Stepping back onto the roof, she hesitated, then discarded the direct line of approach. The intruder would be less likely to spot her if she circled and reentered the building and advanced from the hallway. She could ambush them leaving the suite.
Unless they plan to kill Stephen in the hotel room.
Shoving the unbearable thought away, she returned to the ladder and scampered down, her bulky shoulder bag banging against her hip. Her feet hit the ground, and she turned, primed to run toward the hotel entrance.
A tall man stood waiting only a few feet away. With thick, gray hair, silver-framed glasses and a rumpled blue suit, he had a benign, grandfatherly appearance.
Except for the gun trained on her.
“Stop where you are,” he ordered. “Hands in the air. You’ve led us on a hell of a chase.”
She tried to brazen her way out. “What do you want with me?”
“You’ll know soon enough.” He approached cautiously and snatched the bag from her shoulder.
Gone was any hope of reaching for her gun. Her heart thrashed against her breastbone in panic, and she bit her lower lip to keep from screaming.
She had to reach Stephen.
Without realizing it, she must have spoken his name aloud.
“Don’t worry about Stephen,” her captor said. “My partner’s taking care of him.”
Fear shuddered through her. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“We’re going back into the hotel.” He waved her on with his gun. “You walk ahead. And don’t make any sudden moves. I’m right behind you.”
Her hopes resurged. She could cause a diversion in the lobby that would draw attention—and help.
Her captor must have read her mind. “Don’t try anything funny. We’ll go in the back entrance and up the service elevator. We’ve cleared the hallways, so there’re no witnesses around.”
“Who are you?” she asked over her shoulder. “What do you want with me?”
Ignoring her query, he pushed her ahead of him toward a steel door at the rear of the restaurant. “I’ll ask the questions.”
She refused to return inside with her captor. If she couldn’t rescue Stephen, she had to run, to save herself for Jessica’s sake. She silently vowed that her daughter wouldn’t grow up an orphan.
Abruptly she wheeled, shoulder down, and caught her captor by surprise. He let out an “umph” as she knocked away his gun, hit him in the midriff, forcing the air from his lungs. His weapon hit the pavement. As he scrambled for his pistol, she ran. Racing as fast as her Doc Martens would carry her, she sprinted down Peachtree Street, away from the hotel.
Footsteps hammered the pavement behind her, and any moment she expected the sharp report of gunfire and a bullet in her back.
“Stop, damn it!”
The yell sounded too close, and she poured on speed.
But not enough.
Her captor caught her in a flying tackle. Windmilling her arms in an effort to remain upright, she tumbled to the sidewalk and cracked her face against the concrete.
The world went black.
RELIEVED THAT RACHEL had managed to flee down the fire escape, Stephen stepped off the balcony into the room. The man in the leather jacket had closed the door to the hallway and stood with his back against it, his gun trained on Stephen. His carrot-red hair, startling blue eyes and cocky grin seemed familiar.
“Who are you?” Stephen demanded. “What do you want?”
The man blinked in astonishment. “You don’t know me?”
“Should I?”
“Are you kidding?” He looked surprised. “A man in your custody was murdered and you disappeared, without a word to anyone. It’s been hell tracking you down, figuring out what you’re up to. Like I said, you have a ton of questions to answer.”
Stephen’s confusion grew. The man didn’t talk like an assassin, but Stephen refused to lower his guard.
Not yet.
The intruder scanned the room and spotted Stephen’s pistol on an end table. Keeping his weapon aimed at Stephen, he crossed the room quickly, grabbed the Glock, and shoved it into his belt.
“Sit down—” he motioned Stephen toward the couch “—and keep your hands where I can see them.”
Stephen sank onto the sofa and placed his hands on his knees. His mind whirred, clicking through his options for escape, discarding them all as implausible, then grasping the most risky as his only chance. He’d try to catch the gunman by surprise and overpower him.
“You really don’t know me?” The man’s expression was incredulous.
“You’re probably my worst nightmare. Sorry if I can’t remember. I’ve had amnesia since a knock on the head a few days ago.” Stephen measured the distance from the sofa to his captor. When he leaped, the man would probably shoot him, but if he twisted to the right—
The gunman smiled with genuine warmth, settled into the chair across from Stephen and lowered his weapon. “That explains a hell of a lot.”
“Like what?” His captor’s sudden friendly demeanor surprised Stephen and ruined his chance to spring. He’d have to wait for a better opportunity to break for the door. And hope he had one. If he was lucky, the man wouldn’t kill him before Rachel returned with help.
The intruder reached into his leather jacket, extracted a thin leather folder, and tossed it to Stephen. Stephen flipped it open. Inside were the photo ID and golden eagle badge of FBI agent Jack Roche.
Warring instincts buffeted him. The name Jack Roche didn’t raise any red flags in his sparse recollections, but Stephen was still wary. “You’re FBI?”
“More than FBI, my friend. I’ve been your partner for over a year.”
“Then why are you holding a gun on me?”
“We’ve been looking for you for days. Ever since you disappeared when Milton Carver was killed.”
“You think I killed him?”
Jack shrugged. “Stranger things have happened. Why else would you disappear? When we finally located you at the motel in Flat Rock with Rachel Goforth, we couldn’t figure out what was going on. We didn’t know if she was in cahoots with you in Carver’s murder or was holding you against your will.”
“Neither,” Stephen said.
Jack studied him and shook his head. “You really don’t remember me?”
A memory resurfaced and clicked into place. “Better than a sharp stick in the eye?”
“Huh?”
“Isn’t that one of your favorite expressions?”
“You do remember.”
Stephen shook his head in frustration. “Not enough. That single arcane fragment is the sum total of my recollections of you.”
“Why did you run after Carver died?”
“It’s a long story,” Stephen said, still uncertain how much to trust Jack, even though instinct assured him his partner was a friend.
In the hallway knuckles rapped sharply on the door.
“Who is it?” Jack called.
“Pete.”
Jack holstered his weapon and opened the door.
Stephen leaped to his feet at the sight of Rachel, blood trickling from a cut on her cheekbone. Oblivious of her captor holding a gun, he rushed to her, gathered her in his arms and held her close. “What happened?”
She pulled away and jerked her thumb over her shoulder toward the man named Pete. “I almost escaped, but he tackled me.”
Anger rising to a boil, Stephen turned on Pete. “That’s a hell of a way to treat a woman.”
Pete shrugged and looked sheepish. “For all we knew, she’d been holding you hostage. I couldn’t let her get away without questioning her.”
Stephen returned his attention to Rachel, inspecting her at arm’s length. “You didn’t break any bones?”
She shook her head. “A few bruises, maybe. What’s going on?”
Happy to have her close, yet still wishing she’d managed to escape, he flashed her a rueful smile. “We’ve been captured by the Bureau.”
Her exp
ression turned to puzzlement. “What are you talking about?”
Stephen nodded toward the Pete and Jack. “They’re FBI.”
Rachel studied their captors with narrowed eyes before returning her gaze to his. “You’re sure?”
“I’m Jack Roche.” Jack handed her his ID folder. “My partner is Pete Elkins.”
Rachel scrutinized the card and badge. “Your credentials are legit, but why is the FBI after us?”
“I’ll explain everything later,” Jack said, “but first, I’m taking you both to a doctor.”
Rachel swiped at her bleeding cheek with the back of her hand. “For a simple cut? Forget it. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”
“It’s not just the cut on your pretty face that concerns me,” Jack said.
“It’s me, isn’t it?” Stephen asked. “You want to make sure my amnesia’s not an act.”
“We’ll have you both checked out,” Jack said. “Then you’ll answer our questions.”
“We’ve got killers on our heels,” Stephen said. “Can you guarantee our safety?”
Jack shot him a strange look. “Like you guaranteed Milton Carver’s?”
Stephen didn’t answer. According to the newspaper article he’d been reading when Jack arrived, Milton Carver was the white supremacist who’d been shot while in FBI custody. Stephen’s custody.
Jack Roche wanted answers.
And Stephen didn’t have them.
RACHEL RUBBED HER EYES with her fists, stretched her arms to relieve the tension in her back and checked her watch. Six o’clock in the evening.
They had spent the morning at the hospital, where an emergency room doctor had stitched the cut in her cheek and given her a tetanus booster. Then she’d waited with Pete and Jack while a neurologist ran an MRI on Stephen and verified his loss of memory.
Satisfied with Stephen’s truthfulness, the agents had driven her and Stephen back to FBI headquarters and placed them in separate interrogation rooms. For the entire afternoon Pete had grilled her with questions about the past few days, while Jack subjected Stephen to the same procedure. Pete had left the room an hour ago. Relying on her knowledge of FBI protocol, she guessed that Jack and Pete were comparing notes on what they’d learned, while Stephen, like her, cooled his heels in another room.
The door opened, and Pete stuck his head in. “Come with me.”
She slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder and followed the agent down the hall to a small lobby where Stephen and Jack waited. Her heart stuttered at Stephen’s welcoming smile, and she avoided his gaze to keep from giving her own feelings away.
“Am I under arrest?” she asked.
Jack shook his head and returned their weapons. “You’ve answered all our questions and your stories check out.”
“I have questions of my own,” Stephen said.
“And we owe you answers,” Jack said. “After what we’ve put you through today, I’d say we also owe you dinner.”
Rachel and Stephen accompanied Jack and Pete to an Italian restaurant around the corner of the Federal Building where the FBI offices were located. The agents were obviously well-known at the eatery. The hostess greeted them by name, including Stephen, and led them to a secluded booth at the rear of the dining room where they could speak freely without being overheard.
Rachel still felt like a prisoner, however, when Jack motioned Stephen to one side of the booth, her to the other, and he and Pete sat on the ends as if blocking their escape.
As soon as they’d placed their orders, Stephen turned to Jack. “How about those answers you promised me?”
Jack’s intense blue eyes shone in the glimmer of the candle that dripped wax on its Chianti-bottle holder in the center of the table. “Five days ago, you and I were transporting Milton Carver back to lockup after questioning.”
“We made the collar?” Stephen asked.
Jack nodded. “We’d spent months working the case. Thanks to an informant’s tip, Carver was our chief suspect in a chain of arsons against several African-American churches in the Atlanta area.”
“Did he confess?” Rachel asked.
“According to the transcript of the interrogation,” Jack said, “Carver didn’t give up anything. But you—” he nodded to Stephen “—sat in the back seat and talked to him all the way across town. I was driving and didn’t hear most of the conversation, so I don’t know if he confessed anything during the ride.”
“With Carver dead,” Pete added, “we’ll never know. Unless you get your memory back.”
“How did he die?” Stephen asked.
“We were stopped at a light,” Jack said. “An armor-piercing bullet came through the rear window and struck Carver in the back of the head. He died instantly.”
“I was sitting next to him,” Stephen said. “Are you sure he was the target?”
Jack took a sip of water and shrugged. “Can’t be certain until we catch the gunman. That’s what you were intending to do the last time I saw you.”
Stephen’s dark eyes lit with excitement, reminding Rachel of their daughter’s. “I remember. I saw a glint of metal, like a rifle barrel, in an open, third-floor window.”
Pete leaned forward. “Anything else?”
Stephen’s shoulders drooped, and he shook his head in disappointment. “Just that one flash.”
“It’s like the neurologist said,” Rachel assured him, proud of his composure under such pressure. “You may recall lots of bits and pieces before your memory returns in full.”
“If it returns in full,” Stephen reminded her. He turned to Jack. “What happened after Carver was shot?”
“You took off down the street in search of the gunman while I waited for forensics and the coroner.”
“And that’s the last you saw or heard from me until today?”
Jack nodded.
“How did you find him?” Rachel asked.
“When Stephen didn’t check in and we were unable to locate him,” Pete said, “the Bureau put out an APB.”
She suddenly understood. “Including his bank account and credit card numbers in case anyone had harmed Stephen and stolen them.”
“Right.” Jack flashed her an approving grin. “Stephen always said you were sharp, Doc.”
Wondering how much Stephen had talked about her to his current partner, Rachel flushed and hoped the dim lighting of the restaurant hid her embarrassment. “So how did you pick up our trail from North Carolina?”
“When the Hendersonville bank notified us it had cashed one of Stephen’s checks,” Jack said, “we moved in. They had video of you, your car and license number from their security cameras. It didn’t take long to track you down through the rental car agency and spot your rented Blazer at the motel where you were staying.”
Stephen frowned. “If you located us that night, why did you wait two days to make contact?”
“To be honest,” Jack said, “we couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on. Since you hadn’t alerted the Bureau concerning the reason for your disappearance, we couldn’t discount the possibility that you were up to something illegal.”
“Your disguises,” Pete added, “didn’t exactly alleviate our suspicions.”
“We decided to follow you,” Jack said, “to see if we could figure out what you were up to. After two days we still didn’t have a clue. Figured the only way to find out was to detain you and ask.”
“Are you satisfied?” Rachel demanded, wondering if the agents really were going to release them.
“That you’re clean?” Jack asked. “Yeah, but I’m not satisfied with so many unanswered questions.”
“Like who killed Carver,” Stephen said, reminding Rachel that one of the things she loved most about him was his unswerving determination to close a case.
Jack nodded. “And who’s after you and your former partner.”
“And why,” Pete added.
“Guess I’ll have to return to work and find out,�
�� Stephen said. “Can Rachel use a safe house in the meantime?”
Jack and Pete exchanged uneasy glances before Jack spoke. “You’re on medical leave, Chandler. According to the doctor’s report, you can’t return to work until you have your memory back. Too dangerous for you, otherwise.”
“We can put you both in a safe house,” Pete said, “and provide round-the-clock protection until we arrest who’s after you.”
Rachel glanced across the table at Stephen. A frown created hatch marks between his eyebrows, and his dark eyes clouded. She’d seen that look many times before. She knew him so well. Knew when he was happy, angry or sad. This time she recognized that Stephen’s intuition had kicked in.
“We’re free to go?” he asked.
“You haven’t broken any laws,” Jack said, “but—”
“I can’t sit and hide,” Stephen said. “I’d like to follow a few leads of my own.”
“Unofficially, of course,” Rachel added hastily, afraid Jack and Pete would order Stephen and her not to interfere.
“What kind of leads?” Jack asked.
“The Atlanta office is concentrating on solving Carver’s murder, right?” Stephen said.
Pete nodded. “Right.”
“Then Rachel and I will go to Savannah.”
“Why Savannah?” Jack asked.
“According to Rachel, before I lost my memory, I told her whoever’s after us is connected to a case we worked together there. I’m hoping that’s where we’ll find answers.”
Jack scowled. “You could also find a killer waiting for you.”
Stephen’s expression settled into hard, resolute lines. “Whoever’s after us is determined. Our going into hiding won’t make him go away. Our best bet is to draw him out. Make him show himself.”
“The ‘he’ you’re referring to,” Jack said gravely, “could be an entire army of white supremacists, out for revenge.”
“All the more reason to find them and let the authorities deal with them,” Rachel said. “We can’t allow a group of extremists to take the law into their own hands.”
“Spoken like a true agent,” Pete said with an approving grin. “With commitment like that, what made you leave the Bureau, Ms. Goforth?”
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