’ve already told you. There’s no more money. Don’t you people watch the news? I’m as broke as you can get.”

  “This beach house is pretty nice, Artie,” Mac commented.

  Baldwin’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I owe more than it’s worth, so the bank is letting me stay here and pay rent.”

  “Yet, if you’re able to pay rent, you must have income from somewhere,” Mac said.

  Sam put her hand on his upper arm to subtly warn him to back off. Such hostility—and violence, judging by how quickly he’d intercepted Baldwin—from a normally mild-mannered man surprised her. “We’re not here for money,” she softly reminded Mac.

  “Right.” He rolled his shoulders as if to loosen tightness. “Guess I can’t control my journalistic instinct to try to flush out a lying politician.”

  Sam did her best to give Baldwin a nonthreatening smile, trying not to notice the way his eyes widened, as though her smile unnerved him far more than it reassured him.

  “I just want to ask you some questions,” she said. “I promise I’m not here for any other purpose or on anyone else’s behalf.”

  Doubt lifted Baldwin’s bushy white brows. “Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe.”

  “Ten minutes,” Sam said. “Please.”

  Baldwin’s shoulders stiffened further as he turned to walk into the house. “As if I have a choice,” he muttered.

  Sam followed him, and Mac fell into step beside her. “So . . . any bells ringing yet?”

  She shook her head.

  “He obviously knows you. I think you scare the bejesus out of him.”

  “I noticed.”

  “You’re one badass mo-fo, aren’t you?”

  The fact that he gave her an impressed smile just made her stomach twist further. “You think I should be proud of the fact that this man is frightened of me?”

  “It’s not like he’s a minister running the local food bank. He’s a douche bag who ripped off the people closest to him and let his kids go down for it. Yeah, you should be proud that your presence makes him quake in his old-man shoes. Maybe if we’re lucky, you could make a fast move toward him and see if he pees himself.”

  She stopped walking and faced him, anger flushing warmth into her face. “This isn’t a joke.”

  Mac raised his hands, palms out. “I know. I’m just . . . damn it, that guy’s a dick. Sorry if I think he deserves to squirm.” He gave her an intense, soul-searching once-over. “Wait a minute. You’re bugged that you’re the one making him squirm. Were you hoping that you’re one of those nice spies who rescues kittens from trees? I’m ninety-nine percent sure you’re not.”

  Now she was the one wanting to squirm. Instead of responding, she turned her back on him and followed Baldwin into a sitting room at the back of the house that looked out over a private beach. Sliding glass doors were closed against the chill outside, but the sound of the rush and retreat of the ocean waves bled through the glass. Other than a black microfiber recliner with a well-worn seat, the furniture was white wicker with solid blue cushions. A large flat-panel television hung on the wall adjacent to the glass doors, tuned to a news channel starring a ranting political commentator.

  Baldwin said nothing as he settled himself into the recliner, picked up the TV remote and muted the sound. His demeanor screamed defeat.

  Sam sat on a wicker chair and clasped her hands in her lap. She didn’t want to feel sorry for this man, but she did. Maybe because she feared—no, she was certain—that she’d played a significant role in his despondency.

  She cleared the tightness from her throat. “Mr. Baldwin, could you tell me how we know each other?”

  He stared blankly at her. “Excuse me?”

  “You made a reference earlier to my boss. You meant Flinn Ford, right?”

  He turned a suspicious gaze on Mac. “What is this?”

  “Just answer the questions, Artie, and everything will be fine,” Mac said.

  Baldwin pressed his lips together. “Flinn Ford is the man who blackmailed me, yes.”

  Blackmail. Terrific. She swallowed and shifted to try to alleviate the tension in her back. “What role did I play in that?”

  Baldwin pushed out of the chair, his features twisting in rage. “What the hell is going on here? Is this some kind of joke? Are you people here to fuck with me? I told you! I’ve got nothing! And even if I did have anything, the deal is off. You people broke your end of the bargain. I’m ruined now. My life is over!” Spittle flew from his mouth, and his face turned heart-attack red. “I did everything I was supposed to do. Everything. I played by your fucking rules. I gave you millions of dollars. Fucking millions. And my brother still went to prison and when the market collapsed and I lost everything and the rumors began to fly, you did nothing to help me. I have nothing now. I am nothing. Because of you.”

  “Mr. Baldwin, please calm down.” Sam rose, fearing he would send himself into cardiac arrest. She grasped one of his flailing arms, fingers digging into his shirt as she braced to angle his arm behind his back to control him. He yelped.

  In her peripheral vision, Sam saw Mac jump to his feet. “Stay there!” she ordered.

  The distraction was all Baldwin needed. He yanked away from her, whipped around and backhanded her.

  The floor dropped out from under her.

  Mac leapt forward and grabbed the older man’s wrist before he could deliver another blow. The first had been so lightning fast, Mac hadn’t seen it coming any more than Sam had. One instant the man had been gesturing wildly, and the next, he’d taken a swipe at Sam that had sent her reeling. Now, she slid in slow motion down the wall, limbs boneless, eyes fixed and far, far away.

  Shit, shit, shit. Mac had to all but wrestle the struggling Baldwin back into his recliner. “Stay put,” Mac growled when the older man started back up.

  Baldwin ignored the order, and Mac had to push him back with a none-too-gentle hand to the chest. He would have preferred to punch the living daylights out of the bastard. “Move and I’ll knock you flat. I’m not kidding.”

  “What’s the matter with her?” Baldwin asked, the fury in his gaze morphing into worry. Not for Sam
, though. The pathetic old geezer feared what would happen to him if he’d harmed her. “I lost control of myself for a moment. I didn’t mean to strike her.”

  “Yeah, like you didn’t mean to attack her when we first got here, either, right?”

  “I’m a crazy old man. You people took everything from me. I’ve got a right to be angry.”

  “Whatever. Just stay put. You can go back to watching your TV in about two minutes.”

  Mac turned his back on Baldwin and knelt next to Sam. He had no idea how to snap her out of her fugue state. He tried her name first, uncertain whether touching her would make the situation worse. “Sam?”

  And just like that, she blinked.

  Relief sagged his shoulders. That was easy. “You’re back.”

  Her eyes tracked to him in such a sluggish way that the muscles in his chest retightened. If possible, she looked whiter than she had all morning. “You okay?”

  She gave a distracted nod as she pushed to her feet, ignoring his offer of a hand up, and turned toward Baldwin, who sat still and tense in his chair. She gazed at him for a long moment, her breathing heavy but steady. “Your brother Jake. Where is he?”

  Mac didn’t move, not liking the coiled tension in her muscles, the controlled rage in the way she breathed. “Who’s Jake?”

  Baldwin’s eyes narrowed to slits of ice, and his hands tightened on the arms of the recliner until his knuckles lost color. “Fuck you, bitch. Fuck both of you!”

  Sam lunged at him, pinning him in his chair with a strong hand at his throat. The muscles in her forearm flexed as she squeezed.

  Mac took an alarmed step forward. “Hey—”

  “Stay back!”

  Mac stopped.

  Baldwin’s face started to turn purple, and his eyes bulged, a strangled cough escaping his lips.

  “Where. Is. Jake.” Sam’s voice had gone low and deadly.

  Baldwin gagged, sputtered. His lips moved in a soundless “Fuck . . . you.”

  “Sam, you’re killing him.” Mac tried to speak in a reasonable tone.

  He didn’t think she’d heard him. Or perhaps she ignored him. “Sam,” he said more firmly.