“But she wasn’t murdered.”
A shadow shifted over Luke’s face. “Wasn’t she? If you had seen her, you’d understand. Her attackers murdered her spirit long before her body died.”
Gracie came back with a plate of food. “I’ll remove your restraints so you can eat if you want.”
Taylor hadn’t noticed she’d stepped away. He looked down at the belt on his wrist, then up to her eyes. He’d seen the tender light in the way she looked at him. Did he dare? “I think we understand one another now. How about you take them off and leave them off?”
She shifted her gaze to Luke. Some silent message passed from one to the other, and Taylor waited. Removing the belts put all this warm, fuzzy feeling to the test. Either they trusted him or they didn’t.
A stab of guilt niggled for the way his Marine mind worked.
Survive. Escape. Evade.
Chapter Twelve
“Watch this.” Mark tipped forward in his chair, his index finger pointed at the extreme right on Alex’s computer screen.
“You’ve got proof?”
“And then some.”
Alex watched. He’d never suspected the day would come when he’d need security cameras inside the business he’d built, but sure as hell. Mother was right again. The cameras she’d insisted he install, whether he wanted them or not, had caught the shadowy hulk of a man entering The TEAM’s work bay through the stairwell at precisely zero one thirty hours, eleven days earlier. Bastard seemed to know right where to go.
He didn’t turn on his flashlight until he crouched behind Mother’s desk. The bright beam spotlighted the file drawer he’d opened. Then another. When he set the light on her chair and aimed it at the files in his hand, Alex grunted.
Got him. The bastard. Charles Oakes. Red-handed.
“What’d he want at her desk? No black ops folders there.”
“This.” Mark lifted a file from the other side of the monitor and handed it to his boss.
The evidence on the White Hawk assault? Alex leafed through the collection of Mother’s and Ember’s findings. “That doesn’t make sense. This isn’t classified.”
“Just wait. It gets better.” Mark let the segment of footage run while Alex watched Charles pull what looked like a pen from his jacket pocket, only it wasn’t. He held it up to his right eye and—
“You’re kidding. A camera pen?” Now I’ve seen everything.
Mark snickered while Charles snapped photos of every last sheet of evidence. He replaced the file, stuck his spiffy pen in his shirt pocket, gathered his copies and retrieved the flashlight.
“Joker could’ve used Mother’s copy machine. Hell, he could’ve turned on the overhead lights instead of creeping around in the dark,” Alex muttered. “Who’d have known?”
“Right, but I think Charles fancies himself a real, no-kidding spy. Notice he’s dressed like a ninja? Check this out.” Mark zoomed in on the intruder’s belt. “They’re hard to distinguish from all the black he’s wearing, but if you look closely, you’ll see the glint off the pointed tips. See? Right there.”
Alex looked closer. “Chinese stars? Is that a numchuk?” And I hired that ass?
“Like I said. It gets better.” Mark fast-forwarded to hurry the digital version of Charles along. With lightning speed, he toured the other agent’s work areas, examined the few files they’d left on their desktops and settled at Taylor’s desk. Drawer by drawer, he searched.
“What’s he got against Taylor?” Alex asked.
“Not sure, but he’s looking for something. Listen to this.”
“Where the hell are you, Armstrong,” Charlie asked as he slammed the pencil drawer. “Turn your damned cell phone on so I can hunt your dumb ass down.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah, Boss. Charlie wants Taylor. Sounds pretty damned serious.”
Alex grunted. Charles got dirtier by the minute.
Next stop, he jiggled the knob to Alex’s office. The bastard better not mess with my office.
Bastard did. Charles dropped to one knee and removed a package from under his shirt. Again, he set the flashlight on the floor while he unrolled a set of around two dozen lock picks, slenders, knives and mini-knives. Oh yeah, and a couple flexible credit card-sized metal cards in case all those professional cat burglar picks didn’t work.
“Fire his ass,” Alex ordered quietly. “I want him gone.”
“Now wait. You might not want to fire him just yet.” Mark fast-forwarded the video until Charles gave up his attempt at breaking into his boss’s office and collected his tools. He crept stealthily around Mother’s customer service counter, looking over his shoulder like there was anyone else in the room, then walked to the elevator.
Mark switched to the third level camera footage. Charles stepped off the elevator, turned to his right and entered the combination lock on The TEAM vault.
Alex stiffened. The vault held a world of hurt, from any number of custom-made sniper rifles, which he’d personally designed for his TEAM, to the cases of ammo that went with them. Any item a covert operator needed to employ deadly force was locked up in that secure room.
Charles entered. Once again, he set his flashlight on a nearby shelf to steady it.
Alex stiffened. The beam of that damned light rested squarely on another, much smaller vault set in the wall on the far side of the armory.
He wouldn’t dare.
He did. Charles Oakes, the less than savvy ninja who couldn’t break into Alex’s office if he’d tried all day, planted a small camera where it would capture the opening and closing of the black ops vault. And the combination.
Sonofabitch.
Mark uploaded another day’s worth of video and scrolled to the section he’d bookmarked. Mother. In the armory. At the black ops vault. Keying in her five-digit code.
Alex stood. He had to. Sitting on his butt while a two-bit wanna-be spy pillaged his security galled him no end. His blood pressure spiked, his fingernails dug into the flesh of his palms with the need to hit something. Someone. Hard.
So that’s how Charles accessed top-secret intel he’d no doubt then sold to Webster. The lying sonofabitch didn’t have the skills to break the code, but any idiot could plant a camera. And why the hell did he want Taylor? Did that have anything to do with the info he’d passed to Steele on the rest of The TEAM?
Hell, Stewart. You’ve been beat by a flaming asshole. Make that two.
Mark tipped back in his chair. “Boss, sit down. I’m not done. Yeah, Charles got the intel on the China op, but he also got this.”
Alex peered over Mark’s shoulder to the monitor where Charles was at it again. The date stamp in the lower right corner read just six hours earlier. “This is last night’s feed?”
“Yes. Charles isn’t a spy, not by a long shot. He wants to be, but the guy’s damned easy to dupe.”
“He must be if he can’t figure out we’ve got security cameras in place.” Alex took his chair back, needing reassurance all was not lost, that he hadn’t failed the SECDEF completely. But hell. According to the evidence on the screen at the moment, he’d just given the farm away.
Charles was back at the black ops vault, the door wide open and another folder in his hands. His stupid camera pen flashed away.
“Shit. What’s he copying?”
“Take it easy,” Mark replied. “I removed all the sensitive intel from the safe the minute I’d heard the black op was blown. Everything is safe under lock and key. Then I put together a fifteen-page bullshit op into the nuclear facility in the middle of China. Baiyin, Gansu Province. It’s on the Yellow River. I already sent Rory and David. They flew out this morning from Singapore. At least, Charles thinks they did.”
Alex allowed an inkling of relief. Mark had top-level security clearance. He could be trusted. “You fed him false intel? Smart thinking.”
“Hell, yeah. Maverick’s been on Charlie’s ass since the shindig ended at the Kennedy Center last night. The minute he ma
kes contact with anyone, by phone or in person, Maverick will advise and request backup. He’s sitting outside Charlie’s place with a pair of parabolic ears right now. I’m not worried. You shouldn’t be either. We’ll catch this bastard in the act so we have proof positive. Maverick will be sure to get it on video and audio. I’ll be glad to call my buddy, Thane, and get the FBI involved, too. Treason is more their expertise.”
“Do that,” Alex agreed. “The Bureau needs to know what we’re up against. They may already have Charlie’s Chinese operatives on their watch list.”
The last of his worry over losing the oversight and wisdom of Senior Agents Murphy Finnegan and Roy Hudson faded. Mark Houston was one hell of an operator and a stand up senior agent. The TEAM was going to be just fine. Charles Oakes? Not so much.
Sun streamed brightly through Taylor’s open window. The pleasant smell of a campfire filled his nose. Between that and the cool morning air, he was very comfortable. Might even decide to stay. Yeah, right. Like he had a choice.
Gracie had seen through him last night. She might be kind enough to feed and doctor him, but all that niceness had a definite purpose—to keep him out of circulation.
“Not until Peter returns,” she’d reminded him as she’d buckled the belt on his wrist again. “I’m sorry, but you need your rest. Good night.”
By then, sheer exhaustion had replaced his intentions to escape. She’d closed the door. He didn’t hear another sound after Luke’s truck rattled away. A good night’s rest went a long ways toward peace of mind. That steak she’d grilled to perfection didn’t hurt, either. Neither did too many slices of homemade bread slathered with butter.
She’d read him like a book. Got him to relax with some serious emotional bonding. Filled his gut with honest to goodness homemade cooking. Freaking unbelievable. His carb-overload induced a full night’s sleep. The woman ought to go into black ops.
Whatever medicine she’d packed into his wounds managed the pain. He could flex his fingers and stretched his right arm. Lifting up from the mattress and pillow took a little effort, but it was doable.
Gracie’s home seemed filled with peace. Even the early morning breeze playing at the open window to his right added to the oddest feeling of contentment. Seeing his mother for the first time filled a hole he’d carried for years. He had time to think. His life would’ve been different if she’d lived. Hell, everybody’s lives would’ve been different. Maybe better. Maybe Mary wouldn’t have needed a break from her chores and gone into town that day. Maybe Peter wouldn’t need to kill anyone. So many maybes…
The ripple effect of the General’s desertion of his wife and child stretched far and wide. What could’ve been so bad that he couldn’t stay? His career? His temper? His pride?
The fact that he cared enough to return after Martha died ought to count for something, but Taylor knew better. Yeah, he’d been reclaimed all right. More like reclaimed and promptly warehoused, raised by a string of nannies he never got a chance to like, then shuttled off to military school at the first opportunity. Taylor never did figure out what he did wrong to trigger that punishment.
The General’s brand of fatherly love revolved around saving face and projecting the proper image. A man on the move up the USMC ladder to success couldn’t risk the black mark of a deserted child in his past. It was bad enough the kid was half-Indian. Bastard must’ve thought the truth wouldn’t dare catch up with him. Well, guess again. Judgment day had arrived on, of all things, the tip of an arrow.
“May I come in?”
He shifted his gaze from the window. Someone must’ve oiled the hinge during the night. It hadn’t squeaked one note of warning and there she stood. His warden.
He shrugged. “It’s your place.”
Gracie marched straight to the edge of his bed. She felt his forehead for a temperature, and damned if he couldn’t make his eyeballs move off of her. The fragrance of vanilla and cinnamon filled his nostrils. Another smell, too, that distinctly feminine scent of a freshly showered woman.
His one hundred percent male instincts kicked into high gear. His nostrils flared, needing more of that fragrance. Maybe a taste. Did she sparkle, or what? She sure looked like it. Her pulse quickened, the beats at the hollow of her throat not hard to miss if a guy knew where to look.
She cuffed his ankles before loosening the belts at his wrists, but Gracie moved differently around him today. Her hand rested gently on his wrist when she undid the first strap, maybe a little longer than needed. When she lowered the side rail, she pulled another trick out of her sleeve. Instead of loosening the second belt from the other side of the bed, she leaned over him to reach it. Not good. All the feminine pressure of her body suddenly against his abdomen surprised the hell out of him.
Yeah, he probably should have grabbed the opportunity and wrestled her to the floor, maybe knocked her out or something. He didn’t even try, not when his nose filled with the hint of the flowery fragrance drifting off her hair. The pleasant warmth of her soft body didn’t help his focus, either. Sure didn’t make him think of escape. Sex, maybe. Not running away.
Not good. A guy who hadn’t made contact with a decent woman in months had no resistance. Crazy Gracie seemed to know his greatest weakness. Damned if it wasn’t her.
“You’re getting better. I’m glad,” she murmured, standing flat on her feet again.
“I feel better,” he said, his morning voice lower and deeper than usual. A man with a burgeoning hard-on usually couldn’t speak anyway, not and sound intelligent at the same time.
“Hurry. Luke’s already here. I’m making omelets and French toast.”
Taylor’s mouth watered, but not for eggs and toast. An exciting energy crackled between Gracie and him this morning. The tip of her tongue traveled lightly over her lip. Her breath caught. Yeah. She felt it, too. He was making her nervous, Good. She was definitely doing things to him.
The whole warden/prisoner dynamics had just changed. Big time. She headed for the door, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her pockets, nor the way they flexed over that tight backside of hers. Nice pockets. Great butt. Beautiful, considerate woman.
Say what? He shook that stupid observation out of his dumb jarhead brain. Beautiful? Hell yeah. Considerate? No doubt about it. Tempting? Absolutely. Life had thrown him one heck of a curve ball this time, but facts were facts. Once he regained his equilibrium and a little more blood supply, he was on his way out of there.
Be smart, Armstrong. Use the head. Eat breakfast. Be cordial. Act compliant. Conceal an eating utensil for later use. Maybe steal Luke’s truck keys. The day’s young. I’ve got time.
Girding the sheet around his middle, he began the long trip to the head. It seemed shorter today. Much to his surprise, his freshly washed jeans and a new button-up shirt hung on the shower rod. Packages of men’s briefs and socks lay on the counter. Good enough. That meant a shower and feeling halfway human again. It also meant he had to get out of the cuffs so he could shower and dress.
Well, what do you know? That pretty girl knew how to flirt and tease. The cuffs weren’t locked. She’d let him walk baby steps all the way to the head, the smart ass.
He kicked them off. The day was looking up. He took special care in the shower not to get his bandages wet and he made plans. First, call Alex. He probably had the whole TEAM looking for him by now. He’d need an update and might even send a few Marines to save the day.
Second, find Peter. Ancient Indian custom or not, his grandfather had to be stopped.
Taylor finished showering. He dried and managed to dress without aggravating his wounds too much. They were still plenty painful. Wrangling into his jeans took a little time, but he made it without falling on his face.
The shirt was another matter. Any use of his right arm aggravated his wound and he just plain didn’t have the finger dexterity to manipulate all those tiny buttons, damn it.
Too much standing took energy he didn’t have. One look in the mirror at his stubble
and he decided he’d tackle shaving later, too. He ran a hand over his damp hair, spiked it as much as he could without gel and settled for tomcat scruffy. Who the hell cared what he looked like?
Chapter Thirteen
He almost smiled! At me!
Gracie pounded out a little happy dance at her kitchen stove, her heart in her throat and just about every other part of her anatomy, too. Touching Taylor like she had took more nerve than she’d expected. His skin seemed warmer today. Not the feverish kind of warm. More like—hot.
Masculine. Definitely chiseled, from his clenched jaw to, well, at least to the top of the sheet. Did he know the sheet had fallen low on his hips? That his hipbones showed and enough of the rest of him to throw her into cardiac arrest? Did he have any clue how handsome he was? How it took all of her control to not touch his bare chest or run her fingers through his hair or—
Oh, my gosh. The guest bedroom’s shower turned on and Gracie turned on along with it. The man she’d cried and prayed for all these years now stood beneath the spray. In the buff. What did he think when he’d discovered the cuffs weren’t locked again today? Did he smile? Just a little? Was his new shirt the right size?
Shivers raced up her spine. That poor man might need help getting dressed. Oh, the possibilities.
“Gracie, Gracie, Gracie,” she scolded, pulling a fry pan from the cupboard. “Omelets. French toast. Get a move on.”
Luke opened her screen door, entering without a knock. That’s how life in the tightly knit tribe went. People didn’t lock their doors. Yes, bad things still happened, but most of the tribe knew how to handle one weapon or another. Hunting was a way of life, not a sport. Troublemakers didn’t stand a chance.
“I’m running into town later. Thought I’d get Taylor’s tire fixed. Do you need anything?”
A cold shower?
“Yes, could you run by the farm store and grab another bag of dog food?”
“You’re out already? Sure. I was headed there anyway.” Luke helped himself to her refrigerator, setting orange juice and butter on the table. “How is he this morning?”
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