by Lara Lacombe
Guilt descended swiftly, but she pushed it away. She wasn’t going to waste any more time feeling like a second-class citizen in her own life. As Owen had said earlier, she was going to focus on the positive and hope it worked out.
“I’ll see you after,” he said, pulling her to a stop with a gentle tug. She raised her face to his, tracing his features with her gaze, committing them to memory, just in case.
“Be careful.”
His lips curved in a crooked smile that made her toes curl. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I mean it.” She poked his chest gently and he grabbed her hand, holding it against his heart for a fleeting moment.
“I know,” he said softly. “And believe me, I want nothing more than to find you when this is over so we can finish what we started.”
“I’d like that,” she said, her body warming at the promise in his words.
“So it’s a date?”
She smiled up at him, their surroundings fading into obscurity. In this moment, they were the only two people in the world. “It’s a date,” she confirmed. His dark blue gaze brightened and a wide smile stole over his face, making him look like a kid on Christmas morning. His anticipation was contagious, and Hannah’s stomach gave an answering flutter.
“I’ll pick you up at the ambulance,” he said with a wink. Then he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving her standing there with her heart in her throat.
Chapter 13
The office was just another storefront at the end of a strip-mall shopping center. There was nothing special about it, no signs or posters to make it stand out from its neighbors. Floor-length windows made up the front of the place, tinted dark as defense against the punishing Houston sun.
Owen eased the car into a parking spot, scanning the area. There was a nail salon next to the office, but he didn’t see any customers inside. A woman glanced up as the sun glinted off his windshield, but she returned her focus to her magazine when she realized he wasn’t a potential customer.
“Ready?”
“You are go for entry” came the reply.
“Roger that.” He climbed out and made a show of locking his car, using the opportunity to get a better look around. There were a few cars at the other end of the strip mall, likely belonging to people who were shopping at the stationery store on the other corner. There wasn’t much traffic at this end of the complex, and he began to wonder if there would be anyone here to arrest. Had they picked up and moved already? Had someone warned them?
Owen pushed on the door, half expecting it to be locked. It swung inward, and he stepped into a wall of air so cold it made goose bumps pop up on his skin. A subtle chime announced his arrival, but there was no one in the lobby to greet him. The place had an empty, desolate feel, and the furnishings were so nondescript as to be almost invisible. Several padded folding chairs were grouped around small ply-board tables in a classic waiting-room configuration. A drooping plant stood in one corner, its leaves coated with a fine layer of dust. It was the kind of room that could be set up and broken down in a matter of minutes, and the temporary feel only served to strengthen his confidence that this was the place.
At the far end of the room, a cubical wall prevented him from seeing the rest of the office space. A desk sat before the wall, and as he approached, a woman stepped around the wall. There must be a hall, or some rooms back there, he mused.
“Oh, hey,” he said. “I didn’t see you back there behind the wall.” He hoped the team heard him so they had a better understanding of what they’d be facing when they stormed in. The wall was an obstacle that would conceal the escape of any suspects. Or provide nice cover for an armed defender. He didn’t want his team walking into a hail of bullets because they hadn’t known what to expect.
“You must be our two o’clock appointment,” the woman replied. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
Owen nodded. “I’m so glad you guys could see me today. I’ve been feeling awful.” He punctuated this with a wheezing cough, hoping it sounded convincing.
“I think we can help you with that. Why don’t you follow me.” She beckoned him to come forward, that fake smile still in place.
“Don’t I need to fill out some paperwork or something?”
“We’ll take care of that in the exam room.”
Interesting. After Nate had shown him the flyer, he’d done a little research on clinical trials. From what he’d been able to find, any legitimate medical trial was accompanied by reams of paper—consent forms, study descriptions, warnings—a veritable forest of forms that had to be navigated before the patient was even seen by a doctor. Funny how they seemed to be skipping such an important step.
She stepped back around the cubical wall and beckoned him to follow her. He did, slightly surprised to find the office proper extended down a short hall lined with doors. As he walked, he heard the sound of muffled voices behind one of the doors. There was a higher, likely feminine, speaker, her voice growing louder as he approached. She was abruptly cut off by a deeper voice. Their discussion was animated, and he could tell by the rhythm of the conversation that whoever was behind the door was arguing. Trouble in paradise?
The receptionist paused beside an open door farther down the hall and was waiting for him to catch up. Wanting to hear more of the muffled conversation, Owen dropped his keys. “Whoops,” he said, offering the woman a sheepish smile. He knelt down to gather them, straining to hear more of the conversation. He caught tantalizing snatches “come too far for that now” and “I want out”—but the receptionist was watching him closely, and he could tell by the look on her face that she found his behavior odd. He needed to be careful here. If she grew suspicious, she might warn the arguing couple that he was not what he seemed.
Reluctantly, he rose to his feet. As he did, the door to the office flew open and a woman stormed out, drawing up short just before she ran into him.
“Pardon me,” he said automatically.
“Sorry,” she muttered. Then she glanced up, and his heart stopped in his chest.
Marcia Foley sucked in a breath when she met his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“Do you know this man?” Owen glanced to the doorway to find a tall, dark-haired man staring at him with narrowed eyes.
“I’ve never seen her before,” Owen said, stepping back to put some distance between himself and Marcia. He looked back at her, concerned to see that her face had lost all color. She looked like a marble statue, standing stock-still in the middle of the hall. He cursed silently. “I’ve never met you before, ma’am,” he said, nodding at her in the hopes she’d nod back. It took her a second, but she finally responded. Her movements had the mechanical quality of a puppet on a string, completely unnatural and stilted. Dammit.
“My mistake,” she said haltingly.
Owen kept one eye on the other man, who was still frowning. He was standing half in, half out of the office, which meant Owen couldn’t see one of his hands. The guy could be doing anything, hiding anything. “Guess I just have one of those faces,” he said, trying to salvage the situation.
“Is that true, Marcia?”
Marcia gave another unconvincing nod, but at least she was facing away from the man so he couldn’t see her face. One look at her stricken expression, and he’d know she was lying.
“Who are you?” the man asked, turning his attention back to Owen.
“I’m your two o’clock patient,” he replied, trying to sound casual.
“Very good,” the man replied. “I’ll be in to see you in just a moment. Marcia, would you do me a favor and get this gentleman started on his paperwork?” The man’s tone made it clear that while he had phrased the request as a question, it was more of an order.
Apparently Marcia realized it, too. Her shoulders stiffened, and she cast a panicked glance in
Owen’s direction. Hold it together just a little longer, he urged silently. He lifted his arm, gesturing for her to precede him. “After you,” he said.
She hesitated, so he took a step to prod her into motion. He moved to stand between her and the mystery man, hoping his body would shield her face from view. He tried to be casual about it, but he could feel the man’s gaze on him as he walked down the hall.
The receptionist gave them another false smile as they walked past her. She shut the door behind them, leaving them alone in a small, windowless room.
He rounded on Marcia as soon as they were alone. “What are you doing here?” he whispered fiercely.
She stared up at him with round, wide eyes. “I tried to call you. Why didn’t you pick up?” She sounded dull and lifeless, like a prisoner who had just surrendered.
“I was busy. What the hell is going on here?”
“I told him I wasn’t going to do this any longer. That I was done. It’s all too much—things have gone too far.”
“What things?” He held up a hand. “Wait—there’s no time. Just tell me who that guy is, and what this place is used for.”
“Dave Carlson. He’s my boss at ChemCure Industries. He’s been using this place to illegally test chemicals on human subjects.”
He felt a brief flare of satisfaction at the news that his suspicions were correct. “The same chemicals Hannah worked with?”
She nodded, her expression miserable. “He’s also the one behind the lab explosion that almost killed her.”
A wall of anger slammed down on him so hard and fast he forgot to breathe. His vision went dark as he imagined getting his hands on the man in the hall. Violent fantasies flooded his mind, each one more extreme than the last. The rage built inside him, the pressure increasing and fighting for release. He curled his hands into fists, his muscles shaking with the effort to stay in control.
Marcia took a step back, fear flashing across her face. Her reaction broke through the haze clouding his vision and he took a deep breath, tightening his grip on the reins of his self-control.
“Do you have proof of his involvement in the lab explosion?”
“There’s a piece of shrapnel in my desk drawer. It probably has his fingerprints on it.”
Owen frowned, trying not to let his disappointment show. It wasn’t quite the smoking gun he was hoping for, but it was a start.
There was a soft sound from the hall, as if someone was moving and trying to be quiet about it. Owen held his finger up to his lips and walked to the door, leaning close to pick up any stray noise.
Marcia emitted a strangled gasp behind him and he turned to find her backing away from the door, her face a mask of horror. “What’s wrong?” he hissed, his attention split between the noises coming from the hall and the increasingly unstable woman in the room with him.
She pointed at the floor, shaking her head back and forth as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. He glanced down, blinking in disbelief at the dense, light brown vapor oozing into the room.
He took an instinctive step back, wanting to avoid contact with the viscous smoke. It had an oily, slick quality that made it seem sinister as it rolled along the floor with an eerie, mesmerizing grace.
“It’s the mustard compound,” Marcia said, her voice hoarse with panic. “Oh, God, he’s killing us!”
He smelled it then, a faint tinge of garlic that was oddly appealing. His nose started to drip, and he quickly pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth. It was poor protection against the poison, but it was better than nothing.
He grabbed the door handle and twisted it savagely, but it didn’t turn in his hand. Locked. “Football, football, football!” he yelled, using the danger signal that would incite the team to storm the office. “We’re locked in a room with chemicals pouring in.” He kicked savagely at the door, but it remained stubbornly solid under the blows. Giving up, he backed away from the door, trying to keep out of the spreading cloud. It was growing larger by the second, and the vapor had started to climb the walls at the corners. Marcia grabbed at his collar and pulled, urging him up to stand on a chair next to her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes blurry with tears. He couldn’t tell if the gas was making her eyes water or if she was crying. Probably a bit of both. “I should have come to you from the beginning. I’m so sorry I let it get this far.”
He grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. “You have a chance to make it right. They’re coming for us, and you can help us fix this.”
She didn’t acknowledge his words, and he wondered if she’d even heard him. She was withdrawing, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was focused on the world outside this room, straining to hear the sounds of his team coming to the rescue. Hurry, please hurry...
The garlic odor was getting stronger and had gone from pleasantly familiar to acrid and stinging. His eyes and throat burned, a painful, raw sensation that made it hard to breathe. He coughed, trying to expel the gas from his throat, but it merely forced him to take a deeper breath.
They had to get out of here—that much was clear. But there was no window, and the only door was locked. He glanced up and felt a surge of hope when he noticed the ceiling tiles. Maybe they could crawl out that way. But a quick upward push crushed that idea. A chill raced down his spine as he realized the tiles had been glued down, almost as if this room had been specially modified to keep people inside.
How had he let this happen? No wonder some people questioned his fitness after John’s death. He’d let himself get so distracted he’d walked right into a trap, as trusting and unquestioning as a lamb being led to slaughter.
He thought of Hannah, waiting in the ambulance with the EMTs. Had he really been that naive, thinking she’d be safe there? It was just one more aspect of the operation he’d misjudged. She can’t see me like this, he thought frantically. He didn’t want her to view the evidence of his failure. She’d realize he really wasn’t able to keep her safe, that she’d be better off without him.
A loud bang shook the building, causing a fine shower of dust to rain down from the ceiling. What the hell—
“Oh, my God!” Marcia cried. “He’s blowing up the building!”
Owen grabbed her arm and squeezed tightly, shushing her. He couldn’t focus with her screaming in his ear, and he needed to hear.
Had his team just walked into a booby trap? It was clear Dave had rigged some kind of charge to prevent them from gaining access to the building. But had it been a diversion, or something more serious? Were his teammates lying dead at the entrance? Was anyone coming?
Marcia let out a wail of distress, and her body shook as spasmodic coughs racked her slender frame. An answering tremor went through him as his own lungs fought for air. “Hold on,” he said, no longer sure if he was trying to reassure Marcia or himself.
One thing was clear—his team was occupied, and if he was going to get out of this mess, he’d have to do it himself.
He took a deep gulp of tainted air and jumped down from the chair. Grabbing it by the legs, he heaved the chair against the wall just next to the door. If he couldn’t get through the door, maybe he could break through the wall...
He managed to land a few blows before his vision started to flicker. The chair had made a nice dent in the wall, but it remained stubbornly intact. Still, he couldn’t just give up.
He stepped on the nozzle, hoping to stem the flow of gas into the room. The damn thing was metal though, and resistant to the pressure of his foot. He kicked at it, trying to shove it back under the door, but to no avail. Carlson had made sure to rig it in such a way that Owen couldn’t disable it from inside the room.
Black spots danced in front of his eyes, but Owen kept trying. He couldn’t just lie down and give up, not when Hannah was still out there. Carlson would go after her next, and Owen had
to protect her. He wouldn’t fail her like he’d failed John.
His head pounded viciously, and he felt like his brain was using a pile-driver to escape his skull. Still, he picked up the chair again and swung drunkenly at the wall. He missed, and the momentum carried him forward, sending him to his knees. Grabbing the door handle, Owen tried to pull himself up, but his arms and legs wouldn’t respond to his commands. The world went black, but he still reached out, trying to connect with something, anything he could use to get out.
His hand landed on the floor and his arm gave out, unable to support his weight. He fell hard and lay there, too stunned to move. A woman’s high-pitched scream broke through the blackness, and then he heard nothing.
* * *
Hannah sat in the passenger seat of the ambulance, trying not to show how worried she was. She hated not knowing where exactly Owen was or what he was doing. Had he found what he needed to close the case? Or had he walked into an empty office, the bad guys long gone? More important, why hadn’t he checked in?
There was a burst of static from the radio, and she jumped, her heart flying into her throat. A woman spoke, a jumble of codes and acronyms spilling into the cab of the ambulance.
The paramedic gave her an apologetic smile as he reached for the radio. “Sorry about that—let me turn it down a bit.”
“Is someone trying to contact you?”
He shook his head. “That’s just Dispatch calling for another unit.”
“Oh.” She fell silent, her nerves still jangling. When was he going to check in? He’d been in there for twenty minutes already—how long could this take?
“Can I ask you a question?” the medic asked.
She shrugged. Why not? It might be a nice distraction. “Sure.”
“What’s a lady like you doing here? You’re not a cop or anything, so why did they bring you along?”