No Good Deed

by Susanne Matthews

  “Besides, I don’t usually put the people I’m protecting in the line of fire.”

  “Don’t underestimate me, Lieutenant. I’m a very good shot.” She took a deep breath to calm herself and raised her cup once more. He didn’t comment.

  “What do you plan to do to keep me safer, as you put it?” she continued.

  He shook his head. “Honestly, at this moment, I haven’t got a clue. I was originally going to take you out of here in whatever vehicle your security was driving. Since I couldn’t find one, I was going to try Plan B, using the Ski-Doo I parked next to the woodshed, but that’s out of the question now. What I need is a Plan C, and I don’t have the faintest idea what that’s going to be.”

  “You mean what we need,” she corrected, looking him in the eye. Let him try to disagree. No matter who he was, he wasn’t in charge here. She was. “You’re right about the vehicle. There isn’t one. Callaghan uses, or rather used, it to go back and forth, but why scrap Plan B?”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. The vee on his forehead deepened, and his mouth firmed. He wasn’t used to having his opinions challenged. Well, that was too damn bad.

  “In the first place,” he said, setting down his mug, “the weather’s gotten too bad, even for the snowmobile, and in the second, I’m not sure, given your condition, that you could keep your seat on it. There aren’t any seat belts, nor is there room on it for a wheelchair.”

  “Lieutenant,” she said. The man might be striking, but he was beginning to sound a little too much like Richard. It wasn’t what he said so much as how he said it. “I’m well aware that a wheelchair won’t fit on the back of a Ski-Doo, and while I’ve never been on one, I’m sure it’s a lot like riding on a Jet Ski or the back of a motorcycle. The chair is more for comfort than necessity. I can walk, albeit slowly and only for short distances, but I can assure you, I can sit upright under my own steam. While you may think I’m helpless, I’m not. It’s my life we’re talking about here. I’m sure, once the storm lets up, Plan B will be fine.” She reached for her empty cup. Refusing to cede control of the situation, she smiled. “I was about to have breakfast.” She pushed her chair slightly away from the table. “Can I offer you a bowl of cereal or some toast?”

  The man’s stomach growled loudly in response.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” She stood slowly, taking two steps to the counter, not because she had to but because she needed to prove herself. “The bathroom is down the hall if you would like to wash up. There are headache tablets in the medicine cabinet. Help yourself.”

  He nodded. “Thanks. I’ll be right back.”

  As soon as he left the room, Alexa all but collapsed against the counter. If her location were known, the mob might not be the only ones looking for her. Richard had friends in low places as well as high ones. If he knew she was alive, he would find her.

  Shoving her hair off her face, she used the elastic band she had on her wrist to secure it into a messy ponytail on the top of her head. She needed to keep it together just a little bit longer.

  • • •

  Mike opened the medicine cabinet and shook two ibuprofen tablets out of the bottle before putting it back on the shelf and closing the door. The pills probably wouldn’t help much, but they were better than nothing. He took a deep breath, wincing at the pain. It was a shame they hadn’t strapped his chest this time, but that was no longer acceptable treatment for damaged ribs.

  Scowling at his image in the mirror, he pulled the two white strips off his forehead, tossed them in the garbage can, and washed his hands. Thanks to his run-in with Zabat’s boys, he hadn’t made the impression he’d hoped to, but this place and Alexa O’Brien weren’t what he expected. He wasn’t sure what that was, but it certainly wasn’t a defensive, gun-toting blonde in a wheelchair in a house that looked like it had been plucked out of the middle of the twentieth century.

  Doucet had mentioned she was from out of town, a teacher or something like that, but considering the time and place, Mike figured her as maybe a working girl or some down-on-her-luck junkie. After all, she was giving up who she was to do this, and no self-respecting woman threw her past away that easily. Whatever she was, she was an enigma, that was for sure. When he’d stepped inside, there had been no mistaking the cold glint in the only eye he could see thanks to a mass of wavy hair obscuring half of her face. She would’ve shot him if she’d had to and thought nothing of it, and then she’d pulled a 360 and offered him breakfast.

  Just what he needed . . . an invalid with a goddamn chip on her shoulder. Could this get any worse?

  Since she’d been sitting, it had been hard to tell how tall she was, but upright, he had at least a foot on her. The sleeve of the hand holding the gun showed a bony wrist, her cheek was emaciated, and that ugly, brown robe hung on her like an oversized burlap bag. She talked a good show, but some of that was bravado. There’d been a quiver in her voice, and her hand trembled. He’d thrown her for a loop when he’d blurted out the truth about Callaghan. If Doucet hadn’t told her the man was missing when he’d called, what had he told her?

  And why hadn’t the chief inspector mentioned she was crippled? If he’d known about her condition, he would’ve come up with a different plan, but if she was willing to give it a try, this one might still work.

  From the calculating look on her half-face, Ms. O’Brien had judged him and found him wanting. She didn’t trust him, a blind man could see that, but he had his doubts about her as well. Unless they reached middle ground, this babysitting job would morph into a nightmare.

  Would?

  He chuckled softly. It already had, and it had been what? Twenty minutes?

  Who in his right mind would ever consider this a safe house? There was nothing secure about it. It was true she was armed, and the way she held the Glock 26 in her lap spoke of a familiarity with guns, but what happened at night? She had to sleep sometime. One gun wouldn’t stop Zabat’s assassins if they found her. And with the mole, even that stupid password might be useless.

  There was no keypad on the wall near the door indicating the presence of an alarm system, and that deadbolt wouldn’t keep a determined mobster out for long. With the howling wind, he doubted she’d even heard his snowmobile approaching, and if she had, it was probably such a familiar sound in this area, it would’ve been white noise.

  If he ever got the chance to comment on this operation, he would be up on insubordination charges in no time. He had trouble kowtowing to authority as it was, and in this particular case, they’d screwed up royally. Ms. O’Brien was a sitting duck, and he really wanted to know why.

  Mike returned to the kitchen, his mouth watering at the aroma of warm maple syrup. When had he eaten last? Yesterday? The day before? The food at the hospital was barely palatable, and he’d been on a liquid diet. If they’d added beer or whiskey, he might’ve managed some of it, but lime gelatin and apple juice didn’t cut it.

  She’d placed two heaping bowls of maple oatmeal on the table—not the instant stuff—next to a jug of warmed milk and a bowl of dried cranberries. She turned away from the window.

  “I can make toast if you like,” she offered.

  Mike stared. The woman he’d considered a problem moments ago was younger than he’d expected and beautiful, so delicate looking she might be a ghost, an angel, or some other apparition he’d imagined. The faintly familiar scent he’d noticed earlier lingered in the room, overshadowed now by the maple sweetness. The long, thin scar along the right side of her face in no way marred her beauty. Her eyes, hazel, more green than blue or brown, were shadowed, distrust prominent in the level stare she gave him. She was pale, to be expected considering the ordeal she’d been through, but there was a smattering of light freckles on her nose—not a small pert one, but it suited her face. She sure as hell wasn’t a hooker, but none of his teachers had ever looked like her.

  None of this made sense. Who the hell was this woman? More importantly, what else was she running from?
r />   • • •

  Alexa cocked her head to the side. Why had she offered to feed him? Considering his size, he would probably eat her out of house and home in no time. But did it really matter? If he was right, she would be leaving here sooner than she expected.

  “My selection is somewhat limited,” she said haltingly. “I hope you like oatmeal.”

  “That’s fine,” he answered and looked her up and down.

  Feeling her cheeks heat at his scrutiny, she looked away. He made her uncomfortable.

  “You’re not what I expected. For starters, I thought you would be older.”

  “Because I’m determined not to let you railroad me?” she asked, looking at him over her shoulder. “I saw your expression when I offered to help. For an undercover officer, you don’t have much of a poker face.”

  “And you would know that because?” he asked, sarcasm dripping from the words.

  “I’ve dealt with a few players in my time, people who say one thing and mean another, behave one way in public and another in private,” she answered bitterly. “I’m thirty-two, but I feel a lot older. Getting shot last spring and spending months in a long-term care facility probably has something to do with that. There’s more tea; would you like some?”

  He nodded, his gaze never leaving her.

  “Did you want toast?” she repeated her earlier question. Anything to move away from his overwhelming scrutiny.

  “No, this is fine.”

  Nodding, she turned to pour the tea. She handed him one mug before using the edge of the table for balance and returning to her wheelchair.

  He sat across from her and tossed a spoonful of cranberries into the oatmeal, poured in milk, and stirred the contents of his bowl. He spooned the cereal into his mouth as if he were starving. Hopefully, she’d made enough.

  “This is good, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  As they ate, he as if he hadn’t tasted food before and she more timidly as her nerves refused to settle, the silence stretched. Finally, she couldn’t take it any longer.

  “It seems to be worse outside than when you arrived.” Nothing like talking about the weather to get the conversational ball rolling.

  “It’s a miracle I made it here. Visibility on the highway was poor, and by the time I parked the Ski-Doo, I couldn’t see much more than twenty feet ahead of me. We’re going to have to wait this out and hope Zabat’s men do the same.”

  “Zabat? Who’s Zabat?” she asked, spooning cereal into her mouth.

  He glared at her in disbelief.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  She shook her head and pursed her lips. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

  “He’s the reason you’re here. You identified him and three others as the shooters. I assumed they’d told you all about him.”

  She pursed her lips and put her spoon down before reaching for her tea. “Doucet told me very little.” She lifted the mug and sipped. “I’m beginning to think I should’ve asked more questions.”

  “You should’ve.”

  The way he said the words implied he thought she was stupid for not doing so. Counting to ten to keep her temper in check, she smiled weakly. No way would she let him know how upset she was.

  “Out of curiosity, what did he tell you?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

  “Doucet didn’t name anyone, but said the men I’d described were all known criminals and that as soon as he had enough evidence, they would be going to trial.” She set down her spoon and reached for her tea. “To tell you the truth, I was surprised my testimony wouldn’t be enough, but apparently there was some problem with alibis.” She sipped. “If that man hadn’t tried to kill me a second time, I’m sure they would’ve thought me nothing more than a crackpot looking for publicity.”

  His lips compressed. “You’re probably right. But this situation makes no sense to me at all. Leaving you alone here is insane. This is the last place I would stash a witness, especially one as valuable as you. The location has more security leaks than Swiss cheese has holes, and if the mole knows where you are—”

  “A mole? You mean an inside informer?” she stammered, her heart skipping a beat.

  “Yes. That’s probably how they found Callaghan.”

  She swallowed and put down her mug, her stomach threatening to return her breakfast. How long until the mole found her?

  “At any rate,” he went on, not realizing how deeply he’d shocked her, “we’re stuck in this place for the duration of the storm. I don’t like it, but until it breaks and I figure out how to get us out of here, all we can do is lay low. I’ve got plenty of ammo, but if it comes to a firefight, it may not be enough. This place isn’t exactly what I would call easy to defend.”

  The room was warm, but Alexa felt the cold seeping into her bones. She refused to give in to fear. The spare ammo clip she had probably wouldn’t help, but he had to be exaggerating the danger.

  To hell with his doom and gloom prediction. She smiled. “Once we reach the safe house, feel free to go back to whatever it is you were doing before you were sent here. Considering what you’ve been through, you could probably use some time off. As long as someone sees to it I get the necessities delivered each week, I’ll be fine. I didn’t need a babysitter before, and I don’t need one now.”

  He laughed humorlessly.

  The unexpected sound made her hackles rise.

  “Sorry, sweetheart, but that’s not how this is going to work. You’re not the one calling the shots.”

  His words and tone, so similar to those Richard had used time and again to get his way, fueled her annoyance.

  “I am not your sweetheart. Don’t patronize me,” she cried. “And if you think I’m going to let you—”

  “Look, lady. Calm down. I’m not patronizing you, as you put it. This is just the way it is. I’ve got a job to do, and I intend to do it. Whether you like the idea or not, keeping you alive and getting you to safety is my responsibility. According to my boss, there’s a new guy running the show, someone we know very little about. Doucet calls him the magician because he makes people disappear, and no one wants you vanishing, especially not me. You’re the best chance I have at putting Nicoli Zabat away once and for all, and believe me, I’ll walk through hell, if I have to, to keep you safe.”

  “Why? What’s so special about that man?”

  “Let’s just say it’s personal. Zabat is one of the men you identified in those sketches and is on the high road to being the Montreal mob’s next godfather. He’s a mean son of a bitch responsible for hundreds of deaths. If you think he’s going to let you get away, knowing you can prove he’s a cold-blooded killer, you’ve got another think coming. One of the others you identified was his right-hand man, and I have no doubt you were shot by his other enforcer. As to the other two, I don’t understand why, but Doucet lied to you. Those men haven’t been identified yet, and since Doucet’s taskforce considers them a threat to national security, that’s puzzling. Too many things don’t add up right now, and until I get to the bottom of what’s going on and turn you over to whoever’s going to replace me, you and I are joined at the hip. That’s a fact. It’s not negotiable, so you might as well accept it.”

  “Excuse me.”

  Pushing away from the table, she propelled her wheelchair down the hall to her room, barely making it to the bathroom in time to spill her breakfast into the toilet.

  All she’d wanted to do was escape from the man who’d made her life a living hell, and it looked as if she’d gotten herself into an even bigger mess trying to do the right thing. The mafia? She’d walked in on a mafia hit? Had Doucet mentioned that fact, she would never have agreed to testify no matter what carrot they offered.

  God almighty, can’t I ever get a break?

  Wiping her face, she took a deep breath. Staring into the toilet bowl wasn’t going to solve anything. The lieutenant obviously knew more about this than she did. Time to find out how deep a hole
she was in. She would have to suck it up and accept his help whether she wanted to or not—at least until she could figure out how to get out of this new mess—but she’d be damned if she’d let him call all the shots. This was her life, her future.

  • • •

  Mike stared at the hallway. From the way the lady had scrambled out of here, he’d terrified her.

  “I’m sorry. Mother Nature, you know?” she joked as she returned to the kitchen, but her pallor told another story. She’d probably tossed her cookies and didn’t want him to know about it.

  She pushed her half-eaten bowl of cereal away. “If the other two men are criminals, why hasn’t someone identified them yet? Doucet has had the sketches since June.”

  “They probably have and don’t want us to know exactly who they are.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, whoever knows is keeping the information close to their chests for reasons of their own. Other than Callaghan and Doucet, who knows you’re here?”

  “No one,” she answered so softly he almost didn’t hear her.

  Mike nodded. Time to get to the truth. He had Doucet’s take on it. It was time to hear from the horse’s mouth—not that he would call her that. She was prickly enough as it was.

  “What were you doing in that convenience store last spring? According to the report, it was almost midnight.”

  She licked her lips. “Someone shoved a flyer for L’hibou noir under my door . . . I went to gas up and get a drink—something with caffeine to keep me awake.”

  “Do you always gas up in the middle of the night? And caffeine? Most people avoid it at that time of day.”

  “What the hell do you mean by that?” she asked, her eyes flashing fire, her back ramrod straight. “Do you think I’m involved in this?”

  Whoa. What had he said to get under her skin like that? Might as well keep digging. The tactic worked on suspects.

  “Maybe. I haven’t decided yet. I’m still trying to figure out why they didn’t shoot you in the head like the others.”

  Pink colored her cheeks, and she clenched her fists. “I prefer driving at night. There are fewer cars on the road. I may come from Toronto, but I’m antsy in heavy traffic.”