Secret Hideaway

by Carla Neggers

  Elijah’s a combat veteran. He knows what to do.

  Even wounded, he’d find a way to get help to her. He’d spotted her above him on the trail and yelled for her to run, giving her a chance to get away—to get here.

  Going to him hadn’t been an option.

  Marissa quickly assembled her potential weapons on the floor by the table. She was avoiding windows, wanted to be prepared if the shooter came after her. She paused, peering down the dark hall that led from the kitchen. The house didn’t look as if anyone had stayed there all winter, but the driveway was plowed, the walks shoveled. The owners must have hired a local grounds-keeper. Maybe whoever looked after the place would come by, help her.

  Except why would they if they’d already been here after yesterday’s snow?

  Marissa reminded herself that her sisters and brother and parents all were safe. She was a high school history teacher, the eldest of five. It didn’t matter that her father was the vice president. She was no more important than the next person.

  “Marissa. You okay in there?”

  Grit. She recognized his soft, low voice and felt her knees buckle as relief washed over her. She wasn’t alone anymore.

  And he wasn’t the shooter. Not Ryan Taylor, Navy SEAL.

  “I am, Grit. I’m here.”

  He came through the back door, moving with an agility and smoothness that had surprised her at first, given his disability, but now she had come to expect. He was one of the finest men she’d ever known. He was also witty, sexy, ultracompetent and as incorrigible in his own way as her little brother. Except she didn’t think of him as a brother. Not even close. Right from the start, even when he’d annoyed her, Marissa had been attracted to him.

  “Damn, it’s dark and cold out there. Springtime in the frozen North.”

  Marissa bit back a smile and tears at the same time. “If you can figure out I’m here—”

  “So can the guy who’s after you.”

  She studied him for half a beat. He was dark-haired, wiry and quiet, with a quick wit and a steadiness that often took people by surprise. He’d told her he was a mix of Creek and Scots-Irish, a kid from the swamps of the Florida Panhandle who’d always wanted to see the word.

  “He’s not after me.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper as she realized what she was saying was true. “He’s not my enemy or my father’s enemy, or a Cameron enemy. Grit...” She took a breath. “He’s after you.”

  Grit shrugged. “Even better. Why’s he after me?”

  “Because you’re here. He lured me out here because he knew you’d come after me. It’s so clear to me now, Grit. Elijah was a surprise. That’s why he shot him. But I could teach yoga in Black Falls for all this man cares. He wants you, Grit. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Grit said, the moonlight catching his dark eyes as he turned to her. “You’re sure about this?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  He gave her a small grin. “That Neal intuition at work. You okay? The blood—”

  “A scratch. It’s nothing. I’m fine. The shooter wanted me to think Charlie was getting himself in trouble again. I see that now. I fell into his trap. I thought I could help. I thought...” Marissa didn’t finish. “I’m not a prisoner of the Secret Service. I’ve always cooperated. I’ve never stepped a toe out of line.”

  “Unlike Charlie.”

  “He looks up to you and Elijah.”

  Grit didn’t respond. He turned the solid wood kitchen table on its side, then slipped an arm around her waist. “Get behind here. Stay low.”

  Marissa crouched on the floor behind the table. “What about you?”

  “No worries.” He surveyed the array of materials on the floor, giving no indication of what he thought of them. “We’re dealing with a professional. It’s not easy to get past the Secret Service, even for your genius little brother. It’s sure as hell not easy to get the jump on Elijah Cameron.”

  “It was a near thing. I was startled, and I fell and cut my hand. Elijah was farther down on the trail. At that point neither of us had any idea someone was up in the woods with a gun.” Marissa stopped abruptly, felt the blood draining out of her face. She pushed aside the rush of thoughts and nodded to a wall phone. “There’s a landline, but it’s turned off. There’s no cell service. Are you going to search the house?”

  “No. If the shooter’s hiding in here, he’ll find us. We’re good right where we are.”

  “You’re armed,” Marissa said, noticing that a pistol had appeared in his hand.

  “Thanks to your brother. This isn’t Charlie’s fault. It’s not your fault. It’s the responsibility of this shooter. Period.”

  “If you have an extra gun—”

  “You can shoot?”

  “I’ve never fired a weapon, but how hard can it be?” She gave him a faltering smile. “Point and pull the trigger.”

  Grit squatted next to her. “I need you to keep doing what you’ve been doing.” His voice was steady, as if he were telling her about what he’d cooked for dinner. “Stay calm and keep an eye and ear out.”

  “You know what this man’s going to do, don’t you?”

  Grit didn’t answer, but Marissa knew that she was right. The man who shot Elijah Cameron wanted to kill Grit Taylor.

  The cut on her hand ached and she felt blood again seeping into the scarf she’d tied around the wound. “The shooter’s in the house, isn’t he?”

  “Tupelo honey,” Grit said with the barest of smiles.

  “What?”

  With his free hand, he brushed his bare knuckles across her cheek. “When things get rough, I think about tupelo honey. My family makes tupelo honey at home in Florida. Best stuff in the world. What do you think about? Teaching history?”

  “Living a normal life,” she answered without hesitation.

  “No such thing.”

  “Black Falls has had a rough year, but I love it here. It’s so beautiful, and I love the people. I love the Camerons, the Harpers, the cafe, the lodge.” Grit was still and quiet, but Marissa could see the focus and intensity in his dark eyes. “I’d like to try tupelo honey one day. Do you want to go back to Florida?”

  “To visit. I don’t fool myself into thinking I could live there again.”

  “I’m sorry, Grit. You shouldn’t be here...”

  “Do you want to buy a place up here in snow country?” His dark eyes leveled on her. “If you do, I’m game. I’d chop wood and tramp through snow for you. Any day of the week.”

  “Grit...”

  He winked at her. “It’s okay.” Then he called into the hall. “Hey, ace. I know you’re in here. Let’s talk.”

  A beat’s silence. “I knew you’d come, Grit. You’re so predictable.”

  The shooter’s voice was deep and controlled—and close, not five yards down the hall. Marissa realized Grit must have known he was there. She hadn’t noticed a shadow, heard a movement, the sound of any breathing but her own.

  “That’s right, Grit,” the shooter said, “I know it’s you.”

  Marissa gulped in a breath. It’s Brian. Grit was frowning at her, and she said, “It’s Brian Fenton. He’s—”

  “He’s a private military contractor,” Grit said. “I know him.”

  “I had dinner with him a few times before the election. A lot of contractors do good work.”

  “Fenton did, too, back then. Now he’s wanted by the FBI and who knows who else.”

  “Ah, Grit, Marissa,” Fenton said. “It’s good that you remember me.”

  Marissa raised her voice above a whisper. “I thought you were out of the country.”

  “I wish I were.”

  “I can get you out,” Marissa said. “It’s easy. Pack up. Let’s go.”

  Fenton gave a low laugh. “Even if you were telling the truth, Marissa, Grit won’t let me go with you. Will you, Grit? You’d insist on going, too, and you’d slow me down with that missing leg of yours.”

  “Nah, the leg�
�s fine,” Grit said. “It’s the cold that gets me, although I think I’m getting used to it. Scary thought. You ever try tupelo honey, Fenton?”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “My friend Moose would have liked you before you dishonored yourself with your illegal side deals. You had your own private black market going. I found you out, Fenton. You were selling weapons, supplies, parts, whatever you could get your hands on. Think of the hardworking people doing a job—”

  “I’m just as good as you are.”

  “You were. Then you decided to cross the line, and now you’re a loser. If you don’t give up, you’ll be a dead loser.”

  “Put your gun down, Grit. Give up, and I’ll let Marissa go.”

  Marissa shook her head, adamant. “He won’t.”

  Grit gave her a slight nod but spoke to Fenton. “It’s not my gun. I didn’t come to Black Falls armed. Why would I? You meant to kill Elijah but you screwed up. You gave away your position a split second before you fired. That gave him all the time he needed to give Marissa the head start she needed to get away from you, and to keep you from getting off a second shot. Now he’s going to land on your head any second.”

  “He’s messed up. He’s not doing anything.”

  “You don’t know Elijah. He isn’t seriously injured. You can still get out of this, Fenton.”

  “What, put my weapons on the floor and come to you with my hands up?”

  “That’d do it.”

  “I know you’re trying to last long enough for reinforcements.”

  “Or I could shoot you before they get here.”

  Marissa reached for a rudimentary Molotov cocktail she’d made just before Grit had arrived, using a slender glass bottle, the gas and a flour-cloth dish towel. She whispered. “Every history teacher knows about Molotov cocktails.”

  Grit grinned at her. “Look at you.”

  She handed him the bottle. She was surprised at the steadiness of her hands. “One thing before...” Before what? She decided it didn’t matter. “I love you, Grit.”

  “Marissa—”

  “Let me finish. I started falling in love with you last November when you returned Charlie to school after he went AWOL the first time. He trusts you, and you trust him.”

  “I don’t trust Charlie. He’s a kid.”

  “You trust his instincts, his mind. You and Elijah gave him attention when we were all too distracted and busy to notice he needed to feel as if he mattered.”

  “So you fell for me because I wasn’t a jerk to your brother?”

  She smiled in spite of her fear, or maybe in part because of it. “I also thought you were attractive in an understated manly way.”

  He grinned suddenly. “That can’t be bad, right?” He kissed her lightly on the mouth. “That’s just for starters. I love you, too, babe. With all my heart and soul. I’m going to tell you how much I love you every day for a very long time, but right now is it okay if we deal with this crazy son of a bitch?”

  Marissa knew they had no choice. She could hear Brian down the hall.

  The lights went off.

  He was coming.

  Grit leaped up, moving with speed and precision. The suddenness and force of his assault seemed to suck the air out of the immediate vicinity.

  Marissa didn’t breathe. Everything happened fast. There was nothing slow-motion about it. She saw the flash and heard the explosion, smelled the smoke of a Molotov cocktail. Brian yelled, and then came two shots...and silence.

  “It’s okay, Marissa.” Grit’s voice, gentle, calm. “It’s over.”

  Brian Fenton wouldn’t kill Grit, or her brother, or Elijah—or her.

  She lifted her head and focused on the man she loved, standing in the moonlight.

  ***

  Three hours later, the Camerons had a fire roaring in the big stone fireplace at Black Falls Lodge and pancakes and sausages fresh off the griddle for Grit, Marissa and a handful of Secret Service agents, who were marginally less tense and irritable than they had been after their very long night. Charlie Neal showing up at the lodge with a wounded Elijah Cameron...leading them to Marissa Neal at a remote ski house with Grit and a dead Brian Fenton.

  “Fenton left a note,” Elijah said. “He blamed the SEALs for ruining his career after they caught him running his own black market, and he blamed you specifically for stealing Marissa from him.”

  Grit dribbled hot maple syrup—what he’d been told was first-run syrup—onto his pancakes. “Kill two birds with one stone, except Marissa dumped him long before I came into the picture.”

  Elijah pointed at Grit’s forkful of pancakes. “What do you think? Is real maple syrup better than tupelo honey?”

  This from a man in a sling from a gunshot wound. Grit figured that was why he and Elijah got along. “Different. They’re both good. Are you and Jo going to have to postpone the wedding because of your shoulder?”

  “Not even for a minute.”

  Charlie Neal squeezed past a Secret Service agent and sat by the fire. “I think it should be a double wedding. You’re going to ask Marissa to marry you, right, Grit—I mean, Petty Officer Taylor?”

  Grit ate his forkful of pancakes. The syrup was damn good. He sighed as he put down his plate. “You know, Charlie, just because you think something doesn’t mean you have to say it.”

  “I’d like you as a brother-in-law. Two of my sisters are dating real dicks.”

  “You haven’t told them that, have you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Elijah laughed. “You’re a piece of work, my friend.” He nodded to Grit. “Go. I’ll keep Charlie out of your hair for ten minutes.”

  Grit walked into the dining room and over to the windows, where Marissa was gazing out at the view of a snowy meadow and, in the distance, snow-covered mountains. He found himself experiencing phantom pain for the first time in months, as if to remind him that Marissa Neal could say no.

  She turned to him and smiled. “I love the smells of the fire, maple syrup—and apples. I think someone’s baking pies.”

  “Marissa...”

  “I know you have to go back to Washington. Your work at the Pentagon awaits.”

  “It can wait a few more days. I knew you were on school vacation this week.” He stood next to her, tried not to show her the pain he was in from a leg he’d lost so long ago—it felt like a lifetime. “What were you thinking about?”

  “All the reasons we should be together. There’s only one that matters. I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. What were you thinking?”

  “All the reasons you should say no.”

  “You have more reasons not to ask than I have to say no.”

  Her comment took him by surprise, but that was one of the things he loved about her. She was unpredictable, totally herself. “Name one.”

  “My family. I’m a history teacher. I don’t know how to use a gun. I don’t want to know.”

  “You make a mean Molotov cocktail.”

  She waved a hand in dismissal. “As if you wouldn’t have done that yourself.”

  He caught her hand midair and held it between his. “Marissa Neal, I love you and I want to be with you forever. I don’t have a lot to offer.”

  “That’s right, you don’t. I’ve seen your apartment. Rats, Grit. Rats.” Her eyes sparkled with humor, but she couldn’t maintain it and flung her arms around him. “Yes, yes—yes, I’ll marry you, Ryan Taylor. Anytime, anywhere.”

  “I think we have an audience.”

  “Good.”

  He swept her into his arms. The phantom pain was gone, and he saw Moose out in the meadow, laughing as he turned, his back to the lodge, and walked through the undisturbed snow.

  One day Grit would tell Marissa about his friend Michael “Moose” Ferrerra and the good life he’d lived.

  One day he’d tell their children.

  He smiled and saluted as Moose disappeared over the mountains and into the b
lue Vermont sky.

  ON THE RUN

  A Short Story

  Carla Neggers

  “This is where they died?”

  Gus Winter shook his head. “No. Another half hour, at least.”

  The fugitive shivered in the cold drizzle that had been falling all day. “Ironic that you’ll die up here, too,” he said.

  “If I die, then you’ll die. Help won’t arrive in time to save you. Just like it didn’t arrive in time to save them.”

  Them.

  Gus kept his expression neutral. They’d stopped in the middle of the rough, narrow trail for the fugitive to catch his breath. He was compact, thickly built and at least twenty years younger than Gus, but his jeans and cotton sweater weren’t appropriate for the conditions on the ridge. His socks were undoubtedly cotton, too. He didn’t wear a hat or gloves. He carried a hip pack, but he’d already consumed his small bag of trail mix and quart of water.

  Three hours-ago, he’d jumped from behind a giant boulder just above a seldom-used trailhead up Cold Ridge, stuck a gun in Gus’s face and ordered him to get moving. Now they were on an open stretch of bald rock at three thousand feet in the White Mountains of New Hampshire on an unsettled October afternoon.

  The weather would get worse. Soon.

  Gus looked out at the mist, fog and drizzle. The hardwoods with their brightly colored autumn leaves had given way to more and more evergreens. At just over four thousand feet, he and the fugitive would be above the tree line.

  Gus said, “Most hypothermia deaths occur on days just like today.”

  “That right?”

  “It doesn’t have to be below zero to die of the cold.”

  The fugitive hunched his shoulders as if to combat his shivering. He had a stubbly growth of beard, which made sense given the story he’d told Gus about escaping from a federal prison in Rhode Island two days ago. His dark eyes showed none of the discomfort he had to be feeling.

  Gus wasn’t winded, and he was warm enough in his layers of moisture-wicking fabrics and his lined, waterproof jacket. He wore a wool hat, wind-resistant gloves, wool socks and waterproof hiking boots. His backpack was loaded with basic supplies, but he couldn’t reach back for anything, take it off, unzip a compartment.