Final Exit

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Final Exit Page 7

by LENA DIAZ,


  When he held the Derringer out to her, she leaned in and snatched it out of his palm, fearing a trick. When he didn’t draw his 9mm or try to grab her, she checked the Derringer. Fully loaded.

  “What’s your game?”

  He shook his head. “You don’t trust anyone, do you?”

  “You make it sound tragic,” she scoffed. “But if you’d lived the life I have, believe me, you’d have learned long ago that trust is precious and should rarely be given.”

  He cocked his head. “Care to share? I’m a good listener.”

  “I’ve never been good at sharing.”

  “Fair enough. I won’t pry. You coming or not?”

  She shoved the Derringer into the pocket of her shorts then hopped into the passenger seat.

  “Where to?” he asked, as he started the engine.

  “That depends.” She pulled the door closed. “Where are we?”

  “About twenty minutes southwest of Boulder.”

  “Closer to Windermere or Arapahoe?”

  “Definitely Windermere.”

  “There’s a self-storage facility a couple of side streets over from Windermere.”

  “I know the place.”

  He did a U-turn, then headed back toward the main road. Half an hour later he pulled to a stop in front of the storage unit she’d directed him to.

  “Want me to wait?” he asked as she hopped out of the van.

  She shook her head. “No need. I’ll be fine. Atwell? I mean, Jace?”

  He smiled approvingly at her use of his first name. “Bailey?”

  “Thank you. I mean it. You saved my bacon. I owe you one.”

  He gave her a jaunty salute.

  She stepped back and waited until the minivan turned the corner out of sight. Then she jogged two aisles over to her real storage unit and entered the combination into the lock hanging on the door.

  After a quick look around, she pulled the door open and hurried inside. It was a five-by-five unit with a single lightbulb illuminating it from overhead. If anyone else had seen inside, they’d probably be puzzled to see a lone wooden chair sitting in the middle and nothing else.

  She picked up the chair and carried it to the back of the unit. After climbing on top of the chair, she stood and ran her fingers along one of the metal beams that supported the corrugated ceiling. The set of keys she kept duct-taped to the beam was still there. The tape made a ripping sound as she yanked the keys free.

  A few minutes later she was at another storage facility a few blocks down from the first one. But this one was for boats, RVs, and a few cars—like her rather plain-looking sky-blue Buick that no self-respecting car thief would look at twice. Which was exactly why she’d bought it.

  The engine, transmission, and pretty much everything else mechanical had been replaced, while the exterior had suffered more than its share of dings and scrapes—courtesy of a ballpeen hammer she’d taken to it.

  A pocketknife and bleach had worked wonders on the car’s interior, giving it a sad, worn appearance. But the Buick’s true beauty was the storage area she’d custom-built herself.

  After sliding behind the steering wheel and locking the doors, she pressed a hidden lever on the front of the passenger seat and flipped open the bottom cushion. A go bag, complete with cash, clothing, toiletries, a phone charger, and—hallelujah—decent guns and ammo.

  She unloaded Jace’s Cobra Derringer and dropped it into her bag, then shoved her own back-up weapon of choice into her ankle holster, a Bersa .380. Her favored primary gun, a Sig Sauer 9mm pistol, stayed in the bag for now. Once she stopped somewhere to freshen up and change into jeans, she’d be able to hide the Sig in her front pocket and wear a blouse hanging slightly over it to conceal it.

  With the engine idling, and the air conditioner pumping out blessedly cool air, she plugged the charger in and connected it to her phone. As soon as the screen lit up, she called Hawke. One ring. Two. Three. Her fingers curled around the phone.

  Come on, Hawke. Answer the phone.

  He didn’t. The call went to voice mail. She didn’t bother to leave a message.

  She let her hand fall to her lap. The three musketeers—that’s what she’d called Hawke, Sebastian, and Amber. Where most Enforcers, including herself, tended to keep to themselves, those three were together every chance they got. And when Bailey had been assigned a mission with Hawke as a partner, he’d introduced her to them. In spite of her preference to remain a loner, they’d managed to wiggle under her defenses and draw her into their circle. And now they were gone. Just like everyone else in her life.

  No, Hawke wasn’t dead. She couldn’t accept that. She and some Enforcers that she communicated with online had shared bits and pieces they’d each heard about the FBI’s—or whoever’s—hunt for Enforcers. And the picture those pieces painted was that most of the captured Enforcers weren’t executed right away. They were held prisoner, perhaps interrogated, moved from place to place before disappearing altogether. So there was a chance, however small, that Hawke—if he’d indeed been captured and wasn’t still on the run—had been locked up somewhere. Which meant, she still had a chance to save him. But where was he?

  To find out, she’d have to follow the clues, starting with where he’d been holed up when the team had come for him—Colorado Springs. Hopefully he’d left her some bread crumbs to follow.

  After putting the car in drive, she hesitated. Following bread crumbs could take a lot of time. Hawke might not have that much left. There had to be a better way, a faster way to find him. She straightened. All she had to do was go to the source, the man who’d ordered Hawke taken in the first place. He had to know where Hawke was.

  She shoved the accelerator to the floor and rocketed down the road—the road that would lead her back to the Ghost.

  Chapter Eight

  Saturday, 11:53 a.m.

  Kade had a new plan, one that didn’t involve sitting around waiting for reports from his teams. Or taking orders from Faegan. Or even waiting for Gannon’s feedback about Dominic and Jack.

  He was going to find Bailey Stark, on his own.

  And this time, he wasn’t turning her over to someone else, not at first anyway. He was going to sit her down and have a real conversation. Maybe together they could figure out what, if anything, was going on. And if he determined that everything was on the up-and-up, then he’d lead his team straight to her.

  He tossed his go bag into the nearly nonexistent backseat of the Mustang GT that the bureau had dropped off a little while ago, at his request, in exchange for the mistreated Caddy. Sacrificing comfort for maneuverability and horsepower would ensure he could make a fast getaway if he got into a tight spot.

  Plus, it would be really cool to drive a muscle car once again. It had been a long time.

  Straightening, he scanned the street in front of his house. The only two cars parked nearby belonged to his neighbors and had been there since yesterday. As far as he could tell, he was alone. No one was watching him. Unless they were parked a good distance away and were using binoculars.

  He glanced up at the sky. It was almost noon, the sun high and bright against a deep blue canvas, not a rain cloud in sight. Already he could feel a trickle of sweat between his shoulder blades. It was going to be a hot one. Maybe he should have headed out earlier, before the summer heat began to take hold. But the sleep had done him good. He’d also spent some time planning his next steps, and trying to figure out where Bailey would go to ground, what she’d do next.

  Everything was packed. The computer’s hard drive had been scuttled, even though some techs would come by later today to ensure that no one could pull any data from it. They’d remove all of the electronics before releasing the house to the landlord. Standard protocol. The location had been compromised. He had to establish a new base of operations and let his teams know. He wouldn’t want them showing up later in the week wondering where he was. But that could wait.

  The ache in his hip and thigh was, thank
fully, almost nonexistent today. That was the way it went—some days were hell, others he barely felt a twinge of pain. But even though today seemed like it was going to be a good one, he was wearing the leg brace that he’d worn home from the hospital. Its hard plastic surface would protect him from any wayward kicks. Plus, he’d rigged the brace as another tool to help him, if he needed it.

  It all depended on whether his plan came together as expected.

  In spite of all that, he still debated removing the brace. The thing was hot and damned uncomfortable. But the black-and-blue bruises he’d noticed while showering had him worried. Blood flow was already compromised in the damaged muscle. Another whack, even accidental, might force him to go to a hospital. That wasn’t something he had time for right now.

  So the brace stayed on.

  After one last look up and down the street, he slid behind the steering wheel of the Mustang and backed out of the driveway. Forty-five minutes later, he rented a room at a cheap motel north of the city. Then he pulled into a parking space around back. He reached for the door handle, then froze.

  The muzzle of a Sig Sauer nine-millimeter pistol stared at him through the window. And the person holding it was Bailey Stark.

  Let the games begin.

  She motioned for him to roll down the window and he briefly considered going for the gun holstered on his right hip.

  “Try anything and you’re dead.” Her voice was muffled through the glass, her intentions clear.

  He rolled down the window.

  “Hand me your gun,” she said. “Butt first. Very carefully.”

  He did as she asked. She tucked his PPK into a leather bag that hung from a strap that went diagonally across her body from shoulder to hip.

  “Other gun, too,” she said, the muzzle of her pistol unwavering.

  “What other gun?”

  “Everyone wears a backup. And this nine-millimeter isn’t just for show.”

  He held his hands up in a placating gesture. “All right. It’s strapped to my ankle. Hang on.”

  He slipped his Hellcat .380 out of his ankle holster and handed it out the window.

  It disappeared into her bag.

  “Get out.”

  The parking lot was full of cars. But in this heat, at this hour, people were either relaxing at the pool or holed up inside having lunch. Bailey had planned her approach the same way he would have. She’d also stepped out of reach of the door, eliminating the possibility of him slamming it against her to knock her down. She wasn’t a fool. She’d been doing this kind of work for a long time.

  But so had he.

  He popped open the door. Then he stood, holding his hands out from his body.

  “I don’t have any more weapons on me,” he assured her.

  “Prove it.”

  He went through the motions of turning his pockets inside out, lifting the legs of his jeans to show that he didn’t have another gun or knife hidden anywhere. He even lifted up his shirt to show her nothing was concealed underneath it, front or back.

  Then he slowly moved his hands to the top snap of his jeans.

  Her gaze flew to his. “What are you doing?”

  “Proving that I’m not hiding any other weapons.” He flipped the snap open, moved his fingers to the zipper.

  She suddenly laughed, her green eyes twinkling, her entire face transformed into an expression of delight. “Well played,” she said, laughing again. “You’re trying to fluster me. News flash, honey. I don’t fluster.”

  News flash. She’d just flustered him. Serious Bailey tugged at his heart, made him want to help and protect her. This Bailey, looking so happy and carefree, and incredibly beautiful, sent his pulse rushing in his ears.

  And everywhere else.

  He shrugged and snapped his jeans closed while he still could. “It was worth a try.”

  “A for effort.” Her smile faded, once again replaced by the somber, serious expression he was used to. She gestured with her Sig Sauer. “Car keys.”

  “You’re taking my car?” He glanced around the parking lot. No sign of the beat-up Camaro she’d driven yesterday. “How did you get here? How did you follow me without me knowing?”

  She batted her long lashes. “Flirty and chatty. It’s my lucky day. Keys. Now.”

  He leaned through the open window and took the keys out of the ignition. His duffel bag, with a Glock 17 in the outside pocket, was in the backseat. But it was too far away for him to reach. And he sure as hell didn’t want to risk her shooting him in the backside if he dove for the thing. He straightened and held the keys out to her, ready to grab her the second she got too close.

  “Toss them on the ground.”

  Damn.

  He pitched the keys about three feet away. But she didn’t fall for that trick either. She made him back well out of lunging zone before she picked them up, all without looking away from him or lowering her gun.

  “Get back in the car. Driver’s seat.”

  He frowned. “What’s the endgame here? What do you want?”

  “I want you to do exactly what I say. Get in the car.”

  He slid into the driver’s seat.

  She kicked the door shut and then slowly walked backward, keeping her pistol trained on him. She backed around the front of the car to the passenger side. After pitching her bag into the back with his, she hopped in.

  “One move toward me,” she warned, “and I pull the trigger.”

  “It’s hot in here. Give me the keys and I’ll turn on the air.”

  She dropped the keys onto the seat next to her thigh. “Not yet. Where’s Hawke?”

  Ah, hell.

  If she was looking for her fellow Enforcer, she wasn’t going to be happy with anything he told her.

  “Hawke?” He frowned as if trying to place the name.

  “Strike one. When I get to three, I pull the trigger. Where is he?”

  Was she bluffing? He studied her, the way her hand remained steady as it held the gun. He watched her breathe slowly in and out, her generous breasts rising and falling with each respiration. A bead of sweat slid down the side of his face. He was definitely getting overheated. And Bailey Stark was as cool as a summer salad.

  She wasn’t bluffing.

  “You mean Hawke Jacobs, another Enforcer?” He pretended to have just made the connection. Because, yeah, there were so many men named Hawke running around. It was easy to confuse them.

  “Give the man a prize. Where is he?”

  “If my team has completed their mission, he’s resting comfortably at the retraining facility I mentioned to you last night.”

  An intake of breath was the only sign that she’d heard him, but it was enough. Whoever Hawke was to her, he mattered. She was risking everything to find him.

  “Take me there,” she ordered.

  “I can’t. I don’t know where it is.”

  The pistol wobbled.

  Kade swallowed, hard.

  “You expect me to believe that?” she asked.

  “It’s the truth. I asked my boss about the facility last night. He wouldn’t tell me where it is, for security reasons. But I asked him about your friends, Sebastian and Amber. He’s going to get their status so I could let you know how they’re doing if I saw you again.”

  Her lips curled like a feral animal. “Did you miss the part last night when I told you I went to their funerals? I saw Sebastian die. One of your men slaughtered him.”

  Everything about her posture, her tone, told him she was telling the truth, or at least, what she believed to be the truth. But he couldn’t accept that she was right. If she was, then everything he believed was wrong.

  “None of the Enforcers have been killed,” he assured her, hoping he was right. He had to be right.

  “Strike two.”

  “I’m not lying,” he said. “It’s what I believe. I would never have taken this mission if part of it was to murder people. That’s not who I am.”

  Confusion crinkled her
brow. “You really believe that, don’t you? You think you’re the good guy here? And that I’m the bad guy?”

  He wouldn’t touch those questions if his life depended on it. And he was pretty sure it did.

  “We were in a house together,” she said. “Sebastian and me. A team of men dressed all in black ambushed us. You know, the ones with those big white letters on the backs of their flak jackets, the ones that spell out FBI?”

  Refusing to take the bait, he waited in silence.

  “I escaped. I was running from the house and looked back in time to see one of the men put a gun to Sebastian’s head and fire.”

  Careful to hide his shock, he asked, “Was it dark?”

  She blinked. “Dark?”

  “When you saw Sebastian get shot. Was it at night or during the day?”

  “At night, of course. Your men always attack at night, don’t they? To reduce the chance of there being any witnesses? And so you can catch us when we’re asleep?”

  “They weren’t my men, Bailey. I wasn’t working this mission when Sebastian and Amber were captured.”

  “You mean killed.”

  He sighed. “How far away were you when you supposedly saw Sebastian get shot?”

  “Supposedly? What the—”

  “Bailey, I’m just trying to figure out the disconnect here. Please. How far away were you?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. Fifty, sixty yards. I ran from the house to the tree line, then turned around, and boom.” She frowned. “Actually, I didn’t hear a gunshot. But the shooter probably had a suppressor so the neighbors wouldn’t hear it.”

  “Our teams don’t use suppressors.”

  “It wasn’t your team, though, right?” She smirked.

  He nodded, conceding the point. He couldn’t speak for how things had been run before he’d taken the job. But the FBI wasn’t in the business of buying silencers for their weapons.

  “I saw him point the gun at Sebastian and then Sebastian fell to the ground. The gunshot probably made a sound and I was too shocked to register it. Doesn’t change anything.”

 

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