Nowhere Safe

by Dianna Love

  Josh’s adoptive dad, a technology industry magnate, had a brother in the CIA, the person who, three years after the kidnapping, had first observed Josh as a punk running the streets of the upper west side of New York, going up against opponents who were bigger and badder when he was still wet behind the ears.

  Josh’s future uncle–the one he’d called Ty before he’d ferreted out the man’s real name–had been undercover and playing the role of street bum when he’d first encountered Josh and taken an interest.

  Josh had tried to pick Ty’s pocket for the few dollars Ty had begged from passersby.

  Yeah. He’d tried to pick the pocket of a homeless man. Tried being the operative word. Josh had been after food money, but even desperate he couldn’t do it. He’d stolen the money, backed a few steps away, then he’d turned around and put it back.

  Ty had seen potential in Josh, then Sabrina and Dingo, offering them payment for intel when they delivered.

  Ty had convinced his richer-than-God brother to take in a wary kid with no manners who wanted only to stay in his group home with two other brats, Sabrina and Dingo. Ty had guessed right–that the childless couple had plenty of love left to give, even though they couldn’t bring themselves to have another baby. Josh hadn’t made it easy on anyone, but the impossible happened when Ty was proven right.

  Once Josh’s parents decided to keep him, they’d raised him with bodyguards, the best private tutors available, and pre-set play dates with the kids of trusted friends.

  All the while, Ty had funneled money and opportunities to Sabrina and Dingo, watching over them from a distance, then helping them find their way into the intelligence community.

  Trips out for Josh were always scheduled. No chance a date could take him as far as first base with a freaking security detail in tow.

  It had been a privileged, orchestrated, strange upbringing.

  Except when they’d handed him over for short stints to Ty, who’d taught Josh all he needed to know about how to protect himself when the bodyguards were absent. Josh had trained with Ty for one month, four times a year, until the summer when Ty didn’t come home from his latest mission.

  Josh had made Ty a promise. He would shield his identity at all costs. Ty had told Josh that there were no guarantees in life, and no person was promised tomorrow, but made Josh promise to never put his parents through the pain of having their money cost them a child again.

  Josh took everything Ty taught him to heart, and by the time he was eighteen, could ease his way into any social setting, take on any persona from uber-wealthy aristocrat to street thug.

  Which was why, once Josh became an adult, he’d been more at home in a clandestine life than the social world his parents lived in.

  Josh had gone underground and never re-emerged.

  When Josh reached the loading area at the rear of Charlie’s warehouse, hair prickled along his neck. All of his instincts sharpened, on alert.

  Something was wrong.

  At the corner of the building, he leaned around to find...no Trish. Her late-model Dodge sedan and a Cadillac sport utility were in the parking lot, along with two panel trucks. The kind normally used to deliver furniture.

  He was damned tired of feeling one step behind her. Josh surveyed the deserted loading dock and eased over to the steps that led to the service door.

  AA

  White panic showered over Trish.

  Breathe. Breathe. Move. Do something, for crying out loud.

  Big Charlie could be dying. Maybe he was already dead.

  Don’t hyperventilate. She whimpered at the idea of touching him, but forced herself to move into the wide office toward his still form.

  He was huge. Maybe he was breathing under all that body. Bile ran up her throat at the sharp coppery smell permeating the office. Don’t throw up. Her body shook so hard her teeth jarred. She extended a trembling hand to check his throat for a pulse.

  None. She snatched her hand back.

  Maybe he was too fat to find one. She felt like she was moving in slow motion. She got her hands under Charlie’s shoulder and strained to lift him up to a sitting position, grunting with the effort.

  She felt his bulk shift and jumped away.

  Big Charlie lay back in his chair, eyes wide open in horror and a knife shoved through his throat.

  Oh, dear God.

  Tremors racked her body. She lunged for his desk phone and dialed 9-1-1. The operator answered. Trish cut her off with, “Send an ambulance to Big Charlie’s at–”

  A shadow fell across the desk in front of her. She shifted into defense mode. She swung an elbow around that hit a solid body and she heard an “umhp”” just as something hard struck her head.

  Pain flashed through her temple. Crap. Arnie would be totally pissed because she hadn’t watched her back. She threw her hands out to break her fall, but she fell anyhow into a black, empty void.

  Chapter 22

  Vicious pounding in her temple brought Trish slowly back to consciousness. Something wet and cool was draped over her throbbing forehead. Icy cold pressed against her aching head. Noises filtered in and out between painful stabs.

  Voices murmured. “Trish. Come on, honey, wake up.”

  Honey?

  Zane was here. Oh, thank goodness.

  “Trish, open your eyes,” a low, concerned male voice coached.

  Like a good girl, she obeyed, but Zane wasn’t the one urging her to rejoin the living. Worried cobalt-blue eyes stared down into hers. They belonged to Josh, not Zane. But she wasn’t complaining. His palm was on her face. His thumb stroked her cheek. Comforting her.

  She tried to lift her head a fraction. Pain lashed through her skull. Trish groaned and raised a hand to her head.

  “Whoa.” Josh intercepted her fingers, pulling her hand down and gently pushing her back onto soft cushions. “I’ve got an ice pack on your head. Just lie still.”

  Ice pack and a major headache. What had hit her? A train.

  “Is Miss Jackson awake?”

  Trish flinched at the loud voice.

  Josh cut a feral look at someone behind her. “No,” he said softly. “Keep your voice down.”

  She seconded that motion.

  “Josh, whaz going on?” she mumbled.

  He shifted his concerned gaze back to her and spoke softly. “Someone hit you. Did you see anyone?”

  Before she could answer, the voice from behind her was lower, but still severe. “I need to ask her some questions.”

  A dangerous glint slashed across Josh’s face.

  Until now, Trish had thought he was too nice to be a DEA–or an FBI–agent, but she’d seen the same fierce reaction in Zane when someone crossed him. A look that promised painful retaliation.

  Some loudmouth had just pushed Josh too far.

  “Don’t move,” Josh whispered. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

  “’Kay.”

  He made some adjustment with the icepack and patted her hand. She felt the cushions underneath her shift as he stood. She was on somebody’s sofa. He walked out of her line of sight and she focused on a picture on the wall, trying to recognize the image.

  Or, whose wall the painting hung on. Late renaissance period. Well preserved...

  Oh, God, this place smelled disgusting.

  A terse conversation rumbled behind her. She didn’t catch any distinct words, just extremely angry tones of at least three or more men. They snarled at low volume for over a minute.

  When everything quieted, Josh was back. A surprising relief filled her at the return of his touch. Why was he here? She wanted to ask, but didn’t have the energy to care, just glad for his warm touch.

  “Where am I?” Trish asked.

  “You’re at Big Charlie’s warehouse.”

  She squinted in concentration. Big Charlie’s? Oh, yeah. She had a meeting with Big Charlie. She came in the back door, called out, no answer. Then went to the office and found...

  “Oh, my God.” She cle
nched his hand for support. “Josh, Charlie is hurt. I called 9-1-1–”

  “Shhh. I know.” He cupped her cheek again, his fingers splayed across her face. His gentleness silenced her until she flashed back on the blood dripping from Big Charlie’s mouth. The puddle of it on the floor. Was that the sickening odor she smelled?

  “Is he going to be okay?” she asked. “I couldn’t find his pulse. He had a knife...” Her heart pounded and her head thumped with each beat.

  Josh hesitated before answering. “He’s dead.”

  “Oh, God.” She started panting and swallowed against the bile threatening to race up her throat again. “I need to sit up.” At his frown, she insisted, “Please, help me up or I’m going to throw up.” Might anyhow.

  He removed the ice pack and slipped an arm behind her, raising her to a sitting position slowly. Then he shifted her legs around until her feet were on the floor. She squeezed her eyes tight to stave off the flood of tears threatening at the rim of her lashes.

  Josh settled next to her, his arm curved around her shoulders. He held the icepack gently against her head.

  Trish breathed a couple of shallow breaths and opened her eyes. She found the source of the other voices.

  A team of police officers–one or two might be detectives–and two paramedics were congregated between the door to the warehouse and the lump at Big Charlie’s desk that was covered by a white sheet. Blood had congealed on the floor, giving off the smell of death.

  She wrapped her arm around her middle, fought to keep her revolting stomach from adding one more humiliating misery to her day. The police wouldn’t appreciate her contaminating their crime scene.

  Josh cupped her chin and inched her face around to his. “Don’t look.”

  “Why aren’t they taking him away?”

  “They need a special gurney to handle the weight.”

  “Oh.” She focused on Josh’s face. “The detectives want to talk to me, I guess. I’ll answer their questions now,” she whispered. She would not fall apart in front of an audience.

  Josh studied her as if he debated on allowing her to speak to anyone. He didn’t have a choice and they both knew it. A man had died. The police would want answers.

  Trish didn’t have any.

  Josh tipped his chin up at the detective who must have read the motion as the invitation he’d been waiting for.

  How had Josh held the detective off until now?

  The man who stepped forward first introduced himself as Detective Vickers. He knelt down, eye level with Trish. “Miss Jackson,” he began. He made an obvious effort to keep his voice at a low decibel, though the sound came out rough as rusty cans dragged against pavement. “What happened?”

  She chewed on her lip, struggling to recall exactly what had occurred. “I had an appointment with Charlie, and he couldn’t meet until after hours so I got here around six thirty. He’d told me the loading dock door would be unlocked and it was. I saw the lights on in this office–”

  “Did you see anyone in here?” the detective interjected.

  “No. The blinds were drawn. I called out and knocked on the door, but nobody answered. I figured he was on the phone so I opened the door and saw–” Oh, God, would she ever forget the blood? Charlie’s still form? She’d known he was dead, but couldn’t accept it. Stuck on that image, she lost her line of thought and her eyes glazed over.

  Then she realized Josh was rubbing her arm with his free hand, soothing her.

  “Take it easy, Trish.” He had her tucked up against his chest. His heat cloaked her raw nerves like a gentle balm. She wanted to curl up in his arms and go to sleep, forget everything, drift into another world.

  But life didn’t work that way. Someone had killed Big Charlie and had slammed her as well. The sooner the detective got information, the sooner they could go after the murderer. More than anything she was ready to get away from the wretched smell.

  “Uh, I tried to check his throat for a pulse, but I couldn’t f-find one. I thought, maybe, I couldn’t feel one because he was so heavy.” Her voice trailed off again. She breathed hard and continued. “I dialed 9-1-1 and think I gave them an address before I was hit.”

  “Did you see who hit you?” the detective asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you know who would want to kill Charlie?”

  “No.”

  “Who knew about this meeting?”

  “No one ... well ...” She hesitated, and the detective’s body clenched. Crap. “I told Gunter–he owns Dynasty Treasures–but he was on his way to see Olivia Lackey to escort her to a function. He didn’t like Charlie, but he wouldn’t do this. Gunter wouldn’t hurt a fly. Right, Josh? You met him.” At no response, she shoved her gaze to Josh.

  He worked his jaw a moment and said, “I don’t know, but we’ll find out.” Angling his head to Detective Vickers, Josh asked, “Any more questions?”

  “Yes. Miss Jackson, what were you meeting Charlie about?”

  About threatening me and Zane.

  About stalking me and trying to steal my business.

  Okay, neither of those were intelligent answers. She didn’t know that Big Charlie was the stalker. She needed something neutral, quick. Even Josh waited silently, reading too much with his intense gaze.

  “Business.” Close to the truth. She held her breath.

  “Can you elaborate?”

  Why did this feel like an NCIS episode? She dug her nails into the sofa cushion and tried again, careful to stick close to the truth.

  “Charlie made a couple of offers to buy my shop. I told him we’d discuss it.”

  “So you were going to sell your shop?”

  “No, just discuss it.”

  The detective shifted back on his heels. He seemed neither satisfied nor convinced by that answer.

  “Detective, Miss Jackson has been through a traumatic event,” Josh interrupted. “She’s told you what she knows. I’ve told you that the front door was locked when I arrived. Since you found it open, I would have to think the assailant killed Big Charlie, hit Miss Jackson and fled through the front door. Have you located what he used to hit her?”

  “No, but we intend to continue searching.”

  “I’d like to get Trish to the hospital,” Josh said.

  “No!” Trish gritted her teeth as soon as the loud word popped out of her mouth.

  “Yes, you are going to the hospital,” Josh argued in a hard voice.

  “I want to go home.”

  “You could have a concussion.”

  Trish raised her hand to her head and this time carefully touched the goose-egg-sized lump. “I’ve always heard the lump means the swelling is going to the outside and not a concussion. Isn’t that so?” she said toward the paramedics who had stood throughout the exchange as silent spectators.

  One of them answered, “We’re not authorized to make that diagnosis.”

  “I’m going home.” She sent Josh a silent plea with her eyes. She did not want to go the hospital. They’d call Zane. He’d have to leave Angel.

  Josh huffed out a sound of frustration. “Against my better judgment, I’ll take you home. But if you show any signs of a concussion or getting sick, you’re going to the hospital.”

  The detective stood and moved over to the desk.

  Someone from outside the office called out, “The coroner’s here.”

  Uh-uh. She was not watching them load that body. “Josh?”

  “We’re going.” He removed the ice pack and got to his feet.

  She gripped the sofa on each side of her legs, prepared to push up, but his hands cupped her under the arms and lifted her until she could stand, then pulled her against his strong, solid body.

  Taking deep breaths in and out to keep her stomach from erupting she asked the detective, “Am I free to go?”

  “Not yet.”

  She felt Josh tense and put her hand on his arm. “It’s okay. I want to do whatever I can to help them find the person responsible
for this.” She raised her gaze to Detective Vickers. “What else do you want?”

  “You said this is the first time you’ve been here, right?”

  She stopped herself before nodding this time. “Yes.”

  Vickers lifted a bag from the desk. “Can you tell me if this belonged to the victim or not?”

  Trish stared at the bloody weapon.

  “That looks like my letter opener.”

  Chapter 23

  That looks like my letter opener.

  Josh played Trish’s words over again in his head as he led her through Charlie’s warehouse that had turned into Law Enforcement Central. Granted, she got points for being truthful, but what the hell? If not for Josh having told Vickers that Big Charlie and Trish were part of an ongoing FBI investigation, Trish would be on her way downtown to be held until the fingerprints were run.

  Gaining her freedom had involved a second conversation with Vickers, and Josh’s claiming he was taking Trish into his custody.

  Now Josh just had to convince Sabrina that Trish was more valuable to them free than locked up. He couldn’t hand her over to anyone, not like this and not now, when his insides were screaming that she was not the enemy.

  That she was the one in danger.

  When he’d found Trish on the floor, with blood oozing out of a head wound, his first thought had been to get her out of there and to safety. He’d had a moment of total disregard for his mission, something that had never happened before.

  If Ty was standing here today he’d tell Josh that the last person to trust was a woman. He’d point out that everything Trish had done to this point was suspect.

  He’d also warn Josh against letting his dick make decisions. That had been an ever-present mantra on the long list of Ty’s advice.

  Don’t let the small brain convince you to do something stupid.

  Like convincing the detective that Trish was part of an investigation when there was no FBI investigation involving her or Big Charlie.

  If Vickers discovered that before Josh got a chance to talk with Sabrina, who could hopefully work some kind of magic to fix this, the task force mission would be blown to pieces.