by Debra Webb
En route Dakota put in a call to an old contact from his military days.
By the time he reached the clinic where Malone was reported to be, Dakota had the scoop on Lucas Camp. Not just a former spook, the guy was the epitome of what the CIA had once stood for. Dark, dangerous and full of secrets.
This was no casual operation. Keaton was trawling deep, murky waters.
But Dakota had his orders. He parked across the street from the small parking lot fronting the clinic. The clinic was a posh place. Private. No insurance clients seeking treatment at this place. This was where the folks with money went for the caliber of treatment perhaps unobtainable anywhere else.
Malone had to be the daughter of some rich dude. She wasn’t old enough to be rich in her own right unless she’d inherited big money. Twenty-five. Five feet, four inches. Coal-black hair and big gray eyes. The chick was a looker and likely had the ego to go with it.
A woman matching Malone’s description exited the front entrance. Dakota sat up straighter. He watched as she strode toward a waiting car. It was big and black, though less ostentatious than most limos; nevertheless it left little doubt in regards to the financial portfolio of the backseat’s occupant. Malone hesitated at the car door, glanced around as if she feared being watched.
Definitely her.
When she’d settled inside and the car pulled out onto the street, Dakota waited until a full block yawned between them before following. A few turns and twenty-one minutes later and the car stopped at the curb in front of a run-down building. That was the thing about Chicago. One could be in the ritziest part of town and minutes later wander into an area where Mag Mile shoppers wouldn’t be caught dead.
Dakota parked half a block back. The street and sidewalks were deserted. To the best of his knowledge, none of the businesses that had once operated along this block as well as two or three around it remained open for commerce. The only tenants were squatters and they would be out and about panhandling for food and money during the daylight hours.
Malone didn’t get out of the car right away. If she hadn’t been here before, Dakota figured she wasn’t too happy about getting out now. While he waited, he used his phone and did a search on her name.
“That’s interesting.” He divided his attention between the car and his phone. Lucky Malone hailed from Houston. Her family had once been in the oil business but things had gone downhill a number of years back. Lucky had managed to get through college, with major loans, and she’d made her way to Chicago.
But that wasn’t the truly interesting part. At seventeen Lucky Malone had been charged with murder. According to the headlines from eight years ago, she’d shot her father in the chest with a twenty-gauge shotgun. The murder rap had later been changed to self-defense and she’d gotten off with only one night in jail. The media had hyped the case to near celebrity status. An alcoholic, abusive husband who beat his wife one time too many stopped by his daughter.
“Damn.” Lucky wasn’t so lucky after all. Headlines had played up that catch phrase over and over. “Definitely not a lucky lady.”
Not by a long shot.
The mother, still alive, resided in a home for the mentally unstable. She’d apparently gone off the deep end after her husband’s death.
Malone had no siblings. No close family mentioned. What she did have was a perfect academic record at the University of Texas.
Malone climbed out of the car. Dakota’s attention zeroed in on her. She had a killer body. Even the conservative dress pants couldn’t hide a backside like that. The equally modest blouse tightened over nicely rounded breasts as she moved. She said something to the driver before closing the door, then seemed to brace herself before entering the building.
She definitely had something in her hand. Something small and brown.
After another moment’s hesitation, she walked up to the door and knocked. The plate-glass door had been boarded up, likely where the glass was missing. She banged on the door a couple of times and nothing happened. Twice she glanced back at the car. Dakota wondered if she were wishing she could jump in and rush away. Strange, a girl who’d had the guts to kill her own daddy shouldn’t be afraid of a whole lot.
Finally, she braced both hands on the door and pushed. It didn’t budge.
Why would Lucas Camp send her here? Didn’t make a whole lot of sense. And what was her connection to Camp? Dakota scanned the area. Maybe the contact would arrive, take the package and split.
Still pushing on the door, Malone stumbled inward, evidently as the ramshackle entrance gave way. Dakota eased the door of his truck open and slid out of the seat. He closed it, careful not to make any more sound than necessary. Considering the driver remained in the car and it was pointed in the other direction, his movements weren’t likely to be noticed. With one last look at the building and the car, Dakota hustled to the other end of the alley on his side of the street and double-timed it until he was parallel with the limo.
Careful to stay close against the building on his right, he made his way forward. His position was directly across from the entrance to the building where Malone was to meet her contact.
When he’d come within twelve meters of the parked car, he hung back, watched and listened.
It was quiet, until a low roar brushed against his senses. He went on alert, listened intently. The roar grew louder and louder until a dark sedan skidded to a stop between him and the limo Malone had arrived in.
The sedan’s front doors flew open. Two men bailed out and rushed Malone’s car. Before the driver had noted the danger or could react, one of the men had dragged him from behind the wheel.
Two unmistakable hisses zipped through the air.
Silenced gunshots.
A new kind of tension ignited in Dakota’s veins.
A hit team. The driver was dead. Malone and whoever she’d come to meet would be next.
Dakota had palmed his weapon and was stealthily moving around the sedan belonging to the assassins before the two gunmen had made the sidewalk fronting the run-down building Malone had entered.
The second of the two whipped around, his weapon leveled on Dakota.
Too bad he didn’t have a silencer.
Dakota dropped the guy before he could pull off a shot.
The other man whirled to fire at him, and Dakota popped him in the center of his forehead.
The gun blasts echoed in the silence. Dakota surveyed the street. Still empty. The stillness resumed, the silence thundered.
Surely someone had heard his shots.
Where the hell were Malone and her contact? They had to have heard the shots.
He started for the entrance to the building when another gunshot rent the air.
This one from inside the building.
Dakota lunged for the door.
Chapter Four
Lucky was intimately acquainted with the smell of blood and the sulfur tinge that filled the air after a gunshot.
The woman, Jennifer, was dead.
As soon as Lucky had identified herself, the woman had said her piece and then she’d stuck the gun she held to her head and pulled the trigger.
Instinctively, Lucky had reached out toward the woman, but she’d been too late to stop what she’d recognized was about to happen.
Even with the better part of the woman’s scalp and half her brain splattered on the wall and floor, Lucky had attempted to do something. There was no way to staunch the flow of blood and CPR would be of no use.
There was nothing she could do.
She needed to call for help…to call Lucas.
Lucky sat back on her heels, stared at the blood on her shaking hands. Terror lodged in her throat. Memories slashed through her brain, rendering her incapable of moving. Surely the driver had heard the shots. He would come inside. He would call some one.
The package Lucas had sent lay on the bloodspattered floor. She should pick it up, should make that call, but she couldn’t stop staring at the blood.
Tell Lucas I can’t help him.
What did that mean?
Lucky’s gaze stumbled over the brown package again. She picked it up, the blood smearing on the paper wrapping as she turned it over.
She had to call Lucas…someone…
“Hands up, lady.”
Lucky pushed to her feet, turning as she did so to face the male voice. She tried to blink away the shock swaddling her brain but it wouldn’t be dismissed. She dragged in a breath, even that instinctive movement sluggish. “Who are you?”
“Hands up,” he repeated.
Giving herself a mental shake, she slowly lifted her hands. Sweet heavens, she was about to be shot. He held a weapon and it was aimed right at her.
Lucky opened her mouth to scream but nothing came out.
The man came closer.
Maybe he was a cop.
He didn’t look like a cop. His hair was too long. His clothes too fancy. Cops didn’t wear business suits on the job, did they?
Maybe a detective. Had someone called the police?
Her heart stuttered to a near stop.
No, he wasn’t a cop. The image of the woman lying dead on the dirty floor behind her passed before Lucky’s eyes. She swayed, her knees weak.
“Just keep those hands where I can see them.”
He patted her down with his free hand. She tried to clear her head and formulate a logical thought. Maybe he was a cop. What did she know about how cops dressed in Chicago? His hand moved around her waist. She should have been offended since she hadn’t done anything wrong but she couldn’t rally the energy for the reaction. Images of her being arrested all those years ago, the weapon wrenched from her hands, kept intruding on the here and now.
She ordered the memories away.
“I should call the police,” she managed to push out past the lump in her throat.
When the man appeared satisfied that she was not armed, he stepped around her and assessed the dead woman on the floor. “Who’s this?”
That wasn’t the response she’d hoped for. “I am the police” was supposed to be his next comment. She blinked, reminded herself he’d asked a question. “I don’t know.” Lucky let her hands drop to her sides and he didn’t protest. “Jennifer something.” She held up the package in her hand. “I was bringing this to her.” Lucky shuddered. “She shot herself right in front of me.” More of those ugly, too-vivid images from the past invaded the present.
The man with the gun crouched down and took a closer look at the woman, then surveyed the room. When he checked the dead woman’s pockets, Lucky snapped out of the coma she’d lapsed into.
“What’re you doing?” For God’s sake the woman was dead! If he wasn’t a cop, he shouldn’t be tampering with the body.
“Trying to determine her identity,” he said without slowing from his work.
“Won’t the police do that?” Who was this man? Better question, why wasn’t she running? He could be a killer for all she knew.
He pulled something from his pocket. Ice slid through her veins. A cell phone. She sagged with relief. He snapped a couple of pictures of the victim then pushed to his feet.
Lucky stared at him, her mouth gaping. Who was this man?
“You should probably get out of here,” he suggested as he slid his phone back into his pocket, then started for the door.
Was he insane? “I can’t just leave! I have to call the police.” She needed her purse, her cell phone. Why hadn’t she brought either inside with her? Both were still in the car.
“I wouldn’t hang around,” he warned, pausing at the door. “Those guys may have friends on the way.”
What was he talking about? Her face scrunched in confusion. “What guys?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Are you deaf? The ones who killed your driver.”
“That’s not possible. I…” Lucky didn’t finish her protest. She ran past him, bolting out the door onto the sidewalk where yet another bloody scene waited.
The body of a stranger lay across the sidewalk in her path. Horrified, she edged around it and rushed around to the driver’s side of the car she’d arrived in. The driver lay on the ground, blood all around his head.
Her chest cramped. What was happening? Who would do this?
Another man she couldn’t identify lay on the street a few feet away.
Judging from the volume of blood, he was dead, too.
She whirled to face the man who, very much alive, waited a few steps behind her. “Who are you?”
“The man who just saved your life.” He shoved the weapon into the waistband of his jeans. “An old-fashioned thank-you would be nice.”
Lucky shook her head. This guy was crazy…she was crazy. Why was she standing here? “I need my phone.” She walked around the blockade that her self-proclaimed savior made and then grimaced when forced to step around the driver’s body. A shudder quaked through her. This was wrong…crazy. How had this happened?
She opened the rear door of the car and reached inside for her purse. Behind her, the man who claimed to have rescued her was snapping more photos with his cell. Why would he do that? Was he some kind of private investigator? A criminal? Obviously he had no compunction about killing.
Four people were dead. The man who’d done at least part of the killing was right behind her. She needed help.
Her hands shook as she fished in her bag for the phone. The man stopped snapping pictures and said, “Garrett.”
Lucky glanced over her shoulder. He’d answered his cell. His name was Garrett.
Focus, Lucky. She turned back to her task. She had to call 9-1-1 first…or call Lucas?
Victoria.
The air rushed out of Lucky’s lungs. She’d left Mrs. Colby-Camp at the clinic.
“Oh, God.” She fiddled with the phone, slid it open and hit 9.
“We gotta go.”
She drew her upper body out of the car and glared at the man. “What?”
Before Lucky could comprehend his intent, the man—Garrett—grabbed her by the arm and started hauling her away from the car.
“What’re you doing?” She jerked at his hold. “I have to call—”
“What you have to do, lady, is get out of here before more trouble arrives.”
Fear exploded in her chest. She twisted to see one end of the block, then the other. “No one’s coming.”
“Yet,” he qualified.
He stopped at a blue truck and opened the driver’s-side door.
Reality crashed into Lucky.
This man was kidnapping her.
“Let me go!” She yanked against his hold. He buried his fingers into her skin that much more deeply.
“Not until I’ve gotten you out of danger.”
“I will press charges, sir,” she shouted, her voice quavering pathetically. What had he said? Get her out of danger?
“Whatever.” He grabbed her around the waist and lifted her into the truck on the driver’s side. “Now scoot over and buckle up.”
As soon as he’d released her she scrambled for the passenger-side door.
Strong fingers tangled in the back of her blouse. “Not so fast.” He pulled her around to face him. “Buckle up.” He withdrew his weapon with his left hand, but kept the barrel pointed upward. “Or else.”
Lucky grabbed the seat belt and pulled it into place. When the fastener clicked, the man started the engine and roared away from the curb.
She forced herself to think. Had he actually rescued her or had he killed those other people to get to her? She shook her head. That didn’t make sense. She was nobody. Why would he want to kidnap her? Not to mention that woman, Jennifer, had committed suicide right in front of Lucky. This guy had had nothing to do with that. He hadn’t even been in the room.
What in the world was all this about?
All she knew was that
Jennifer was Mr. Camp’s contact.
Tell Lucas I can’t help him.
Lucky had to get that message to Mr. Camp. He would know what to do. What was she thinking? It didn’t take a master’s degree in criminal procedure to know she needed to call the police.
“We can’t leave the scene like this,” she said. Her voice shook as badly as the rest of her. Adrenaline, she realized. The panic was crowding in, mixed with a little shock. Maybe the shock was already hindering her ability to react rationally.
Her self-proclaimed savior appeared too busy with driving like a bat out of hell and keeping a watch on his rearview mirror to respond.
“I said,” she repeated, louder this time, “we can’t just leave like this. We have to call the police.”
“You can call whoever you want to,” he tossed back at her without so much as a glance, “as soon as I drop you off.”
“Drop me off?” He was letting her go? Relief crowded into her chest. “Where?”
“The agency where you work.” He braked at an intersection, rolled forward enough to check the cross street and then vaulted forward.
Thank God. She relaxed marginally. Leaving the scene was still against the law, but at least she would be back at the office where she could get help. The police would understand that she had been forced to leave. She hadn’t done so of her own—
Victoria.
“Wait.”
He hit the brakes. A horn blew behind them. “What?”
“I have to go back to the clinic.” He’d have no idea what she was talking about, but that didn’t matter. She rattled off the address. “Hurry!”
“Why do you want to go back there?” He shouldered out of the fancy suit jacket as if he had all day and wasn’t blocking one entire side of the street.
The frustrated driver in the car behind them whipped past, blew the horn again and shouted some profanity out his window.
Lucky held up both hands and closed her eyes a moment to clear her head. She had to pull herself together here. “I left my boss at the clinic this morning for a procedure. I was supposed to stay until she was ready to leave, but I had this delivery to make.” Where was the package? She looked around, saw it in the floor. At least she hadn’t lost it during all that insanity. But her purse…she’d left it in the car.