by Rebecca York
Hoping he wasn’t going to have to assault the officer, he waited with his muscles coiled. Below him he could almost feel Carrie vibrating with nerves.
When the footsteps moved on, he and Carrie both stayed where they were. Finally he lifted his head, slid off of Carrie’s body and crawled far enough forward so that he could see out. The street and sidewalk were clear.
“I’m going to get the car,” he said. “You stay here.”
He braced for her objection, but she must have remembered his caution about following his directions.
“I have to keep low, so it might take some time,” he whispered.
“Okay.”
“Watch out for me. I’ll drive up the block with my lights off.”
Again she murmured her assent.
He stayed low to the ground, wishing he could move faster. It was hard going, especially with his wounded arm throbbing. After passing three houses, he decided to take a chance on standing.
Fighting the impulse to run, he walked the rest of the way to the car, then climbed in and shut the door quickly to kill the light. He threw the switch, so the light wouldn’t turn on when he opened the door again, and started the engine, then drove at a normal pace toward the house where he’d left Carrie.
When he eased to the curb, she emerged from the bushes and raced toward the car.
Once she was inside, he turned on his headlights so he wouldn’t look suspicious and pulled away before she’d buckled her seat belt.
As they rounded the corner on the perpendicular street, he could see several pairs of flashing lights in front of the dead man’s house.
He turned the other way, still driving like a responsible citizen as he made his way back toward Wisconsin Avenue.
“Will they know we were there?” Carrie asked.
“I don’t know. Depends on if we left prints. Or if someone spotted us and reported they saw a man and a woman go into the house.”
“That doesn’t prove it was us.”
“No. But they might make assumptions.”
She picked up Madison’s book from where Wyatt had stuffed it between the seats, switched on the reading light and thumbed through the pages. “I’d like to know what this signifies. Some numbers have a plus in front of them and some have a minus.”
“And there are dates?”
“Yes. I guess that meant something to him.”
She turned to the last few pages. “In this part, it seems to be all minuses. Wait, here’s a plus.”
“What’s the number?”
“Twenty thousand.”
“Interesting. What are the minus numbers?”
“Smaller. Five thousand. Three thousand. Two thousand.” Carrie sighed.
“Do the dates start before you saw the terrorists in the park?”
“Yes.”
“So it might not be related. Let’s put the book on hold and see if the murder made the news yet.”
She switched off the reading light, turned on the radio and found the all-news station. They sat through some sports scores, political news and ads before an announcer said, “Police are investigating the murder of a U.S. Attorney at his home in Bethesda, Maryland, this evening. Aaron Madison had been severely beaten before his death. Two people—Carrie Mitchell and Wyatt Hawk—are wanted for questioning in conjunction with the murder.”
Carrie gasped. “What?”
Wyatt put a hand on her arm. “Quiet. I want to hear the rest of it.”
The newsreader was saying, “Earlier today, Mitchell was supposed to meet with a U.S. Attorney in connection with a terrorist plot she allegedly overheard. That official, Skip Gunderson, was also found dead in the offices where he was scheduled to meet Mitchell. She and Wyatt Hawk have been missing since the morning incident.”
Carrie turned to him, her face suffused with panic. “It’s too quick for fingerprints.”
He worked to keep his voice steady. “Like I said, somebody could have seen us sneaking around. It could be the person who called the cops.” Wyatt clenched his hands on the wheel. “But how did they know my name? That was never made public.” He turned toward her. “We’re back to the set of people who knew your father hired me.”
“If the cops catch us...”
He swallowed, then told her what he’d been thinking but hadn’t wanted to say before. “They can hold us on national-security grounds.”
“Why?”
“Because this all started with a terrorist plot.”
“You’re talking about them holding us forever without a lawyer?”
“Right.”
“But I’m the one who turned the terrorists in.”
“And now a lot of people are dead, and nobody can be sure of your motives.”
They rode in silence for a while. Up the road Wyatt saw flashing red and blue lights.
“Oh, Lord. A cop car,” Carrie breathed. “Is he after us?”
“If he were, he wouldn’t just be sitting there,” Wyatt answered, hoping he had assessed the situation correctly. Still, he started looking for a place to turn off and saw none.
Beside him, Carrie had clenched her fingers together in her lap. He reached out and laid a hand on her arm.
“It’s probably a traffic stop.”
She didn’t answer, but when they got close enough he saw that he was right, and they drove by without the cop leaping into the road and pointing a gun at them.
Beside him, Carrie whispered, “I hate to clench up every time we see a motorist pulled over.”
“The police don’t know about this car. Nobody saw it near Madison’s house, and I rented it under a different name.”
She nodded.
“And we’re going to stay under the radar. But first...”
When he pulled into the parking lot of a small grocery store, she looked up. “What?”
“We can get a few things to eat. What do you want?”
“Surprise me,” she said without much enthusiasm.
“Slide down in the seat while I’m gone.”
She did as he’d asked, and he made a quick trip through the store, getting some premade deli sandwiches, drinks and snacks.
When he returned to the car, he found her watching for him but didn’t bother to remind her that she’d been supposed to stay down.
They made it back to the motel, where Wyatt drove around the parking lot a couple of times before finding a spot near their door. He had Carrie wait while he checked the room, then motioned for her to follow. She came inside and leaned against the closed door.
“I hate this,” she murmured as she picked up the remote and pointed it at the television. She caught an account of the information they’d already heard—along with something new. This time there was a picture of Wyatt, taken when he was still with the CIA.
He muttered a curse.
Carrie stared at the picture. “I guess it’s not recent.”
“Thank God for small favors.”
He put the milk and juice he’d bought into the small refrigerator.
“Want a drink?”
“Are you offering me liquor?”
“No. Maybe orange juice or soda water.”
“Juice.”
He poured them both a drink and watched her trying to relax as she took small sips.
He wanted to put his arms around her, but he knew it was a lot more prudent to keep his hands off of her. Too bad they couldn’t get some distance from each other. But he couldn’t let her stay in a separate room now—not even a suite. He wanted her where he could see her—except when she was in the bathroom.
“Watch a movie,” he said.
“I won’t be able to concentrate.”
“It’s a better choice than worrying.”
She kicked off her shoes, pulled down the spread, then got up and opened one of the bags from the discount department store, which she took into the bathroom. He heard the toilet flush, then water running in the shower, and he remembered that they’d spent part of the evening lying in the dirt. She was in the shower for a long time. When she emerged from the bathroom, she’d changed into a clean shirt and pair of jeans. Probably the way to go, he decided.
“Feel better?” he asked.
“Yes. A shower always helps.”
She brought over one of the sandwiches and unwrapped it, then started flipping channels. He didn’t want to watch the television, and he didn’t want to watch her.
Instead, he took a quick shower, keeping his wounded arm out of the water, and changed, then took the other sandwich to the table, where he ate and studied the book he had taken from Madison’s house.
Suppose the notations were for money either received or owed on a given date? What would that mean? Was he involved in some business—possibly an illegal enterprise, which he conducted on a cash-only basis? Suppose he’d been keeping the information from his wife, and she’d found out and left him?
Perhaps Rita Madison could solve the mystery of the notations. The next logical step would be to visit her, if they could do it without attracting attention.
He glanced over at Carrie and saw that she had slumped down on the bed, and was now asleep.
He called her name softly, but she didn’t answer. He found the remote where she’d laid it and clicked off the television, killing the background noise in the room. Then he took the remains of the sandwich off the bed and threw it away.
Carrie was lying on top of the covers. He figured he should wake her so she could get properly into the bed. Then he decided that it would be better to simply let her sleep because she had had a hell of a day, and he knew she needed to rest.
Which created a problem. He could try to stay awake to keep guard, but he’d had the same horrible day—worse, if you factored in getting shot. If he didn’t get some sleep, he was going to be in bad shape tomorrow, when he’d need his wits about him to figure out what the hell was going on.
He walked to her bed, looking down at her for a few minutes and listening to her even breathing.
At the safe house, he’d tried to avoid direct contact with her, but he’d studied her covertly. Now he allowed himself the pleasure of taking in her delicate features, the long lashes fanning her cheeks, the short, dark hair that certainly wasn’t her natural look but worked, because she’d be beautiful with any hairstyle or color.
He drank his fill of her face, then let his eyes travel downward, pausing at the creamy hollow at the base of her throat, the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips. He imagined himself climbing into bed with her, taking her in his arms, caressing all the sweet places he longed to touch. When he found himself getting hard, he turned away and grabbed the bag of supplies she’d bought at the drugstore as well as one of the bags from the department store.
After quietly closing the bathroom door, he took off his shirt and then the bandage. His arm hurt when he flexed it, but there was only a little blood on the gauze pads he’d removed. Turning so that he could study the wound in the mirror, he saw that it looked as if it was healing okay. He poked at the margins, finding them tender but not swollen. After applying more antiseptic, he redressed the wound.
When he exited the bathroom, he left the light on and the door ajar. Looking at the clock on the table between the beds, he saw that it was after eleven. He wasn’t expecting trouble, but sleeping in his clothes wasn’t a bad idea.
He kicked off his shoes and turned down the spread on his bed. He kept himself awake for an hour researching Aaron Madison on the web. Finally, when his eyes became heavy-lidded, he eased down on the bed and reviewed everything that had happened in the past fifteen hours. It seemed like too much for one day. But he knew that it had all been real.
He closed his eyes, knowing that any hint of danger would bring him awake.
* * *
CARRIE WAS TOTALLY unaware of her surroundings. At first she slept soundly, the events of the day acting like a drug to wipe out her consciousness. The blissful peace lasted for a few hours. Then from one moment to the next, she was plunged into a dream. A dream that made her gasp. She struggled to pull away, but it held her fast, its grip like a choke hold around her neck.
A silent scream rose in her throat, but it never reached her lips as she fought against the terror of the dream.
She knew at once what was coming, a repeat of her day, only this time the colors were somber, and ominous music was playing in the background, as though she was watching another television program. But this time she wasn’t a spectator. She was in the middle of it, and she knew from the music that something bad was going to happen.
Suddenly she was in the backseat of the big black car on the way to meet Skip Gunderson, the Federal prosecutor. It was her duty. She’d known that all along, but as she sat next to Wyatt, tension vibrated through her. She was waiting for the worst, because this time she knew what was going to happen. She was back where she had been with Wyatt at the beginning. He’d been cold and distant. Now he sat like a statue, his gaze fixed in the distance.
“Wyatt?”
He didn’t answer, didn’t even turn his head toward her. She wanted to reach out and grab him, but she knew it wouldn’t do her any good.
Her nerves pulled taut as a rubber band about to snap when the car stopped at the barrier outside the garage. Even knowing what was coming, she couldn’t make herself leap away. The fake guard thrust his arm into the car and shot at them, just as he had that morning, and Wyatt finally moved, shooting the man before pulling her out of the car.
She relived her flight with Wyatt into the building. Only this time it was different. This time she was sure they would never get away. Wyatt was running through endless brightly lit corridors, with terrorists leaping out of doorways and shooting, the bullets smashing into the hallway floors just behind them. It was all so real and vivid that she knew she and Wyatt were going to die.
She moaned, struggling to fight her way out of the awful nightmare, her head thrashing back and forth. When she felt arms restraining her, she cried out and tried to wrench away, sure that one of the terrorists had grabbed her and was holding fast.
She struggled against him, kicking out with her feet and slamming her hands into him, hearing him grunt in pain.
He was speaking, and she tried to focus on the words.
“Carrie. It’s okay. Carrie, it’s Wyatt.”
“Wyatt?”
Her eyes blinked open, staring up into his face.
“Wyatt?” she said again.
“Yes.”
She dragged in a breath and let it out as she realized she’d been kicking and hitting him.
“I hurt you. Oh, Lord, I’m so sorry.”
“I’m okay.”
She knew it was Wyatt above her. She wasn’t sure of much else. She wasn’t in her condo in D.C. Or at her father’s estate. She wasn’t at the safe house. But she was lying in bed with her clothes on.
Then reality slammed back into her. The nightmare was a replay of reality. Her new reality.
“You were having a bad dream,” he murmured.
“Yes. And you were so distant...like you were at first, and I hated that.”
The moment the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could take them back.
“I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault. It was my subconscious.” She winced, wondering if that sounded any better.
A shaft of illumination came from the bathroom. Because she needed to look away from him, she swung her head toward the clock, but she was lying at the wrong angle to see it.
“What time is it?”
> “Four in the morning.”
“I woke you up.” And she’d given away the fear she’d tried to suppress, but it had invaded her sleep. She wasn’t sure which was worse.
“It’s okay. Do you want to talk about it?”
Not really, she thought. But she owed him an explanation.
“It was what happened this morning. You took me down to the Federal office building. You shot that fake security guard. Then the terrorists were chasing us through the building. We were running down corridors, and they were always behind us—shooting.”
He had been looming over her. Now he eased down beside her, stroking her arm, then her hair. “That must have been terrifying.”
“I was sure we wouldn’t get away.”
She rolled toward him, seeking the warmth of his body. She didn’t want to think about the dream, and she didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
“It’s all right, sweetheart,” he murmured, his mouth close to her ear.
Sweetheart. Had the endearment somehow slipped out because he was trying to reassure her? Or had he meant it? And was there a way to find out?
Overcome with emotions, she turned her head, so that her lips brushed his mouth.
When she sensed that he might draw away, she cupped her hand around the back of his head to hold him where he was. This morning the idea of kissing Wyatt would never have entered her mind. He’d been too distant and unapproachable. Now she knew that he’d wanted her to see him that way because he’d been trying to keep their relationship strictly professional.
Since this morning she’d learned to see him differently. And she’d learned something about herself, too. In her life she’d made sure she needed nobody besides herself. Now she needed this man in ways she couldn’t even understand.
Their lips held, and she clung to him, because her world—the world where she had lived all her life—had come crashing down around her head, and Wyatt Hawk was the only point of stability in a universe that had turned itself upside down.