by Joyce Lamb
Under the steady stream of almost too-hot water, Alaina kept her mind carefully blank. Not thinking, not feeling -- that was how she would get through this.
By the time she shut off the water, she felt somewhat human again, if not tip-top, then at least clean. Wearing nothing but the brand-new underwear Rachel had picked up for her, she was combing out her hair when a noise outside the door made her pause.
"Ray?"
No answer.
"Rachel?"
Still no answer. Heart thundering, she grabbed the blouse Rachel had left for her and jabbed her arms into it. Before she could thread one button through its hole, the bathroom door crashed inward.
Alaina gasped, stumbling back. The backs of her legs hit the side of the bathtub, and she made a grab for the shower curtain to break her fall. It popped free of its rings, one by one, as she tumbled back into the tub.
A hulk of a man stepped into the room and pointed a gun at her chest.
She recognized him in an instant.
* * *
Mitch cruised through the Middleton, Wisconsin, neighborhood, his shoulder scrunched up to hold the cellphone to his ear as he braked at a stop sign. He was exhausted, having been up all night waiting for Julia to call. Less than two hours ago, she had, and he'd hit the interstate in a mad dash to Wisconsin.
"I'm at Appleton Lane and Daugherty. Which way?"
He heard the tap-tap of Julia's fingers on her computer keyboard. "Hang a left. It's three blocks up on the right. 5814."
"You're sure about this, Jules?"
"Are you not trusting me after everything we've been through together?"
"I just don't have time for you to be wrong."
"I'm not wrong. Rachel Boyd sent an e-mail from this phone number about two hours ago. Chances are, I'm not the only one who traced it."
* * *
"Don't move. Don't scream. Don't breathe."
The last time Alaina had seen the black-clad, thick-necked man, he'd been trussed up on the hotel room floor after Mitch had nailed him with the desk chair. That altercation had left its mark: Bruises underscored his eyes, and stitches laced up an inch-long laceration across his chin.
The look in his black gaze was murderous.
"Are you alone in the house?" he asked.
She didn't hesitate to respond, knowing he would hit her with only the slightest provocation. "Yes."
Reaching down, he grasped her right arm and hauled her up out of the tub, not giving her a second glance when she clasped the edges of her shirt closed over her bare breasts. He nudged her toward the door with the gun. "Out."
She left the bathroom ahead of him, praying that Rachel was far away on her run. At the same time, she wondered why the guy hadn't just killed her. When he'd busted into the hotel room, he'd cocked his gun right away. He'd been ready to blow her head off when Mitch had arrived. Now, there was nothing distracting him.
In the blue-and-yellow plaid living room, he said, "Hold it. Hands behind your back."
The unmistakable sound of duct tape stripping off a roll had her turning. She glimpsed the gun stuffed into the waistband of his black jeans before he dropped a meaty hand on her shoulder to stop her. "Don't."
He wasn't going to kill her. Why would he secure her hands for that?
He had other plans.
Her terror shifted into high gear, and she pivoted, thrusting her good shoulder into his chest, trying to off-balance him so she could grab his gun. But his torso was solid muscle. Unaffected, he easily grabbed her wrist and wrenched it behind her and up between her shoulder blades. Alaina cried out, going down on one knee as stars burst in her head.
"Don't make this more difficult than it has to be," he growled near her ear.
She rammed her elbow back into his crotch.
Releasing her, he fell back a step on a sharp wheeze of breath. Alaina scrambled up and sprinted for the kitchen. It didn't take long for him to come after her. "Bitch!" Crashing into a table, he shoved it aside. "You're dead!"
In the kitchen, Alaina dove for the counter and Aunt Rita's gun. She had it in her hand, was fumbling with the safety, when the goon plowed into her from behind. His weight slammed her forward against the counter, but she didn't feel any pain. There was only white noise in her head as she slid to the floor. He flipped her over and straddled her, grappling for the gun. His hands closed over hers, his grip crushing.
She couldn't breathe under him, the gun trapped between their bodies, its butt jammed against her sore ribs, its barrel pressing into his chest. She was losing her grip. If he got the gun, she was dead. For an instant, she was back in Emma's kitchen, fighting for her life. She remembered the gush of warm blood over her hand, the sweet copper smell, the sick realization that she'd killed a man.
She couldn't pull the trigger.
* * *
Mitch dropped to a squat near the back door of the tiny house. Glass crunched under his feet, and he glanced up at the shattered window.
"Fuck," he said under his breath.
Pulling out his gun, he cocked it and went in through the back door. He paused inside the mud room, his back against the wall, and listened. He heard scuffling sounds.
Peering around the edge of the door into the kitchen, he saw the top of Alaina's dark head, the rest of her body obscured by the bulk of the man on top of her. As the man reared back, Mitch recognized him as the hit man they'd overpowered in the hotel room. He also saw that Alaina had a gun pressed to the guy's chest. All she had to do was pull the trigger --
The goon went still for a heartbeat. When nothing happened, confusion wrinkled his forehead. Then he clamped his gloved fingers around her throat.
Mitch heard her make a choking sound, saw the gun in her hand waver. Still, her finger didn't squeeze the trigger.
Mitch shot him.
Blood spurted from the hit man's chest, and he toppled backward off of Alaina.
Mitch jerked back behind the cover of the door, acutely aware that she still had the gun and probably wouldn't consider him the conquering hero. "Alaina?"
Nothing.
He tried again. "Alaina, it's Mitch Kane. I'm here to help you."
It sounded ridiculous, but he didn't know what else to say.
She didn't respond, and he listened hard for activity. Had she already slipped out of the kitchen? Looking around the edge of the door, he saw her leaning against the kitchen cabinet beneath the sink, her knees drawn up to her chest, her forehead on her bare knees. The gun, clasped in her hand, rested on the floor.
As if sensing him there, she jerked her head up. Her dazed eyes widened in recognition, and she pointed the gun at him, her hand shaking. "You." Her pale face was damp with sweat, her breath coming fast and hard.
Mitch dropped his weapon and raised his hands, having no doubt she would shoot him. "I'm not going to hurt you, Alaina. I came to help."
She braced a hand on the floor, keeping the gun trained on him, and shifted to her knees. Mitch could tell that moving was painful for her. Only when she straightened did he see the blood that covered her. Her blouse looked like it had been ripped open, and all she wore was it and underwear.
"Jesus," he breathed, feeling sick as he moved toward her.
She steadied the gun with both hands. "Don't."
He stopped, his heart hammering, not because he feared she would shoot him, but because he feared what had been done to her. "You're bleeding."
She glanced down at herself, wavering. "It's not mine." Her gaze moved to the man on the floor, and the gun in her hand shook violently. "I don't remember pulling the trigger."
"You didn't. I did."
She looked at him, confused. "But why?"
"I came to help you." He stepped toward her, reaching for her weapon, his hand as unsteady as hers. "Give me the gun, Alaina."
But she firmed her grip. "No," she said. "You work for Layton. He wants me dead."
Before he could dispute that, he heard shouts in the front room. "Federal agents!"
Mitch lunged forward, grabbing Alaina's gun hand and thrusting it up. He had the pistol away from her and tossed aside before the first fed burst through the door, guns drawn.
"Hold it!" the agent cried.
Mitch shielded Alaina with his body. "We're unarmed!"
The fed kept his weapon trained on them as more agents poured into the kitchen.
Mitch felt Alaina trembling against him, smelled the blood that covered her, and his heart twisted. Shrugging out of his jacket, he folded it around her. "It's okay. You're going to be okay."
Chapter 18
Mitch sat in his car in the parking lot of a Mobil station, glaring at the cellphone in his hand as the conversation he'd had with Norm only an hour before ran through his head.
"That hit man got to them too fast," Mitch had said. "The Bureau could be compromised."
Norm's eyes were flat, mistrustful. "Keller's people probably tracked them the same way we did. What I'm curious about, Mitch, is how you did it."
"I didn't get my info from Keller, if that's what you're getting at."
"Yeah, that is what I'm getting at."
"If Keller sent me here, why'd he send a hit man, too?"
But Norm hadn't been interested in arguing. He said he had more important things to do: such as ensure that Rachel and Alaina got to safe houses.
Which meant Mitch was shut out.
Which meant that if the FBI did have a leak, no one was doing anything about it.
Which meant that even if the feds sent Alaina to a safe house, she wouldn't be safe.
He kept seeing her, covered with blood, her eyes dazed as she stared down at the dead man at her feet. The image sent chills the length of his spine.
He shouldn't feel this way, he told himself. He shouldn't feel so frustrated and worried. She was a stranger to him. He didn't know her, hadn't had time to even care about her.
But he did. Somehow, he did.
And it made him feel desperate.
He had only one option to find her. He hit the speed-dial button on the cellphone and waited for an answer. When he got it, he said, "I lost her."
"I gathered that, Mr. Kane." Keller sounded so smooth, so unconcerned.
Mitch wrapped one hand around the steering wheel and gripped hard. Son of a bitch. If you hurt her, I'll rip your heart out. "I had her, and some halfwit intervened. Was he yours?"
"Hmm, why would I send a halfwit to find my son's mother when I hired you to do that?"
"That's what I'd like to know. Is there something you wanted the halfwit to do that you think you can't ask of me?"
"I can't have this conversation at this time, Mr. Kane. You're on a cellphone."
"I'll call you back on a land line."
"You do that."
Mitch pocketed his cellphone, got out of the car and walked to a pay phone only ten feet away. Keller answered on the first ring, and Mitch said, "The FBI has her, and your halfwit is dead. That means you have an opening, and I'm interested."
Keller was silent a moment. "I see."
"Maybe you do, maybe you don't." Closing his eyes, he leaned his forehead against the phone. "Because of that bitch, I've been chasing my tail for two days. She almost broke my fucking nose, and she's been a major pain in the ass."
Keller was silent, and Mitch worried he'd laid it on too thick. Finally, Keller said, "Perhaps I underestimated you, Mr. Kane."
"I'd say you did. You hired two people when you could have had one do the same job. All you had to do was ask."
"I had the impression that you didn't do that sort of work," Keller said.
"I had the impression that wasn't the sort of work you wanted done."
"Fair enough."
Mitch almost breathed a sigh of relief. "I'll expect a larger fee, of course."
"That won't be necessary, Mr. Kane. I'll send you what I owe you."
Mitch's relief faded. "I don't understand."
"I no longer need your services."
"Fine, I'll take her out for free."
"I warned you about her, didn't I? She gets under your skin." Keller chuckled, and Mitch imagined him tossing back a shot of expensive whiskey. "Well, I appreciate the offer," Keller said. "But I've got it covered."
"The only way you could is if you've got someone inside the FBI."
"It would be unwise of me to divulge that information, don't you think?"
"All right. Let me put it to you this way: Your former girlfriend and I have some unfinished business that I'd like to take care of before your guy takes her out."
"Tell you what: If you get to her before my man does, you're welcome to have at her. All I ask is that when you're done, she's still breathing."
Mitch faltered, surprised. "I thought you wanted her dead."
"Yes, well, that was the ideal situation. But it turns out that Alaina and I have some unfinished business of our own. You see, she never bothered to tell our son about me. He has no idea who I am, which is going to make it very difficult for me to win him over. That angers me, and I'd like to discuss the matter with her."
His skin crawling, Mitch said, "Fine, when I'm done, she's still breathing."
"If you want to get to her before I do, you might want to hurry. My man promises me delivery tomorrow afternoon. Good luck." Keller disconnected the call.
Mitch pressed the receiver to his forehead, resisting the urge to pound it against the phone's metal shell. "Fuck," he said under his breath. "Fuck fuck fuck."
If Keller expected his newest goon to deliver Alaina to him by tomorrow afternoon, he had to have someone in the FBI. How else would he be able to locate the safe house so quickly? And if that were the case, it couldn't be all that tough for him to eventually find out his wife had turned on him. Which could sink the feds' entire case, further putting Alaina and Jonah at risk, not to mention Alaina's sister.
Back in his car, Mitch called Norm's cellphone and got the agent's voice mail. "Yeah, it's Mitch. I need to talk to you ASAP. Keller has someone in the FBI."
After he disconnected the call, helplessness snaked through him. Until Norm got back to him, there wasn't a thing he could do.
Starting the car, he pulled out of the gas station and headed for the airport. The least he could do was be in a position to react when Norm called him back.
Steering onto the highway, he called Julia. "I need you to book me on the first flight back to the District."
"Hello to you, too," she said, but he heard her fingers already at work on her keyboard.
"What are the odds that you could track down an FBI safe house?" he asked.
"Uh, how about none?"
"I'm serious, Jules."
"So am I. There's a reason they call it a safe house, Mitch. What's up?"
"Keller has someone inside, and I can't reach Norm to warn him."
"What about you? Surely you have contacts. What about your former partner? Isn't he a director of some sort now?"
"My former partner had an affair with my former wife, remember?"
"And that means you can't talk to him ever again? Not even to save a woman's life?"
God, she was right. What was wrong with him? "Get the number."
"It wouldn't hurt you to say 'please' every so often."
"Please. And please make it fast."
"Okay. Here's your flight number. Delta 839. Leaves in an hour." She told him the confirmation number.
"One more thing," he said.
"Shoot."
"I need you to start staking out Keller's home. Figure out what his security is like. I've been there, but I didn't pay particular attention to his setup. It'd be great, too, if you could get your hands on blueprints."
"Why?"
"If I can't get to Alaina before he does, I'm going to need to know how to get in there to get her out."
* * *
Alaina felt the scratchiness of the new T-shirt and jeans that Rachel had picked up for her in Middleton. It had been more than four hours since the hit man ha
d attacked, and she still wasn't entirely certain what had transpired in Aunt Rita's kitchen. How had Mitch Kane gotten there? And why had he saved her from Keller's henchman? Weren't they on the same side?
Whatever the answers, what was happening now was just as confusing. The FBI agent prowling the hotel room -- red hair, freckles, black trench coat -- hadn't left her side since he'd arrived at Aunt Rita's. He'd introduced himself as Assistant Director Norman Potter of the FBI. From there, he'd escorted her in a dark sedan with tinted windows to the Madison airport, where they'd boarded a small jet that flew only them to Washington Dulles International Airport. During the flight, Alaina had drilled Potter with questions, few of which he had answered.
She knew only that Rachel had been transported to an FBI safe house and would remain there until it was determined that she was in no danger.
Potter asked his share of questions as well, some of them about the man she had killed in self-defense in Emma's kitchen. She'd told him the truth, and he'd listened intently, taking notes. When she asked whether she would be arrested, Potter had said, "Not at this time."
Now, to her bewilderment, they were in a D.C. hotel. It wasn't a cheap one, either. It had a king-size bed with a thick, green comforter and multiple pillows in gold and wine. The entertainment center, armoire, dresser and desk were constructed of heavy, expensive oak. From the one large window, framed by wine-colored curtains, Alaina took in the Kennedy Center and the Jefferson and Lincoln memorials. Cherry blossoms were in bloom all around the Tidal Basin, making the trees look like they were covered with soft pink snowballs.
Behind her, Potter roamed the room. Clearly, there was something else he wanted to be doing, or perhaps being there, waiting for whomever they were waiting for had him agitated.
Alaina turned from the window. "Please tell me why we're here."
Picking up a room service menu, he studied it. "You'll see soon enough, Ms. Chancellor." His cellphone chirped, and he turned his back to answer it.