by Rebecca York
“No one there would set me up like that.”
Although Wyatt heard the note of conviction in her voice, he wasn’t so sure. He’d be the judge of who might have betrayed Carrie. Right now, though, his primary goal was to get her back to safety, and he needed to make sure nobody was on their tail.
He wanted to speed back to the safe house, but he allowed himself to go no faster than five miles above the speed limit as he watched the rearview mirror for any signs that they were being followed. He saw none.
Pulling out his phone again, he dialed the secure number. This time he waited eight rings, but nobody picked up. A very bad sign.
Instead of leaving a message, he clicked off.
“What?” she asked.
“Nobody answered.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t like it.”
They were on a secondary road that led through the rolling Maryland countryside. As he’d suggested he might do, he turned off onto a dirt track that circled the safe-house property, staying on the alert for signs of trouble.
“What are you doing?”
He gave her a quick look. “I’m not taking you in there until I know everything’s all right.”
“It’s supposed to be secure. That’s why it’s called a safe house.”
“And right now the vibes are all wrong.”
“Then why are we going back at all?”
“A couple of reasons. There’s equipment in there that I need. And the rest of the team could be in trouble.”
* * *
THE NEWS OF the ambush at the Federal Building had hit the cable channels. Tuned in to the CNN broadcast, the watcher felt anger flare up. A lot of money had crossed hands—for results—and now it looked as though everything was going to hell in a handbasket.
After clicking off the TV, the individual walked down the hall, stepped into a darkened bedroom and dialed a cell phone number, hand tightening on the phone while waiting for someone on the other end of the line to pick up.
“Yes?”
The caller spoke in a low, steady voice, working hard to hold back screams. “What the hell is going on?”
“A glitch.”
“You call that a glitch? The attack on the Federal Building has hit all the major news stations. The only bodies they found were that Federal prosecutor—what’s his name—Skip Gunderson? And two of your guys. I assume that means the agent and the girl got away.”
“Yeah. A real screwup.”
“There better not be any blowback.”
“The dead guys won’t talk. And we got the rest of our men out before anyone else showed up.”
“How did you make such a mess of a simple assignment?”
“You neglected to tell us how good Wyatt Hawk is.”
“I’m as surprised as you are.” The caller made a throat-clearing noise. “Where are Hawk and the girl?” Maybe that news would be better.
“We don’t know for certain. We figure they’ll come back to the safe house. We can get them there.”
“You’re sure?”
“It’s a good bet.”
“What if that doesn’t work out?”
“We go to plan B.”
“That’s just perfect.”
Before the caller could ask another question, the man on the other end of the line hung up, leaving nothing but dead air.
The caller had thought of a foolproof scheme. Apparently, that held true only if you weren’t working with morons. More proof that if you wanted something done right, you’d better do it yourself. Too bad it took special training to handle this job.
* * *
FIFTY MINUTES AFTER leaving the Zipcar office, Wyatt pulled the Chevy Equinox into the woods, torn between bad and worse alternatives. He could leave Carrie in the car or hiding in the underbrush while he went in to find out what was going on at the hideout. Unfortunately, that would mean she was vulnerable if someone was lurking nearby. Or he could take her with him, which would expose her to whatever danger might be waiting ahead.
He made a decision and turned toward Carrie. “I don’t want to leave you here unprotected. We’re going to approach the house from the right side. I want you to stay behind me, and do exactly what I say. If I tell you to hit the deck, you do it.” His gaze burned into hers. “Got that?”
“Yes.”
“Wait in the car until I signal you to get out.”
She answered with a tight nod.
Hoping he could count on her not to freeze up, he climbed out of the vehicle and checked the area before motioning for her to follow.
As they approached the property line, they came in low, making themselves as small a target as possible. The first real evidence that something was wrong hit Wyatt when they reached the electric fence. He threw a stone at it and was only half surprised to find that it was no longer working. Somehow the current to the wires had been disrupted.
He threw another stone, then took a chance and crept forward to touch the fence. Nothing happened. Dead as a drowned rat.
Again he considered leaving Carrie but decided against the tactic.
He was able to lift the wire fence and scoot under, then hold it for her.
She came up beside him, her gaze focused on the house.
“It’s quiet,” she whispered.
“Too quiet. You might think we’d hear the TV. Or guys talking.”
Too bad he didn’t have a pair of binoculars. But he hadn’t anticipated the need to spy on a facility that had been perfectly safe when they’d left.
His instincts warned him to turn around and get the hell out of there, but he couldn’t do it. Not when he felt an obligation to the men who’d taken this assignment with him. What if they were injured? Or being held under threat of death?
“Stay low,” he whispered.
Carrie did as he’d asked.
Taking his time, he moved forward until they came to the flat stretch, where the fields for a hundred yards around the structure had been cleared to make it difficult for anyone to sneak up on the safe house. Great planning when you were on the inside, but not so advantageous if you were trying to get close to the house.
Unfortunately, he found he didn’t have to get close to understand what had happened. The evidence was big as life and twice as plain—a body lying sprawled across the back steps.
Chapter Three
Carrie heard Wyatt mutter a curse.
Alarmed, she followed the direction of his gaze.
From her hiding place, she saw a dark-skinned man with a shaved head lying at the bottom of the back steps, his arms spread and a gun still clutched in his hand. As she realized who it was, her chest constricted painfully. The man was Gary Blain, one of the bodyguards who’d gone out of his way to be nice to her during guard duty. It looked as though he’d been trying to get away when he’d been gunned down.
She choked back a sob. Another casualty. On her account. “No.”
Wyatt put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her against his side, and she turned toward him, closing her eyes and pressing her forehead against his chest.
“Well, we know why he didn’t answer the phone,” he said in a raspy voice.
“What about the rest of them?”
“We’ve got to assume they’re dead, too. Probably in the house. And Gary almost got away.”
“My fault—again,” she whispered.
“No. The bastards are determined to get you. When we escaped from the Federal Building, they probably came here. Or maybe they sent a team here as a precaution in case we got out of the trap they’d set.”
“How did they know about this place?”
“Obviously, somebody gave away this location.”
“Could they have followed you? I mean, sometime earlier?”
“I don’t think so,” he answered, but she heard the tiny note of doubt in his voice. Still, he continued, “We have to assume it’s the same person who told them about your meeting this morning.”
Carrie fought the sick feeling rising in her throat. Death and destruction were following close on her heels. It was hard to imagine everything that had happened today and harder still to believe that someone was deliberately trying to kill her. But apparently, that was what happened when you ratted on terrorists.
“What are we going to do?” she murmured.
“For starters, thank God that we didn’t go charging in there.”
“You mean thank your instincts.”
“Whatever,” he answered dismissively. “We’d better get the hell back to the car before somebody spots us.”
Even as he spoke, it was already too late. Lookouts must have been stationed in all directions, because in the next second, gunfire erupted from inside the house, and men charged outside, sprinting in their direction.
Wyatt grabbed Carrie’s hand, leading her back the way they’d come, heading for the screen of trees. Behind them she heard running feet closing the gap.
Lord, no.
“On my own turf, I’ve got a little surprise to slow them down,” he said. He reached into his pocket, pulling out something that looked like a cell phone. As they ran, he pressed a series of buttons. In back of them, small explosions began to erupt from the grass, sending sprays of dirt and stones into the air.
She heard a loud curse, as someone behind them took a hit.
The explosions continued, but Wyatt didn’t slow his pace, so she kept running beside him, her lungs burning as she struggled to keep up with him.
She was beginning to think they were in the clear when the gunfire stopped. But after the last explosion, she heard a sound that made the hair on her arms prickle. Someone must have escaped Wyatt’s trap and he was pounding along behind them.
At first the thuds were faint. Whoever was back there had lost ground because of the charges, but he was catching up, and now he began shooting as he went.
Wyatt whirled and returned fire, but his weapon was no match for his opponent’s. Unfortunately, they were still a long way from the electric fence and the car, and she could hear the pursuer steadily gaining on them.
She glanced at Wyatt, seeing the grim set of his jaw. Apparently, he didn’t think they were going to make it to the fence.
When they came to a place where the land had been contoured into several small hills and valleys, Wyatt stopped.
“Get down. And stay down, no matter what happens.”
She remembered when she hadn’t liked Wyatt. Now she obeyed his orders without question, because she knew that was the only way she was getting out of this trap alive.
Dropping behind a hillock, she dragged in great gasps of air and pressed her hand against her side, her gaze fixed on the man who was charging toward them, firing his weapon as he ran.
She ducked and slung her arms over her head, as if that would stop a bullet. Her heart was pounding as she waited for Wyatt to drop the guy. But in the next moment, Wyatt made a strangled sound and fell back against the ground.
Carrie felt her heart stop. He’d been hit!
With a whoop of victory, the gunman closed the last few yards between them and swung his weapon toward her, taking a long moment to meet her terrified gaze.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
But Wyatt obviously had no intention of letting her get murdered. He leaped from behind the mound and shot the guy in the back at point-blank range. The attacker went down with a gasp of surprise.
Wyatt charged toward her, snatching the assault rifle from the man’s grasp.
“Why didn’t you shoot him before he got so close?” she gasped as she stared at the terrorist. He was another perfectly normal-looking young man. If you saw him on the street, you never would have known what was in his mind.
“Because I only had one bullet left, and it had to count,” Wyatt answered.
He turned to look back the way they’d come, and she followed his gaze toward the bodies of two men sprawled in the field. Neither was moving.
“Are they dead?”
“We can’t go back to find out. Come on. Before another one comes after us,” he said.
Reaching down a hand, he helped her up. She swayed on her feet for a moment. Then they ran back toward where they’d left the car. She was out of breath when they reached the fence, and he held it up for her. She dived beneath the wires, and he followed.
They made it to the vehicle, and she allowed relief to flood through her as she climbed in and locked the door. Wyatt shoved the weapon he’d appropriated onto the floor between his seat and the console, then turned the ignition and slammed the shift into Drive, speeding away before any other terrorists could figure out what had gone wrong with their foolproof plan.
She sat for a few moments gripping the edges of her seat, willing her heart to stop pounding and her breath to slow. Against all odds, they had gotten away again. Thanks to the man beside her.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Then she remembered the sound he had made as the terrorist was charging toward them. When she opened her eyes and swung her gaze to the left, she saw the blood oozing through the fabric of his shirt.
“You really are hit,” she gasped out. “You weren’t just pretending to get his attention.”
“It’s not bad.”
“How do you know?”
“I can move my arm all right. I can drive. The bone’s not broken.”
“You have to—”
“—get us the hell out of here before they figure out which way we went.”
She saw the set of his jaw as he kept driving along the narrow country road, watched him grimace when he had to turn the wheel, putting distance between them and the safe house that was no longer a refuge.
She wanted to ask what they were going to do now, but she was sure he’d tell her when he figured it out. It was amazing how much her thinking had changed in the past few hours. She’d thought Wyatt was a grim lone wolf, and she had wondered why her father had hired him. Now she understood that he was the best man for the job. Maybe the only man. Could anyone else have saved her life so many times today?
She heard him curse under his breath, and alarm shot through her.
Jerking upright, she looked in all directions but saw no suspicious cars.
“What?”
“I shouldn’t have gone back there,” he muttered, and she knew he was blaming himself for the latest shoot-out.
“You had your reasons.”
“They were a mistake.”
He clenched his teeth, and she could tell he was fighting the pain in his arm. If she’d known where they were going, she would have ordered him to let her drive, but the safe house was in an isolated part of the county, accessible only from a series of narrow, winding roads, an area she barely knew.
All she could do was divide her attention between their surroundings and Wyatt, watching the sinister red patch on his sleeve grow bigger as he drove.
He saw her watching him. “It’s not an artery.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I’d already be dead if it were.”
She made a snorting sound.
He kept driving, clenching his teeth every time he made a turn and checking the rearview mirror frequently to make sure they weren’t being followed. When signs of civilization began appearing, he slowed his speed. Finally they approached a strip mall, and he pulled into the parking lot of a drugstore, finding a spot near the door. “I’m going to stay here. Can you go in and get a few things?”
“Of course.”
“I need gauze pads, antiseptic, adhesive tape, and if they have men’s shirts, get me something I can wear that’s not bloodstained.”
She nodded and climbed out, looking around to make sure nobody was paying any attention.
Inside, she grabbed a shopping cart and took a moment to orient herself, then headed for the first-aid section. She found the required items and added a bottle of painkillers, a bottle of water and a roll of paper towels. Then she went to the clothing department. It wasn’t large, but she did find a long-sleeved, button-down-the-front sports shirt that looked as if it would fit Wyatt.
At the cash register, she started to reach for her credit card, then remembered a credit transaction could be traced. Instead, she paid in cash and hurried back to the car. Wyatt was sitting with his head thrown back and his eyes closed. They snapped open, and his hand went to the gun when she opened the passenger door. When he realized it was her, he relaxed.
He’d gotten them to the shopping center, but now his skin was gray and covered with perspiration. He was in shock.
“You’re not in any shape to drive,” she said.
She expected an argument, but he got out of the car and walked unsteadily to her side. She switched places with him, then drove around the back of the shopping center.
He stared around in surprise. “What are you doing?”
“Having a look at your arm.”
The strip mall backed up onto a wooded area, and she drove to the side of the blacktop, parking under some low-hanging maple trees.
“Let me get my shirt off.”
He heaved himself up and climbed out, where he stood studying the area. When he established that they were alone, he started unbuttoning his shirt. She could see that moving his arm was hurting him.
Joining him, she said, “Let me.”
Standing in front of him, she began working the buttons, exposing his broad chest, which was covered with a dark mat of hair and what looked like an old scar.
“What happened to you?” she asked as she gently touched the scar.
“I was in a war zone,” he clipped out, telling her by his tone that he wanted her to drop the subject.
Pressing her lips together, she tried not to focus on his buff physique as she helped him take his good arm out of his sleeve, then gathered up the fabric so that she could ease the other sleeve down his arm. The blood had already stuck the fabric to his skin, and he made a small sound as she peeled the shirt away. There was a trash can nearby. Balling up the shirt, she started toward it.