Bad Nights

by Rebecca York

  He looked around and spotted a dead tree about a hundred feet farther into the woods.

  “Help me carry him.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Just help me carry him,” he ordered, knowing she wasn’t going to like his plan. But he saw no option. Not if they had a chance of making a clean getaway.

  She blinked as she heard the steel in his voice. When he lifted the man by the shoulders, Morgan simply stared at him.

  “You have to help me,” he said, using the same tone of voice. “If I drag him, the marks will show.”

  She gave Jack an uncertain look, then bent and picked up the man’s feet. Moving as fast as they could with Gibson’s dead weight between them, they carried him farther into the forest, toward the tree Jack had spotted.

  “Right here.” Jack unceremoniously dropped the man’s head and shoulders on the ground. Morgan lowered his feet more gently.

  Jack glanced over his shoulder, making sure that the forest blocked the line of sight to the house. Then he craned his neck and looked up at the tree. The lower branches were too high for him to reach, but he could swing it if she helped him.

  “Make a step with your hands and give me a boost up,” he said. “And when I get up there, step way back.”

  This time she did as he asked without complaint, and he pulled himself up to a low branch, then higher, testing each foot- and handhold as he went, ignoring the pain in his ankle. Climbing was just what he needed at the moment.

  About ten feet up, he found a rotted limb that he hoped he could bring down. Bracing himself below it, he pulled as hard as he could. At first nothing happened. After taking a moment to catch his breath and gather his strength, he pulled harder, giving it everything he had and felt it give. With one more massive yank, he brought it down. It hurtled past him and hit the ground with a muffled thump, landing on the unconscious man sprawled below.

  Ignoring Morgan’s gasp, he climbed back down and knelt beside the troop, feeling for a pulse in the neck. There was none.

  He stepped back, examining the scene with an assessing eye. It wasn’t a perfect setup, but it was the best he could do in faking an accident. Hopefully, it looked like Gibson had been standing in the wrong place at the wrong time when a branch had come down. Maybe it would work. Maybe it wouldn’t, but it was their best shot.

  Morgan’s face was stark as she stared from him to Gibson and back again. “You killed him.”

  “No choice. He was going to kill us. Or turn us in to Trainer. That would be worse.”

  “You murdered him,” she accused.

  “I’m an ex–Navy SEAL. We’re trained to kill if it’s necessary to keep ourselves alive.”

  “You were a SEAL?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t kill those other two men. The ones who came to the house.”

  “No point in it. Trainer knew where they’d gone. He was going to come and investigate when they didn’t report in.”

  As she continued to stare at him, he said, “We’d better get the hell out of here before somebody notices he’s missing and comes looking.”

  When he reached for her hand, and she pulled her arm back, it felt like she’d slapped him across the face. It shouldn’t matter what she thought of him, but something inside him seemed to go dead. A torrent of words clamored behind his closed lips. He longed to explain to her what it meant to be in a war and what choices you were forced to make. He suspected she probably wouldn’t understand, and he didn’t have the energy to spare.

  Perhaps she’d come to recognize his point of view. Or perhaps she wouldn’t. With a sigh he gestured toward a large oak about fifty feet farther on.

  “Hide behind that tree. I’m going back for the sleeping bag—and to make sure nobody can tell there was a scuffle around here. And if they get me, run in the other direction as fast as you can.”

  At least she didn’t give him an argument about hiding. He waited until she had taken a position behind the tree trunk, then crouched low and hurried back the way they’d come, knowing that his throbbing ankle was going to be a problem.

  As he moved from tree to tree, he kept checking out the men who had come to kill him and Morgan.

  They seemed totally focused on the blazing spectacle. Still, he was careful as he made sure Trainer hadn’t stationed anyone else in this section of the woods.

  Working as quickly as he could, he scattered dry leaves over the spot where he and Gibson had fought, then retrieved the sleeping bag and the packs before reversing his direction, finally catching up with Morgan who was peering out from behind the tree.

  Her expression was still closed, but at least she hadn’t taken off without him.

  “We’d better split before they figure out we escaped. They may do it anyway, but at least we’ll have a head start.”

  When she answered with a barely perceptible nod, then looked away, he felt the ache in his gut again. He wanted to reach for her and fold her close, the way he had after they’d bested the intruders. Was it possible to transmit what he was feeling from the physical contact? Perhaps if he understood his own feelings better. He’d been closed up for months, willing to take any dangerous case that Rockfort offered because he hadn’t cared what happened to himself. That attitude had gotten him in big trouble.

  And he understood now that his lack of success in figuring out Trainer’s grand plan had made him reckless. Too bad the militia leader played his cards so close to his chest. He was pretty sure the man was planning an attack on D.C., but he had no idea of the method. Chemical weapons? Biological? Nuclear? It depended on his contacts and his funding.

  Even though Wade Trainer never struck it rich in his lifetime, he’d somehow acquired enough money to fund an expensive militia operation. He’d paid cash for fifty acres in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was actually an old camp where wealthy parents had sent their preteen sons to toughen them up in the wild. The camp director had talked a good game, convincing moms and dads who were worried about their offspring’s soft upbringing that he would turn them into men. But when a boy had finally cracked and revealed that the fifty-year-old director was taking good-looking young boys into his bed, the place had been closed down and the owner thrown into jail.

  That had cut the price of the property, but it was still a lot of cash for a guy like Trainer. Ditto the money he’d spent on modifying the buildings and buying enough guns and ammo to outfit a banana republic.

  His recruits were men who felt that the American system had given them the shaft. Men who were looking for a way to get even. Most had been in some branch of the armed forces, usually guys who had been less than honorably discharged.

  Jack had learned all that and more before he’d put himself in a position to be noticed by Trainer by showing up at a bar the guy frequented and picking a fight with another patron. And he’d convinced himself he had enough background to fit in with the other Real Americans Militia recruits. But he understood now that he’d left out an essential ingredient—an emotional investment in the job. Or more to the point, an emotional investment in himself.

  And since Morgan had rescued him, he had discovered that he cared in a way he hadn’t anticipated, although now it was more about her than himself.

  As those thoughts went through his head, rain began to fall again. A good thing, if you wanted to wipe out evidence. Not so good if you were roughing it in the woods on a cold night.

  He struggled to repress a shudder as he considered the mess he and Morgan were in.

  If he hadn’t been functional when those two goons had showed up, she’d have ended up dead, and now he was obligated to get her to safety. Only it felt like more than an obligation. She wasn’t just some person who’d save his life. She was Morgan Rains, a strong resourceful woman he’d very quickly come to admire.

  He knew she didn’t return the admiration. Not now.

  Sliding her a sidewise look, he saw that her expression was still grim as she walked through
the rain beside him.

  Was he slowing her down now? Would she have a better chance without him? He wished he knew.

  He started searching through the underbrush and cut a sapling he could use as a walking stick, a stick about four feet long. Leaning on it, he took some of the weight off the ankle.

  It helped, but not enough.

  ***

  As Morgan tramped along beside the man who had rescued her, she tried to evaluate his mental stability, wishing she had continued as a clinician. But she’d gone into teaching because of an incident that still made her cringe.

  She’d been doing an internship at Springfield State Hospital and been working with a man named Leonard Wrigley, who was severely depressed. He’d responded favorably to her in their sessions, and she’d thought she was making progress with him—until it had all blown up in her face. One of the hospital aides had found Wrigley hanging in the shower—in time to cut him down and save his life, as it turned out.

  But it had been a daunting introduction to clinical practice for Morgan, even though the hospital’s chief psychiatrist assured her that the suicide attempt wasn’t her fault. At the time, she knew that George Mason University was looking for an associate professor of psychology, and she’d applied for the job. With her outstanding academic record, she’d beaten out a whole slew of other candidates. She’d stayed at the school and worked her way up in the department to full professor.

  Now she looked over at Jack Brandt. He’d just cold-bloodedly killed a man. Not in the heat of battle but with a cunningly conceived and executed plan. Did that mean she was in the clutches of a psychopath? Or sociopath? Or someone with an antisocial personality? Whatever you wanted to call it.

  She’d taught an abnormal psychology course, and she was familiar with the type, at least in theory. Grimly she began ticking off the characteristics in her head.

  Psychopaths came across as charming. They had a grandiose sense of self-worth. They were cunning and manipulative and good liars. They were emotionally shallow and lacked remorse or guilt. They failed to accept responsibility for their actions, had poor behavior control, lacked realistic long-term goals, were impulsive and irresponsible, as well as criminally versatile.

  Going down the list of traits occupied her mind for a while, and when she was finished, she was feeling better about the grim-faced Navy SEAL walking beside her. Much as she hated what he’d done when he’d deliberately dropped that tree limb on the man, he wasn’t following a classic psychopathic pattern.

  He hadn’t tried to manipulate her. He’d seemed genuinely remorseful after the episode where he’d thrown her against the wall in the tunnel. And he hadn’t come across as impulsive or irresponsible.

  He was trying to save his own life. And hers. And much as she hated some of his methods, she believed they might be due to his SEAL training, unless he was lying about that and everything else.

  What’s more, now that she had time to consider his decision to drop the tree branch on the man, she couldn’t fault his logic. If the attacker could have told Trainer that they’d escaped into the woods, then the men who’d watched the house burn would already be in hot pursuit.

  Would Glenn have had the guts to do the same thing?

  The question brought her up short. Why was she thinking about her deceased husband now? He had no place in this scenario. He never would have gotten her into this kind of trouble. He’d had a safe job. A safe life, and he’d liked it that way. They both had, until fate had stepped in and changed everything.

  Too bad she hadn’t played it safe yesterday. She’d gotten herself into trouble by bringing Jack inside. But she knew there was no way she would have done anything differently if she’d gotten the chance. Regardless of the consequences, she would have taken Jack Brandt in.

  ***

  The fire had died down, and the rain helped turn the charred dwelling into a sopping mess of smoke stink and burned household items. Wade Trainer took a step closer and dragged in a breath of the tainted air, trying and failing to detect the odor of charred human flesh. But it had been pretty hot in there. Maybe Barnes and his lady friend had been reduced to ash.

  On the other hand, the flames had never been as hot as a crematorium furnace. Perhaps it was possible to find some charred bones as evidence. In fact, he’d feel a lot better if he could find proof that Barnes and Morgan Rains were dead.

  Wade had assumed that Barnes and the woman would try to get out, and he’d had men ready to capture or kill them the moment they emerged from the burning building. Their decision to stay inside had taken him by surprise.

  “Hamilton and Chambers,” he called out.

  Two of his troops stepped smartly forward, ready to receive his orders.

  “Take a Land Rover back to camp, and bring three shovels, three rakes, and some plastic trash bags.”

  “Yes, sir,” they both answered.

  As the two men hurried off down the road to where they’d parked the four-wheel-drive vehicles, Wade shifted his weight from foot to foot. He’d like to get confirmation of death, then go back to the compound and reassess his options.

  Like for example, had Barnes gotten any messages out, and if so, what had he said? And to whom?

  He thought about his own office and his quarters. A time or two, when he’d come back after being out, he’d wondered if anyone had been inside poking around. Then his man had caught Barnes in there red-handed.

  But so what?

  There was nothing to find, unless the man had gotten into his password-protected computer, and that was impossible.

  Chapter 9

  “Got to stop for a minute.”

  Jack’s words brought Morgan out of her own thoughts.

  She watched as he sat down on a log, opened the pack he’d brought from the house, and took out the T-shirt she had used to wrap her hand when she’d tugged on the door bar that was rusted shut.

  Leaning down, he took off his sock and examined his right ankle. It was red and swollen, twice as big as the left.

  “Too bad we don’t have any ice,” she murmured.

  “Yeah. But I can improvise a pressure bandage.”

  He stopped talking again, and there was nothing to hear but the pounding of the rain. She wanted to talk to him. If they could have a normal conversation, maybe she could understand him better.

  But so far nothing about her time with him had been within the realm of her everyday experience. Not since she’d first found him naked and beaten in the woods. Everything that had happened made it hard to connect with him on any kind of normal level.

  On the other hand, she could evaluate what she’d seen so far—and not by checking off a list of psychopathic traits. He was a fighter. And a man who did what he had to do to get a job done. She should thank him for that, not by trying to do a psych evaluation on the fly. Probably that had been a defense mechanism on her part. Now her defenses had crumbled.

  She wanted to reach out and touch his arm, but the closed expression on his face made her keep her hands to herself, because she was still trying to figure out how she felt and how she should feel. Or did that matter? She wasn’t planning to make friends with him. Or be his lover.

  She clenched her hands into fists, wondering why her mind was leaping in that direction again. Her lover?

  A while ago he’d come across as a ruthless killer. Now that the shock had worn off, she understood his motivation, and she was hoping he’d come up with a plan that would save the two of them.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, wondering how many meanings she was giving to the apology—and how many he would take.

  He gave her a small nod of acknowledgment, then pushed himself up, using the walking stick he’d found. As soon as his foot hit the ground, he clamped his teeth together. He must be in considerable pain, and if he kept walking, he might end up with a permanent injury.

  “You have to get off that ankle,” she said.

  “We haven’t put enough distance between us and the militia. W
e can’t take a chance on sticking around here. We have to keep going.”

  When she clenched her fingers on his arm, his head swung toward her.

  “I don’t think so.”

  As she watched his expression change to one of resignation, she breathed out a small sigh and filled in another mental box on his psych evaluation. He was determined, but he was also practical and willing to change his plans when a more reasonable alternative presented itself.

  ***

  Jack ran a shaky hand down his wet face and into his dripping hair. Since they’d escaped from the burning house, raw nerves had kept him going as he’d tried to get as far away as possible from Trainer’s men. Now he was forced to consider alternatives.

  He looked toward the mountain that was ahead of them before turning to the east and west, as he called to mind the extensive research he’d done on the area. It had been part of his preparation for the assignment before he’d gone into that bar and caught Wade Trainer’s attention. Probably he’d been subconsciously thinking about escape routes if he got into trouble.

  “There are a lot of caves around here. Maybe we can find one,” he said.

  “You mean like Luray Caverns?” she asked, referring to the most famous cavern in the area. It had been lighted and outfitted with walkways for tourists, where guides told them the cutesy names given to some of the stalagmite and stalactite formations.

  “Nothing quite so fancy,” he answered. “Just a place where we can get dry and warm. Have you ever stumbled into one?”

  “Sorry. No.”

  They were still in the forest, but about an eighth of a mile ahead, he could see through the trees a cliff rising in front of them.

  Gesturing toward it, he said, “That’s a good bet.”

  When she answered with a weak nod, he hoped that he remembered his geography well enough to find the right kind of place.

  As he started toward the natural wall, the impact of every step sent a painful reverberation up his leg, but he ignored the sensation. And when he saw Morgan watching him, he struggled to keep his expression neutral.