by TL Schaefer
The big black Lincoln sat in front of the garage’s bay door, blocking her exit. Two exceedingly tough-looking men lounged against the hood, looking right at her through mirrored shades, and even though she knew they couldn’t see her through the smoked glass, she felt a chill snake down her spine. Another guy, even bigger than the other two, sauntered toward the dispatcher’s office, making no pains at hurrying.
Each wore a dark suit and an attitude that reminded her of organized crime. But not, because even mobsters weren’t this casual. They sure weren’t the gangbangers she’d expected. No way were guys like these the ones she’d lifted the car from. Guys like these set one foot into the ‘hood she’d just left and they had a bullseye painted on their foreheads. So what was going on?
She was settling in to watch them, to figure out her options, when the unmistakable snick of the trunk popping open yanked her attention from the door.
The copper-colored lid of the trunk swung up slowly, as if propelled by an unseen, ghostly hand.
Nick McClain held his breath as the trunk lifted, thanking the universe, God, and Saint Michael, the patron saint of cops, that the ‘Vette had an emergency release. He didn’t know where he was, but knew it wasn’t where he needed to be. The way his luck had been running, he was probably right back in Tulsa, the victim of a vicious time-space warp.
To make a bad situation even worse, the demolition-derby pounding his body had taken in the last ten minutes had only compounded the beating he’d sustained less than an hour ago. His old battle wound, a torn ACL that had never healed correctly despite multiple surgeries, throbbed in direct counterpoint to his heartbeat.
His whole body felt like one big bruise, although it looked worse than it was. He’d made sure his cries of pain had convinced his attackers of their skill in roughing up accountants.
It had been almost impossible to tamp down his ten years as a Marine, his five as an OSBI agent. To not break their necks and just be done with it.
But he hadn’t, because going into this assignment with guns blazing would have compromised everything he and the task force had worked so hard for. Would have flushed months of intelligence gathering and carefully placed moles.
It didn’t matter that he’d overheard them talking about getting rid of him and the car because both were too hot right now. That the idiots were going to torch the ‘Vette with him inside, which is why they’d thrown him in the trunk. It didn’t matter because he’d already found the emergency latch. Already had a plan to escape—but on his terms, on his schedule. After he learned everything he possibly could.
And then the car was leaving the driveway and he didn’t hear a peep out of the driver until country music started playing. That was all it took for him to realize a new player had entered the game, and he didn’t like it one damned bit, because he wasn’t in control. At least not yet.
But he would be.
He lifted his head cautiously and found himself staring into the biggest pair of blue eyes he’d ever seen. Not the bruisers he’d expected, and almost wanted, in a perverse way, to see.
He allowed himself to wonder who she was, then immediately dismissed the thought.
It didn’t matter, not in the big picture.
The men he was investigating didn’t use women, or at least they hadn’t in the past. Regardless of who she was, he knew what she was, without even thinking twice.
A problem.
So how could he turn her to his advantage? He was so deep undercover he didn’t even have backup, at least not right now.
With that thought, he slid into character.
Sitting up with an exaggerated groan, Nick accepted the hand, strong-fingered and callused, that reached in to help him out of the trunk. Something hot and primal and dark surged between him and his rescuer, and then her hand was gone. He heard the slither of metal on metal, but focused on getting his feet fixed on terra firma and his knee solidly planted before he raised his eyes.
Damn, he missed his tactical boots, missed the way they provided more than firm footing. They provided comfort, surety. Those boots had seen him through situations most men could never even imagine. But in keeping with his cover, he’d been forced to wear ridiculous tasseled loafers.
He decided to blame the spark of electricity he’d felt on the combination of the goofy shoes, the weather and his ride in the trunk, rather than the woman standing in front of him.
The owner of the big baby blues was tiny, but with the leanness of an athlete. An athlete that filled out her faded jeans and white tee shirt nicely. Quite nicely.
She held a tire iron in one hand, booted feet spread wide and solid as she looked at him contemplatively. In that moment, he knew he had to be losing it, because he’d never seen a woman look sexier, even if she was threatening him with bodily harm.
Long blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, bangs splayed up almost ridiculously, held in the vertical position by the sweat that soaked her brow. A sweaty red horizontal line bisected her forehead, and for a moment he wondered what had put it there, and then realized it was probably from a ball cap. For some perverse reason, that amused him greatly. He fought to keep a grin from surfacing.
When she spoke, he almost lost his inner war.
“And who in the hell might you be?”
Her take-no-prisoners tone gave him no reason to doubt that, despite size, she could do whatever she wanted to with that tire iron.
It shouldn’t turn him on, but dammit, it did.
Chapter 2
Cris eyeballed the bedraggled man standing before her. Someone had certainly beaten the crap out of him. He sported the beginnings of a fantastic shiner over his left eye, and his polo shirt and pleated slacks were torn and bloody. Midnight-dark hair dipped over the other eye, but the top was longer than the sides, too long for a military haircut, but reminding her of it, nonetheless.
He towered over her. Then again, most men did. It was something she’d used to her advantage on more than one occasion. She watched as he shifted, planting his rich-man’s loafers a bit more firmly, shifting to the balls of his feet. His stance brought the military to mind again. Or maybe a cop. But this man was neither. The cops and soldiers she knew would never be caught dead in that get-up. At least not the ones who stood like that.
He pushed away from the car and held out his hand. His manicured, obviously pampered hand.
“Nick Coleman, at your service.”
Cris huffed out a laugh at his out-of-place chivalry. She held onto the tire iron anyway, tapping it lightly against her palm. This guy added a whole new wrinkle to an already bizarre situation. One that was giving her a raving case of the heebie-jeebies. Never mind the fact he was a looker, even with the crap beaten out of him.
She eyed him slowly from head to toe. “I think it’s the other way around, Coleman.”
He looked to be in his early thirties, only a few years older than her, and despite his clothes, appeared to be in great shape. Better than she’d expect for a man wearing those ridiculous shoes.
“Lift your shirt up.”
“Excuse me?” His reply was incredulous.
“Lift your shirt and turn. I need to see if you’re armed.”
Nick Coleman looked distinctly perplexed, she thought with a bit of amusement, but he did as she had asked, tugging his shirt free of his waistband and lifting it to show a nicely defined chest and abs. Very nicely defined, and most definitely not hiding a weapon. She’d been right. He was in excellent shape. He turned, and his back was almost as nice as his front. The man had a butt that would’ve made her drool if the circumstances weren’t so weird.
“All right, now lift your pant legs, please.”
Cris could tell he was still baffled, but complied, lifting his pleated slacks to show perfectly coordinated socks. No weapon there either. If he was hiding a piece in the crotch of his rich-man’s slacks, it wasn’t as if he could get to it with any kind of speed. She’d be able to take him down long before he brought a weapo
n to bear.
Now they could proceed. “Mind telling me who put you in that trunk, and why?”
Coleman ran a hand through his hair, setting it back to rights. Sort of. Blood matted the precision cut, pushing maroon-tinged spikes in haphazard directions.
The ring of the garage phone cut off his answer.
She backed up to the wall, keeping her eyes on him, and answered the phone with her free hand.
“Hey, Karla. Thank God you’re okay.”
“This would be Cristine Eagen?” A masculine voice answered her, instead of the rough-as-gravel voice of their dispatcher. The voice was low, authoritative, not angry or threatening or anything but…almost bored.
Cris went stock still. How had they gotten past Karla? The cranky dispatcher protected her turf with dragon-like intensity. Not to mention the fact the main office was as well-defended as the garage.
Her mind whipped through a dozen replies before she settled on the easiest. “Who am I speaking with?”
“Captain Burt England, OCPD Homicide.” Now the authority made sense. Just what she’d expect from a captain in the Oklahoma City Police Department.
But it still didn’t gel. A captain wouldn’t be out on the road. Captains generated paperwork and told the worker bees what to do. She knew that for a fact.
Then there was that other small, miniscule thing. They’d tried to force her off the road with no warning. There had been no lights, no siren, nothing but that jarring set of sideswipes and their furious pursuit. To be honest, it had been more. Now that she thought back on it, it almost seemed like they’d been trying to kill her.
She mentally shook her head. Had to be the adrenaline talking. She’d obviously read more into the situation than was warranted, especially if the police were involved.
But, and it was a very large but, there wasn’t anything in the book that justified their actions, even if they assumed she was stealing the car. Instead, they should have lit her up like the Fourth of July and called for backup.
As she tried to reason it out, she thought maybe it was Austin all over again, that she was overreacting to the here and now based upon her past trauma, but no. The more she thought about it, the surer she became. Something strange was going on here, and it had nothing to do with the bloodbath in Texas, or the aftermath, or a potential knee-jerk reaction on her part.
No, things were not right here. And in a big way.
She considered her choices, humming slightly as she did so. It always made her think better. She could accept Captain England at his word and walk out, giving up without question, but by going that route, she’d validate what he’d done.
She shook her head again, this time physically. Not even an option. Instead, she took the next plausible step.
“I’d like to speak to Karla, please, before I say anything to you.”
Coleman had taken a step forward, and she waved him back with the tire iron. It was bad enough she was dealing with the local PD and their bizarre behavior. She didn’t need the additional complication of the man standing before her. She was certain he was the reason behind this whole screwy morning. It was the only thing that made sense.
“Sure,” England answered, and a moment later Karla’s voice came on the line.
“Jesus-please-us, Cris, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” Karla’s greeting was typical, and in this instance, very reassuring.
“I’m glad to hear your voice. Is everything all right in there?”
Karla snorted. “Sure, if you call having the cops here ‘all right.’ Rob’s going to have your butt for this one.”
Cris dismissed her warning. She could handle Rob. The situation before her now was another thing altogether.
“Something is weird here, Karla. Really weird. Be careful.”
“Gotcha.” The dispatcher’s voice became distant as she processed Cris’ warning. “Hold on a sec, the big bull in charge wants to talk to you.”
“All right, Ms. Eagen, can we talk now?” England’s voice was calm.
Too calm, Cris knew suddenly. It had been from the moment he began walking from the Lincoln to dispatch. Every single one of his actions was off kilter. If he’d been on the up and up, he should have been righteously pissed, both at her and his men for allowing her to outdrive them. She’d been in his shoes before, and the behavior didn’t fit.
Cris weighed the events of this morning against the battered man who now leaned against the back of the Corvette, looking exhausted. She motioned Coleman forward with the hand holding the tire iron, but kept it in her grip. She hoped she wouldn’t regret this decision later.
He stopped a good three feet away, watching her with unnerving patience. Something wasn’t right with the cops outside the door, and something wasn’t right with Coleman. He was too composed for the situation, just like England was. It was a heck of a choice, but her gut told her to go with the man trapped in the garage with her. And nowadays she almost always went with her intuition.
Cris switched her attention back to the phone. “Depends,” she answered coolly. “What did you want to talk about? Your totally unethical, and might I add, inappropriate, approach on the freeway?” She tucked the tire iron between her arm and body, and then cupped her hand over the mouthpiece.
“What’s going on here? I’ve got OCPD on the line.”
Coleman nodded, slowly and thoughtfully, seemingly unsurprised.
Well hell. As much as she went with her instinct these days, she needed more time before talking to England, needed to find out what Coleman knew.
England’s smooth voice filled the earpiece, pulling her attention away from Coleman. “Sorry about that, we thought you were our suspect, not a repo agent. We’ve been looking for that car, and the driver. She’s a murder suspect. You can understand our mistake, surely?”
Cris mulled over his answer. While they’d breached every rule in the book, if her skip was a felon, then it was understandable. Sort of.
“Ms. Eagen?” England’s voice cut through the silence. She removed her hand from the mouthpiece.
“Give me a sec.” She covered the receiver once again. “Okay, Coleman. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t open the door and walk out of here, Scot free?”
Instead of answering, he walked to the door and peered out the one-way glass. When he turned to her, his expression was one of resignation.
“Because they did this to me.”
Cris had half expected his answer, but it still shook her down to the soles of her boots. While their tactics in trying to force her off the road had been abominable, it hit below the belt to hear that cops, her former comrades in arms, would do something so far removed from their creed to serve and protect.
Even with Coleman’s weird reaction, she believed him more than the man on the other end of the line. She believed him more than the word of a cop. Not a good way to end an already craptastic week. Not a good way at all.
“Ms. Eagen?” England’s voice called her back to the phone. She dropped her hand.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. Come on out, and we’ll take some information from you, then return to our stakeout.”
Cris clenched her fists. Enough was enough, she thought, suddenly pissed beyond measure. Who did they take her for, some rube who didn’t know any better? They could get their information through Karla. There was no need for her to leave the garage, not unless they believed she was the skip, and this was their way of trying to draw her out.
But she’d had the remote to the garage, which a skip would never be able to get, unless they’d stolen it.
No, nothing here added up, least of all the man staring out the window. All he brought to the table was the unleashed violence outside the door and a metric ton of unanswered questions.
What had he done to deserve a beating like that?
How was she going to get out of this mess and keep Karla’s skin intact?
The bozos outside might initially lo
ok, walk and talk like OCPD, but anyone who’d ever been part of law enforcement could see through their smokescreen in about a minute flat. Add in what Coleman claimed and their story sank like a rowboat with a hole in it.
And then it really hit her. They hadn’t been after her…they’d been chasing him. She’d simply been fortunate, or unfortunate, enough to snake the car before they finished the job. For England’s lies alone, she’d go with Coleman on this, at least until she learned differently. Because her instinct told her to.
“Tell you what, get my bonafides from Karla. Or better yet, call Scott Lincoln over at OSBI. He can vouch for me. I’ve got some work to do here in the garage.” There, throwing Linc’s name at them should give them pause. If they actually were cops, they’d confirm her identity. If they weren’t, then the mention of the state-level version of the FBI would give them pause. Either way, it would give her at least a moment to breathe. She glanced around the garage, looking for something, anything, to strike her.
Her eyes skipped over her own mostly restored ’68 Mustang and lit on the Madagascar Orange Range Rover SV parked against the back wall.
It had been her most recent repossession before the ‘Vette, and a feather in Rob’s cap. With a starting price of over two hundred grand, it was a feather in anyone’s cap. She hung up the phone and walked purposefully toward the cipher-locked cabinet that held keys. Once again, she thanked God for Rob’s practicality. Most yards kept their keys in the office, but Rob had wanted his agents to have access to them in case they needed to move a vehicle.
England wouldn’t be happy with her abrupt hang-up and was surely getting the door’s combination from Karla. She could only hope he did it without undue force.
She had enough blood on her hands to last a lifetime. She didn’t need to add Karla’s. Why she was willing to risk both herself and Karla for a stranger nagged at the back of her mind, but she shut it off—for now.
Cris waved Coleman over to her as she snagged the keys. He started to open his mouth, but she forestalled him with a raised hand.