One Wrong Step (Borderline Book 2)

by Laura Griffin

  The glass door marked newsroom pushed open. But, instead of McAllister, a slender brunette wearing black jeans and a DKNY T-shirt emerged. She walked straight up to Celie.

  “Cecelia Wells? I’m Kate Kepler.”

  Kate Kepler…The name rang a bell, but Celie couldn’t place it. She shook the woman’s outstretched hand.

  “I’m sorry. I’m waiting for John McAllister. Are you his…” Assistant? Coworker? Fling of the week?

  “We work together. I heard you were looking for John, and I just thought I’d tell you he’s out on assignment right now, so—” Her gaze shifted over Celie’s shoulder. “Oh, wait. Here he is.”

  Celie turned to see McAllister breeze through the front doors. He wore a press pass around his neck and a tie, of all things. He spotted Celie, froze, and then crossed the foyer to frown down at her.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Celie stared up at him, confused by the blatant hostility.

  “Good to meet you, Cecelia.” The young reporter smiled at Celie before heading back into the newsroom.

  Celie looked at McAllister again, hoping she’d misread the situation. If anything, he looked even angrier than he had at first.

  “I just—” She cleared her throat. “You didn’t answer your phone, so I thought I’d just—”

  “I didn’t want to talk to you.”

  The pain shocked her. She looked up into those intense blue eyes and realized he was furious.

  A man brushed past them, and Celie stepped out of his way. They were standing in the middle of the lobby, and Celie noticed the receptionist seemed to be just a little too intent on her Office Depot catalogue. She was listening to every word.

  “Is there somewhere else we can talk?” Celie asked.

  “Now you want to talk? A little late, don’t you think?”

  “What is your problem?”

  He looked away from her and shook his head.

  “Fine. You want to talk? Let’s go.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the glass doors into the newsroom.

  Celie let him tow her behind him, too stunned to speak. What was he doing ? He pulled her past cubicles, desks, and ringing phones. Several interested gazes followed them through the noisy room. After passing a series of windowed offices, McAllister turned down a row of cubicles and stopped at one in the middle. He pulled the press pass off his neck, tossed it on the desk, and leaned over the short, padded wall to the next cube.

  “Hey, can I borrow your chair? Thanks.”

  He grabbed an empty plastic chair from a startled coworker and dragged it into his cube. He plunked himself into the desk chair and nodded at Celie.

  “Sit down. Talk.”

  Her cheeks burned. She couldn’t believe he was treating her this way. And in front of his entire office. She was sure everyone within thirty feet was eavesdropping.

  Celie hated being the center of attention. She sank into the chair and tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

  “I’d like to know what’s wrong,” she said quietly.

  McAllister’s phone rang, and he stared at her for a long moment. Then he reached over and snatched it up. “McAllister…. Yeah.” He turned his back on her and punched some buttons on his computer, bringing the screen to life. “Yeah, lemme check.”

  Celie took a deep breath and looked down at her lap. She was wearing a thin cotton sundress in pale blue. She’d put it on this morning thinking it looked pretty and feminine, and wondering if McAllister would see it this evening. Now she felt really, really stupid. Forget a dinner date. He was so upset with her, he probably wouldn’t even see her again after this.

  Whatever this was.

  She looked up and caught him staring at her as he talked on the phone. He broke eye contact and turned back to his computer. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s running tomorrow. The follow-up runs Friday.” He shuffled through a stack of folders, then turned toward her. “Here. Some light reading.” He tossed a file in her lap.

  Celie looked down at the manila folder. She opened it up and found a stack of printouts.

  “World-Renowned Baby Doc Opens Clinic in Austin.”

  Celie’s stomach clenched. She sifted through the papers and counted one, two, three stories about her specialist, all from the Herald archives. The light dawned. Her bathroom cabinet was crammed with fertility drugs prescribed by this man.

  The last article was entitled “Miracle Babies!” and showed a young couple surrounded by smiling triplets.

  She glanced up at McAllister. He was still on the phone, but his attention was fixed on her. She tried to read his face. Mostly she read fury, with some defiance mixed in.

  He’d caught her in a lie, and he looked proud of himself. The clever investigative reporter who figured everything out.

  Celie closed the folder and stood up. She placed the file on his desk, beside the computer.

  “Hey, let me get back to you.” He finally hung up the phone and turned to face her, arms crossed. “You still want to talk?”

  “Not here.”

  “Shit, well, that’s a problem. See, I’ve got work to do, and I can’t exactly take the afternoon off to go hang out at your place and contribute to the cause. I might be able to get you a sample for the road, though. If you’ll give me a minute—”

  “I’m leaving,” she said, shouldering her purse. “Call me when you’re ready to have a real conversation.”

  He scowled. “Don’t wait by the phone.”

  She wove back through the maze of cubicles, trying to hold her head up and pretend she didn’t notice all the curious glances.

  John stared through his rain-streaked windshield, thinking he’d sell his goddamn soul for a cigarette. Smoking went with drinking, and he’d had way too much of one without the other tonight.

  He’d spent most of the evening at The Ale House looking for some kind of solace. But women he could stand the sight of were in short supply tonight, and Jose Cuervo had left him twisting in the wind. John had just enough alcohol in his system to make him moody, but not nearly enough to put his problems out of his mind.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, thunking his forehead on the steering wheel. Water drummed against the top of the Jeep, reminding him what a shitty day this had been. He was going to have a monster headache tomorrow, and his life would be in the same sorry shape it was now.

  What a weird fucking night. He’d had no trouble at all resisting the amazingly stacked blonde who’d rubbed up against him at the bar, but walking out of 7 Eleven without a pack of Camels had damn near killed him. And driving all the way home without taking a fifteen-minute detour past Celie’s apartment? Shit, he couldn’t do it. He didn’t have the willpower.

  He leaned his head back against the seat and stared up at her window. With the steady drizzle, he could make out little more than a blurry rectangle of glass. But the lights were on, had been since John’s arrival twenty minutes ago.

  John swigged his drink. He’d switched to Gatorade, which was helping his body. It wasn’t helping his state of mind, though. His brain was torturing him, feeding him images of Celie up there getting it on with T-Bone. Girls on the rebound were vindictive. John knew because he’d caught a few himself.

  But Celie wouldn’t do that. At least, he didn’t think she would. He watched the flickering light in the window and tried to convince himself she was simply up there watching TV, or maybe she’d fallen asleep in front of it. Or maybe she was pacing her apartment, trying to think of a way to apologize.

  There was no apology in the world that would ever be good enough. What she’d done was unforgivable.

  But maybe she wasn’t planning to apologize at all. John stared at her apartment and felt his anger seeping back. Maybe she was up there congratulating herself for duping him. Maybe she thought he’d gotten what he deserved—the playboy had finally been played.

  John knew all about his reputation, the one he’d admittedly earned after fifteen years of partying. Hell, at one time, he’d e
ven been proud of it.

  Not anymore. Now he was sick of it—fed up with the bars and the clubs and the meaningless sex. The repetition of it all disgusted him. Pamela Price’s murder had slapped him with the reality that life is short. And his, in particular, amounted to shit. He wanted more out of life than a string of interchangeable women and his name on the front of some newspaper that ended up lining a kid’s hamster cage.

  Celie’s living room window went dark. She’d switched off the television and was probably on her way to bed now, probably slipping into one of those nightshirts she liked and sliding between crisp, cool sheets.

  Alone.

  At least he hoped she was alone. Just the thought of her up there with someone else made him crazy.

  Suddenly he didn’t give a shit about the lies. He just wanted to take her to bed again and forget everything else.

  As if that were possible.

  Hey, babe, mind if I use a condom this time? Since you fucking lied to me about being on the Pill?

  Might just spoil the mood. Especially if she told him it didn’t matter anyway—she was already pregnant with his kid. Or someone else’s kid; that was possible, too. She’d been seeing a world-famous baby doctor, taking a whole mess of fertility drugs. Who knew what was going on inside that body of hers?

  A sudden movement caught his eye, and John’s focus veered to the side of the building, where a vehicle was leaving the garage. It was a silver SUV, looked like a BMW or a Volvo.

  With a woman behind the wheel. A short, blond woman who bore a striking resemblance to Celie.

  “Fuckin’ A,” he grumbled, starting his engine and gunning the Jeep out of the parking space. He punched the gas until he was right behind the SUV, close enough to see Celie’s refection illuminated by his headlights in her rearview mirror. Where was she going this time of night? And whose car was that?

  He laid on the horn, and she turned to look over her shoulder. She hesitated a moment and then pulled over.

  McAllister was here.

  It was the worst possible moment for him to show up, and yet there was his Jeep, right in her rearview mirror. She watched in her side mirror as he climbed from the Wrangler. In a few strides, he was beside her car and rapping on the window.

  She didn’t have time for this! With a shaking finger, she jabbed the button to lower the glass.

  “What the hell are you doing?” His eyes were angry and bloodshot, and droplets of water streamed down his face.

  “I’m just—”

  “Do you have any idea how late it is? Where’s your bodyguard?”

  “I’m just running a quick errand. I ran out of”—What? What on earth could she be needing at this time of night?—“ice cream.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Ice cream? At one a.m. in a fucking rainstorm? Are you out of your mind?”

  Now he was making her mad. She glanced at the clock. And late. It was 12:49. She had eleven minutes left to get to some nightclub on South Lamar. Goatee Man had just called and given her fifteen short minutes. And if she didn’t show, he was going to kill Enrique Ramos.

  “Get in!” she squeaked.

  For once, he didn’t argue. He rounded the Volvo and jumped into the passenger side, bringing a few gallons of water with him on his clothes. Saledo’s guy had promised to kill her, too, if she didn’t come alone, but she’d already called the FBI, so what did it matter? McAllister could hide in the backseat.

  Celie hit the gas before he’d even closed the door. “Put on your seat belt. I’m in a hurry.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She skidded to a stop at the security gate and waited for what seemed like an eternity as it slid open. Then she shot through the opening with just inches to spare on either side.

  She pulled out onto the highway, and the windshield started to cloud until she could barely see. She jabbed at buttons on the control panel until she found the defogger.

  McAllister watched her from the passenger seat. “Nice ride,” he quipped. “Kind of a mom mobile, though, don’t ya think? They throw in a free soccer ball?”

  She gave him a dirty look.

  “You know, the last woman I knew who had one of these got her head blown off by one of Saledo’s goons.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “’Fraid not.”

  Just drive, she told herself. She concentrated on the road and heard the tires squeal as she whipped around a bend. The road curved left again, and she fishtailed, barely missing the guardrail. If her heart hadn’t already been at full gallop, the near-miss might have rattled her.

  “That’s some ice cream craving,” he drawled.

  “We’re not going for ice cream.”

  “No shit. Where are we going?”

  She blew out a breath. This was a disaster. Who cared what she told him anymore?

  “Saledo’s guys called me. The meeting’s tonight.”

  A creative stream of curses erupted from his mouth.

  “That was pretty much my reaction,” she said. She wended her way down Ranch Road 2222, ignoring speed limits and warning signs. Robert had died on this very highway, at the hands of the very same people she was about to meet. The same men who’d kidnapped an innocent eleven-year-old boy.

  “Did you call the feds yet?”

  “Yes. Rowe’s meeting me at Sixth and Lamar in five minutes. He’s got the bag I’m supposed to deliver.”

  “You’re supposed to deliver? I thought they were sending a look-alike!”

  “They were,” Celie said. “But she’s not here, so they’re sending me.”

  CHAPTER

  15

  Silence fell over the car as he absorbed this. For nearly a minute, the swishing of the wiper blades was the only sound.

  “You’re not going,” he said firmly. “Tell those assholes to wait.”

  “I can’t do that. They want to meet right now.”

  “Where the fuck is the agent?”

  Celie blew out a breath. “San Antonio. They’ve got a couple of female agents here in town, but one is black and the other is five-ten. It would never work.”

  “So tell them to wait. You can’t just go out there—”

  “They’ve got Enrique.” Celie sucked in a breath. A sob burst out, and she clamped a hand over her mouth.

  He looked at her, eyes wide. “Enrique Ramos? The kid from the shelter?”

  She nodded.

  “How the hell did that happen?”

  “They must have picked him up somewhere after school.” Her voice quivered. “Or maybe he ran off. He does that sometimes.”

  “Fuck,” McAllister muttered and looked out the window. They were doing sixty in a thirty-five on wet streets. “Want me to drive?”

  She shook her head. At least driving gave her something to do besides get hysterical. She had to keep a level head. She took a deep breath.

  A red light loomed ahead, and she would have raced through it had it not been for a Lincoln Town Car crossing the intersection. She jammed her foot on the brake, and the car rabbitted as the antilock mechanism kicked in.

  “So, the FBI’s bringing a bag for you?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I think they’ve got some way to track the bills or maybe the duffel or something.”

  “And what’s the strategy?”

  She cursed mentally as another sedan rolled cautiously through the intersection. “They’re going to try to apprehend these two guys right after the exchange. If they can’t, they’re going to follow the money.”

  She didn’t say what they were both surely thinking. Something terrible could happen before the FBI got control of the situation.

  Celie’s cell phone chirped, and she jumped in her seat. The light turned green as she flipped open the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “New plan, bitch.”

  “How’d you get this number?”

  “Be at the Quick Stop on I-35 and Riverside. Ten minutes.”

  “What? But you said—Hello? Hello? ”
She jerked the phone away from her ear and looked at the screen. Disconnected.

  She tossed it in McAllister’s lap. “Call Rowe! Tell him to get to the Quick Stop on Riverside and Interstate 35.” She’d never get her hands on the money in time. And what about the sharpshooters? No one had time to get in place.

  “What’s his number?” McAllister asked.

  “I don’t know.” In her rush, she’d left his business card on the kitchen counter. “Can you call the police? Maybe they have it.”

  “I have a better idea,” he said, punching some numbers into the phone.

  “What?”

  But he wasn’t paying attention. He turned away from her and looked out the window as the hills of west Austin flew past them. “Kate? Hey, it’s me. Where are you, exactly?”

  Kate shook her head to make sure she’d heard right. “Where am I?” She glanced at the clock. “I’m in bed.”

  “You got the number for that FBI guy? Agent Rowe?”

  Kate kicked off the covers. “Yeah.” She rolled out of bed and grabbed some jeans off the floor. “What’s going on? Where are you?”

  “I need you to call him. Tell him South Lamar’s off. Tell him the meeting’s been changed to the Speedy Stop—What?” Kate heard a woman’s voice in the background. “Scratch that. The Quick Stop at Riverside and I-35.”

  Kate fumbled in the dark for a pen. Screw it. She could remember everything he’d said. “I got it. What’s happening there and when?”

  “He’ll know,” McAllister said. “And tell him to haul ass.”

  She stubbed her toe on the doorjamb just as the call went dead. “Damn it!”

  Slumping against the door frame, she stared at the phone. “McAllister? McAllister? ” That was it ?

  “Son of a bitch,” she muttered, scrolling through her speed dial list. She found Rowe’s number and pushed Connect.

  Rowe was already in position at the Whole Foods parking lot on Sixth and Lamar when Kate’s call came in on his phone.

  Crap. That was all he needed. He decided to ignore it.

  “Shouldn’t you get that?” Stevenski asked from the passenger seat of the Buick.