by Lisa Gardner
He set the gun down on the bed, far out of Maggie’s reach. Then he began unbuttoning the ill-fitting guard uniform.
“What are you doing?” she choked.
“Changing.”
“You can’t do that!”
He gazed at her expressionlessly, his fingers moving down until they reached the last button at his waist. The shirt opened, revealing his naked chest. And Maggie blushed six different shades of red.
“Did you grow up in a nunnery?” he asked, shrugging off the shirt. It remained dangling over the handcuffs.
“No.” Her voice was so strangled he could barely hear the word.
“Just checking.”
He grabbed the cotton-blend uniform from where it hung on the chain between their wrists and gave a small yank. The material ripped off like meat falling from a bone.
Maggie’s eyes grew round as saucers.
“My tax dollars,” she muttered, staring at the torn shirt, then his bare torso, which rippled and flexed like a marble statue.
“Probably.” He’d used the one-hour rec time he received every day as a maximum-security inmate to work out. Being surrounded by two-ton murderers and rapists had that effect on a man.
His hands moved purposefully to his waist. Maggie promptly squeezed her eyes shut. For a moment he hesitated, his upbringing warring with his circumstances. The handcuffs, however, limited the amount of distance he could put between the two of them. She cracked open her blue eyes as if to see what was holding him up, looking miserable and forlorn.
“All right,” he said abruptly. He acted quickly, before he could debate the wisdom of his decision yet again. With one deft movement, he picked up her wrist, unlocked the metal bracelet and dropped her freed hand to her side. “Move, and I’ll shoot you.”
“I want to go home,” she whispered.
His lips twisted slightly; some of the force went out of his stance. “I know,” he said quietly. “I know.”
He turned away. Briskly, he peeled off the ill-fitting prison guard pants and kicked them away. Then he pulled up the new pair of jeans. Moving fast, he donned a worn T-shirt with a blue-striped short-sleeved overshirt. With his fingers, he impatiently raked back his blond hair, momentarily revealing the port-wine stain riding high on his forehead that had earned him his name from his father. His mother had tried to argue that Cain was no name for a child, but she never had been a match for her fierce, hardhearted husband.
Cain pulled the baseball cap low and completed the transformation from state prisoner to prison guard to Joe Blow in fifteen minutes or less.
He picked up the gun, locked the safety and slid it into the waistband of the loose-fitting jeans, the dark pistol covered by the overshirt. Then he retrieved the handcuffs and slapped them into place on their wrists once more.
“All right, Maggie. Now we hot-wire the truck.”
Her blue eyes rose silently, no longer desolate but resigned. “When my brothers catch up with you, you’ll regret having ever done this,” she informed him softly.
“Yeah?” He dragged her out of the van.
“C.J.’s a Marine. Force recon. He’s invented new ways of handling men like you.”
They were back at the pickup truck. He held open the door. “After you.”
“And Brandon is just plain dangerous. You think he’s just an investment banker, but then you see his eyes. He’s very focused, very intelligent, and knows exactly how to get what he wants. He’ll have you in line for lethal injection by morning.”
“My brother, Abraham, cut his teeth on a Remington twelve-gauge shotgun, Maggie. With a crossbow, he can shoot a hole through the middle of a quarter from forty yards. He also believes the numbers on the back of the road signs are to help the Zionist Occupational Government—ZOG—someday herd all dissidents into forty-three concentration camps and that Gurkha troops are being secretly trained in Montana to attack and disarm God-fearing Americans such as himself. If he finds us, Maggie, he’ll kill us both.” His lips twisted, but the expression couldn’t be called a smile.
“Concentration camps?” she whispered sickly.
“Welcome to Paranoia-R-Us. Or in Idaho, another name for the militias. Up you go.” He slid his hands beneath her arms, intent on hefting her up into the cab and hearing her drag in another sharp hiss of outrage. She shifted to get away from him, but only succeeded in pressing one small breast against his palm. Firm breast, apple shaped. Soft. Beautifully, delicately soft. Definitely the breast of a woman and not a child.
His breath held. Her breath held. Her eyes widened in terror, and very slowly, she edged back. His breath came out hard and low.
“Maggie,” he said in a low, measured tone, “I haven’t had sex in six years. Don’t do that again unless you mean it.”
“Okay,” she squeaked.
He smiled, cursing his body, her shyness and the whole situation. Next time he escaped from prison, he was kidnapping a prostitute or a very eager widow.
With a sudden, deft movement, he tossed Maggie up into the truck, away from his hand and the swelling that was becoming almost painful against his jeans. The binding link of the chain, however, forced him to follow her up awkwardly.
He grabbed the gun and vented his frustration by using the handle to break open the ignition. Sixty seconds later, the truck roared to life with the sleek growl of an expensive lion.
Thank God for misspent youths. The tension began to dissolve. He was going to do this. He was going to get away. It would all work out if he just kept thinking.
“Sit next to me, Maggie.”
“No.”
He smiled and, with a negligent yank of his sinew-roped forearm, dragged her against him. “Sit here, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Look at me affectionately. Place your hand on my thigh. And when the police look over at us to check for an escaped con in a prison guard’s uniform, smile at them sweetly and say you have no idea but you’ll certainly keep your eyes open. It’ll be very easy, very simple. And in no time at all, I’ll return you unharmed and untouched to your three-legged cat.”
She stared at him, her eyes unexpectedly mutinous. Her red hair tangled wildly around her pale features, while her lips parted with stubborn defiance.
She looked suddenly vital and stunning.
He figured six years was definitely too long to go without a woman if he thought a thin scrap of female like her was stunning.
“What are you thinking, Maggie?” he whispered. “What can you really do against someone like me?”
Her mouth abruptly shut. The light died in her eyes. She slumped beside him, and that quickly she was the mousy clerk again. It was as if a switch had been thrown and the woman simply turned off.
“Okay,” she said.
He gazed at her a minute longer. She didn’t look up, and there were no more signs of life in her face. He nodded finally. It was better this way.
He shifted the truck into gear and backed out of the lot. Casual and easy, that was the ticket. If they appeared calm, no one would ever guess they had something to hide.
“Where are we going?” she asked at last, her blue eyes fastened on the dash.
“To Idaho,” he said lightly. “We’re going to find my brother, Ham. Then I’m probably going to have to kill him.”
Chapter 2
“Ticket, please.”
“Ticket?” her esteemed colleague repeated absently. He was peering up three blocks to the mass of blue and red flashing lights and dark-uniformed police officers. His eyes were narrowed intently and his fingers drummed rhythmically against the wheel as if he was lost in great thought.
Maggie risked a look over his shoulder at the parking lot attendant. Because of the considerable height of the truck, she gazed down at him. He appeared amazingly small next to Attila the Hun’s broad shoulder, and his face was covered with pimples. Probably barely a day older than eighteen and his width hadn’t caught up with his height.
Not exactly Superman material. She sent him desperate though
t waves anyway. Hey! Hey, you! Look at me. Just look underneath Godzilla’s arm and spot me for one moment.
“Your parking ticket, sir.” The young man’s voice cracked with impatience. He stared at them both glumly as if to say, I spent four years in high school and all I got was a lousy parking-attendant job.
“Parking ticket?” her captor repeated, focusing on the attendant for the first time. He gazed around the cab, then straight at her. “Do you see a parking ticket?”
“No,” she whispered. She looked up the street. She could see blinking lights and the blue-clad police officers scurrying around like ants. She counted eight of them. Eight cops. So close.
Honk the horn, Maggie. Hit him in the ribs. Do something bold and courageous. This man is planning to commit another murder!
But she couldn’t move. She’d never liked loud noises; she lived in fear of making a scene. She still vividly remembered her mother throwing Waterford crystal across the parlor and screaming at her father that he was nothing but a philandering rat. And she remembered the very late nights, when the house was finally dark and quiet—sometimes not until four a.m.—when she would creep downstairs just to sit in the parlor and listen to the silence. Once, she’d found her father there, sitting in the dark, still and brooding. Then he’d finally reached over and picked up the phone, speaking in a hushed, murmuring voice. She’d remained in the hallway, curled up on the Persian runner, listening to his deep, velvety baritone wash over her like a soothing wave.
She had loved him so much and then he was just gone, off to visit one of his other families where Maggie was sure the mother didn’t scream or throw crystal across the room. Then he was more than gone—his plane crashed—and all Maggie had left was the locket he’d once given her, and memories of a midnight phone conversation she’d never told anyone about. That secret was the only piece of her father, the infamous Maxmillian the Chameleon, that was solely hers.
Abruptly, her captor leaned over, violating her small space and interrupting her thoughts. His lips halted right next to the corner of her mouth, the way a lover’s might, while his keen eyes fired to life. Maggie’s whole body went rigid. She stopped breathing and curled up inside of herself while the masculine scent of soap and sweat washed over her cheeks and flared her nostrils.
“Wh-what?” she asked unsteadily, unable to breathe, unable to move. Should a felon’s eyes be so green? And so . . . intelligent, steady, composed? She thought murderers had beady eyes, black beady eyes that were always darting to and fro. That way you knew they were trouble.
He said, “Ten dollars.”
“Huh?”
“The attendant claims we have to pay ten dollars,” he repeated. He leaned back, his fingers drumming against the wheel as his gaze returned to the police lights blinking up the street. “Expensive,” he murmured absently.
She could only stare at him, then belatedly at the purse beside her. The car behind them impatiently honked its horn.
Attila the Hun’s attention pivoted back to her immediately. “Come on, Maggie,” he said tersely, his voice so low only she could hear it. “No games now. There are a lot of people who could get hurt.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I know.” Frustration and humiliation thickened her throat, but she still couldn’t think of anything to do. If she tried to raise a fuss, she’d probably get everyone killed. Maybe if she just humored him for now. She would cooperate; they could get beyond the city limits where no one else would suffer if she did anything rash. . . . She took a deep breath. Okay, she’d get through this. Just one moment at a time.
She grabbed her purse and managed to retrieve a ten-dollar bill with trembling fingers.
Mr. Escaped Con promptly handed over the money to the impatient, thin-shouldered attendant. “Sorry about that,” he said politely and beamed a perfectly charming smile.
Maggie’s teeth set painfully as she watched the black-and-white-striped gate swing up. In front of the police, the pedestrians and God, the truck pulled out into traffic.
She peered back. Two cops had stopped to watch them, no doubt watching all vehicles. If she could just raise her left hand a little, enough for them to see the handcuffs. Or maybe a sign. Didn’t those cardboard shades people placed behind their windshields during the summer say “Help! Call the Police” on one side? She gazed around the cab, easing away from her captor.
“Good idea,” he said so abruptly that she flinched. “Look and see what we have to work with.”
“Work with?”
“What’s in the glove compartment? Any maps, spare change, anything?”
“Wasn’t stealing the truck enough?” she muttered, then glanced at him nervously to see how he’d handle that remark. His hands were tight on the steering wheel. Beads of sweat trickled down his cheeks. So he wasn’t as calm and cool as he pretended.
As if sensing her gaze upon him, he turned to her tersely. “Look in the glove compartment, Maggie. Now!”
She hastily opened the glove compartment. She had a feeling not too many people argued with him when he used that tone of voice. She certainly couldn’t.
“One map of the northwestern states, one map of Portland, the vehicle registration, a flashlight, four packets of ketchup, two straws and six unpaid parking tickets,” she rattled off. “Why is it nobody ever pays their parking tickets? It really is a shame.” She glanced outside. They were at the waterfront now. Traffic was still sluggish with morning commuters. She spotted one cop parked on the driveway of the Alexis Restaurant, scrutinizing all traffic through mirrored sunglasses.
Look over here, she begged him, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. For God’s sake, look over here.
“Maggie,” Attila’s voice said quietly. “Fasten your seat belt.”
She looked at him abruptly, then at the rearview mirror. A cop had pulled in behind them. Even as she watched, he picked up his radio and spoke into it.
“He heard me. Finally, somebody heard me,” she whispered triumphantly.
“Don’t break out the champagne yet,” he muttered. He downshifted the truck as if preparing for a mighty leap forward.
“You can’t outrace an entire city full of cops!” she cried instantly.
“Watch me.”
“No!” Before she could stop to think about it, she reached over and latched her hands onto the wheel. She stared up at him as fiercely as she could, though her body was trembling again. “There are pedestrians out there. Innocent people crossing the streets and strolling down sidewalks. They could be killed! Don’t you understand that? Don’t you care just a little bit?”
His green gaze slid over her, dark and glittering, his square jaw set so rigidly she could see a muscle spasm. “Let go, Maggie. Now.”
She gritted her teeth, prayed her knees would stop knocking together and kept her fingers wrapped stubbornly around the wheel. Behind them, the police officer made no moves. He didn’t speed up, he didn’t turn on his lights, nor did he change lanes. Did he understand this was a dangerous area for high-speed pursuit? Or did he think they were simply lovers snuggling up on the bench seat of the pickup truck?
She took a deep breath. “I’m not letting go. I can’t. Too many people could get hurt.”
“Starting with you.”
“Trying to evade the police here is stupid and you know it!” she exclaimed desperately. He appeared an intelligent man.
He frowned abruptly, and she had the faint satisfaction of knowing that she’d reached him. The light in front of them turned red. The cop was still driving patiently behind them.
“Damn!” Attila swore. He looked at her darkly, but his foot finally pressed on the brake and the truck slowed to an easy stop.
Okay, Maggie. You got him calm. Point one for the good guys. What was she supposed to do now? It had been a long time since her abnormal psych days. Okay, keep the psychotic from dehumanizing things. That’s right. Remind him everyone’s a person: she’s a person, he’s a person, and the cops are people, too.
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br /> She was going to be sick.
“What . . . what’s your name?” she whispered at last, having to moisten her lips to speak.
“Prisoner number 542769.” His gaze remained on the rearview mirror. “But you can call me Pris for short.”
She swallowed a hysterical giggle and practiced deep breathing. Remember, there must be a human being in there somewhere, no doubt just hiding really darn well behind those cold, cold eyes.
“Your real name?” she tried again, then added weakly, “Not that Pris isn’t cool.”
His face remained frozen for a moment; then abruptly his full, well-shaped lips twisted. “Cain,” he said levelly, “my father named me Cain. He said God had given him the gift of sight.” His face didn’t change but she paled.
“How apropos,” she murmured at last. A long harsh tremor shuddered through her body. His thigh was pressed against hers, his arm hard against her chest. She shuddered again, and he didn’t even flinch.
The light turned green. He pressed down lightly on the gas. The police car remained right behind them. Then, several blocks back, she saw a second cop turn into the traffic flow.
“Cain,” she forced herself to say. “Cain, don’t do this. You can’t win this way—don’t you see that? It’s a nice truck, but they have cars and guns and helicopters. The minute that policeman turns on his sirens . . . if you run for it, you’ll only hurt all these nice, innocent people, people with spouses and children and parents and . . . and even three-legged cats.”
She stared up at him with her most pleading blue gaze. C.J. had once told her no sane man could say no to such big blue eyes. Of course, C.J. was a flirt and Maggie was the one whose love life had entered the ice age sometime around the age of sixteen and never unthawed.
“You’re right,” Cain said abruptly.
“What?”
“You’re right.” His gaze left hers, focusing on the road while his hands flexed on the wheel. Green eyes darted to the rearview mirror, then back to the road signs. “I can’t win in a high-speed chase. I’m spending too much time on tactics and not enough on strategy.” He seemed to be talking to himself more than her. She didn’t mind that. His voice was steady and soft, the voice of a man contemplating life versus plunging rashly ahead. Keep him calm, Maggie. That’s good. She might not be a fighter, but she was good at soothing people. Though her mother routinely dismissed Maggie’s job as being too prosaic, Maggie was one of the best marriage counselors in the field.