by Misty Evans
Brice’s gut did the cha-cha, the feel of a scoop, of a lot of sleepless nights and endless digging, about to produce something credible. A warm shot of energy zipped along his limbs. The hair on the back of his neck wasn’t just standing up now. It was positively humming.
Mitch had a knowing look in his eyes. He felt it too. “Who’s Martin?” he mouthed.
“Scientist for Kenton,” Brice half-mouthed, half-whispered.
And somebody was about to interview him.
Scoop.
Someone could steal his scoop.
If there was one.
He’d planned to dig deeper into the scientist, but hadn’t had the time or inclination.
Until now.
From what little Brice had read, the scientist was a god in his own mind. He didn’t care about research and development of drugs for the sake of helping people. He cared about creating drugs that made him superior. Drugs that created a financial windfall for Kenton Labs and himself.
“…no, whatever you do, do not meet with anyone. Yes, I know you’re better than she is…and smarter.” He shook his head and slammed his hand on the mantel. “Dammit, Martin, listen to what you’re saying. This isn’t all about you.”
A long pause. “And if it’s not? What if this reporter knows more than she’s saying? What if she ties you to me and the bridge? Or to your stupid rantings about The First Amendment Patriot Blog and that guy?”
He seemed to blow out a long breath, his head falling back on his spine as he looked at the ceiling and listened. “Oh, you’re going to take care of her? How? We can’t have another body turn up right now. Until the investigation is over, we all have to lay low…”
Brice’s body stilled completely. The scientist was talking about killing someone. A woman.
“Do not talk to her,” Warren demanded. “Give me an hour. I’ll talk to Chuck. We’ll find another way.”
Warren jerked the phone away from his ear as if Block had hung up on him. Then he threw the phone at the couch where it bounced off, hit the floor, and spun in circles.
Mitch made a let’s go motion with his thumb. Brice, mind whirling, dropped and made his way back under the window. The two of them tip-toed down the steps and out of the yard.
As he and Mitch hit the sidewalk, Mitch said, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Brice didn’t answer. He turned on his phone, picking up his pace on the way to the truck. It flashed a low battery sign at him, then beeped with a missed call and voicemail message.
Hope.
He jabbed at the screen, his fat thumb missing the play button. Twice. “Goddammit.”
They were nearly to the truck. The third jab made the connection.
“Hawk, it’s me,” her sexy voice burst from the phone. “I’ve got a lead! I’m meeting Dr. Block, you know the scientist guy who developed Donazem? He agreed to talk to me. I know you wanted me to stay at the safe house, but this could be good. I’m being careful and wearing baggy clothes and your hat and sunglasses. Plus, he’s meeting me at Branchbrook Park. Totally public like the monument. I’ll text you as soon as I get there and if you get this message in time, meet me there. Just don’t do that thing like you did when we first met Tony, okay? It’s very intimidating. Okay, love ya. Bye.”
His brain short-circuited for half a second. He stopped walking and stared at the phone. …love ya.
Love love ya or just a friendly, we-have-amazing-sex love ya?
Mitch cleared his throat. He already had his door open and stood on the boost step, looking at Brice over the doorframe. “She okay?”
“What?”
“Hope. Is she okay?”
Brice snapped back to reality, a sense of urgency and fear racing down his spine. The interview. The reporter. Dr. Block.
Her message was time stamped twenty minutes ago. She must have called right after he turned off his phone.
Like Felix Warren, Brice wanted to throw the phone.
He hit the call back number. Hope’s phone rang. And rang. And went to voicemail.
Brice climbed into the driver’s seat and gunned the motor. “She’s meeting Martin Block at Branchbrook Park.”
“Fuck,” Mitch said. “And let me guess, she’s not answering your calls.”
Brice stared straight ahead, his limbs and organs—his very cells—seemingly frozen in fear.
And then, miracle of miracles, his phone rang.
The most beautiful sound in the world.
“Babe, where are you? Are you at the park? Whatever you do, don’t meet with Martin Block. Turn around right now and go back to the safe house.”
“Brennan, it’s Gerard.” The man’s deep voice threw Brice for a loop. “What the hell are you talking about? Where’s Hope? Isn’t she with you? I’ve been calling her and all I get is voicemail. She wanted me to look into Dr. Block’s financials. He’s got a farm north of the city that’s about to go into foreclosure.”
Cold sweat broke out along Brice’s hairline. He threw the truck into drive. “The scientist is in on it, Tony. Hope’s meeting him and I think he’s going to kill her.”
“Go!” Mitch said, tapping the dash.
“Where?” Gerard said in Brice’s ear. “Where is she meeting him?”
Too late, too late, too late. The words churned in his head. “Branchbrook Park.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
The connection went dead.
And then so did his phone.
Brice let it slide from his ear and land on the seat. “I can’t lose her,” he mumbled. “I just found her.”
Mitch had his own cell out and was dialing someone. Probably Grey. “You’re not going to lose her. Now speed the hell up, Brennan.”
Brice gripped the wheel, shoving aside the emotions battering around inside his chest. I will not lose her, he told himself, flooring the gas pedal.
Love ya.
Ah, Hope.
I love you.
Hawk’s paranoia was rubbing off.
That was the only explanation Hope could accept when she hustled down the apartment’s steps, baseball cap, big sunglasses and a change of clothes tucked into her tote bag. She had the whole plan ready. She’d scoot in the back door of the nail salon, hop into their restroom, do a quick change, slap the cap and sunglasses on and stroll out the front door.
If someone watched—the optimist in her wanted to believe that wasn’t the case—hopefully her Clark Kent routine would throw them off. Then again, what was the point of a safe house if someone had located them? And, if the killer had located them, by now, she’d be dead.
D.E.A.D.
Still, employing relatively easy evasion techniques couldn’t hurt.
Quick change complete, to further ensure she didn’t raise any suspicion, she stopped at the front desk of the salon, made an appointment for later in the day, slapped her hat and glasses on and sauntered out the front door.
Her car was parked around the corner. The car would be her only weak point. If someone were watching, they’d see her drive off, something she shouldn’t risk, but choices were limited and they had a murder to solve.
Wasn’t like she could take a cab or a bus to a park. How would she get back?
Plus, hello, safe house.
She had to be overthinking this. Being in the safe house—and still being among the living—meant no bad guys had located them and thus, driving her own vehicle would be acceptable to Mr. Paranoid.
Hope kept moving, her pace steady but not fast. Nothing to draw attention. Eyes forward, she zoomed in on her car just half a block away.
She could do this. She’d just slip in and drive off. Hopefully without a tail.
Hands still in her jacket pockets, she wrapped her fingers around her key fob, found the button on the right and gave it a double click.
Mid-morning traffic had slowed enough that only four cars sat stacked at the light. A cabbie honked at another driver as he roared through the intersection. Yelling from the off
ended driver—thank you, sir—created enough of a distraction that the handful of pedestrians all turned their attention to the clamor. A stream of obscenities flew. Hope kept moving. So close now. Three more strides and another round of swearing and she slipped into her car while the show from the cabbie raged on.
Road rage. Who knew it could occasionally serve a purpose?
Once inside, she hit the lock, fired the engine and edged out of her parking space, checking her mirrors, quickly scanning her surroundings. Nothing unusual. Except for the argument brewing on the opposite side of the street.
Hope kept driving, headed straight down the street away from the safe house, checking her mirrors, making a random left, checking her mirrors again. No cars followed.
At least that she could see.
Safe house.
She squeezed the steering wheel a little tighter, let out a breath and headed for Branchbrook Park.
Fifteen minutes later, she parked just inside the North entrance to the park where two minivans and an SUV—probably soccer moms out for a stroll—lined up alongside the grass connecting the walking path. A red Porsche was parked opposite of the mom-mobiles and that thing stuck out like nobody’s business. Clearly, someone was making a statement.
Not seeing Hawk’s truck amongst the few cars scattered within the two-dozen spaces, she checked her voicemail and texts. She hadn’t heard any alerts, but it wouldn’t be the first time her cell service had disappointed her.
Voicemail and texts were a bust. No Hawk. Where was he and why wasn’t he returning her damned call?
Unless he was on his way. Yes. On his way.
Stowing her phone in her tote, she stepped out of the car, buttoned her trench and inhaled a good dose of the fifty-three degree air. If nothing else, it would be a lovely spring day in D.C.
“Ms. Denby?” Someone called to her from the opposite row of parking spaces.
She turned, spotted the man she’d seen on the internet. Martin Block strode toward her in a black suit, the jacket flapping open as he approached. His sandy blond hair was combed back, gelled into place and if she’d run into him on the street she’d have pegged him as a banker. A scientist? Never.
“Dr. Block?”
An easy smile drifted across his face, the look so kind and effortless she immediately relaxed. This would be an easy task. She’d ask a few leading questions, get him to chatting about the success of Donazem and—wham—she’d ask about Charley Winslow and his efforts to win them a patent extension.
If she did this well, Dr. Block might give her another lead that would help them figure out who played what role in the Chief Justice’s death.
That’s all she needed. Another lead. She shut her car door, hit the button on the fob just as Dr. Block reached her and extended his hand.
“Hello.” She clasped his hand and the warmth of his palm traveled up her arm.
She pasted on one of her bright and cheery smiles. That’s what normal people did when they met people.
They greeted them. Shared a pleasant hello and if they were anything like her, offered the benefit of believing they might in fact be a decent person.
Perky Hope.
Doing her thing.
A light breeze blew the ends of her hair against her cheek and she shoved them back, out of her face still shielded under the baseball cap and glasses. A week ago she wouldn’t have believed she’d show up for a business meeting wearing a baseball cap.
How life changed in days.
Dr. Block released her hand and another gust of wind blew, this time harder and whether it was the lack of warmth from Block releasing her hand or her minimal layers, she shivered a little.
She glanced up at the much bigger man, met his gaze and stilled. Now, after all that pleasant hand shaking and smiling and warmth, for the first time, she saw something in his dark eyes. Something cold and...harsh.
Impenetrable.
And—wow—the realization that she stood in the nearly vacant parking lot of a three-hundred acre park with a man she’d never met before most definitely cracked her across the skull.
What had she done?
The better question? Where the hell was Hawk? Thanks to him and his crazy paranoia, she’d suddenly started doubting people based on the color of their eyes? Really?
Another breeze smacked against the branches of the huge Willow Oak above her, drawing her attention up and away from the creepy eyes of Dr. Block. A bird—a Starling maybe—sat on one of the branches and tweeted. At least until shooting off across the pond just beyond the walkway. Maybe the Starling had the right idea.
That, or Hawk’s paranoia had rubbed off on her.
What have I done?
From the corner of her eye, she spotted Dr. Block moving and instinctively stepped back.
In his left hand, he held something small and white that resembled one of the breath spray devices she kept in her purse.
A few seconds ago, he hadn’t been holding anything. More importantly, if it was breath spray why wouldn’t he have dealt with that before getting out of his car?
The bird definitely had the right idea.
Hawk. Should have waited.
“You stupid girl,” Block said. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to meet strange men alone?”
Every nerve inside her sparked and snapped and an explosion of pain erupted inside her head.
Run.
She lurched sideways, about to bolt, but Block raised his arm and a stream of something, light particles floating on the air, hit her, splaying across her cheek in a light, odorless veil of moisture. Her skin tingled and she swiped at it, immediately transferring the tingle to her fingertips.
What the heck? She wiped her hand on her trench. “Hey,” she said. “What was that?”
A tickle caught in her throat. She coughed once, then again, but—no good. A wave of dizziness assaulted her and Dr. Block swayed back and forth. She blinked three times, one, two, three, refocused on Dr. Block, on the cars behind him, anything stationary that would anchor her. No good. Spinning, spinning, spinning. Her stomach flip-flopped while her tongue nearly shriveled from thirst. All at once, her senses went to overload and she shook her head, held out her hand, as if to grab on to something, anything that would keep her upright.
A burst of panic shot up her neck and her skin burned, a searing heat that should have melted her flesh, but underneath, a fierce cold penetrated. Mixed signals. Everything haywire.
No. No. No.
“Just relax,” Block said. A distorted, creepy grin slid across his face. “In a few seconds this will all be over.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Fear.
Brice hated fear more than anything in the world.
The sting of it cramped his stomach, the grip of it tightened the muscles in his neck like a vise grip. Oh yeah, he hated it with a passion.
After the shit with the ATF, he’d told himself he would never feel this kind of fear again. Never watch a friend die again. Never believe in the goodness of the world again.
And he certainly would never allow himself to feel anything for anybody again.
Because feeling lead to fear. Fear lead to pain. Pain led to loss.
At that moment, he was feeling all three. What was wrong with him that he was unable to stay focused and unattached during this investigation? Why the hell had he let himself fall in love with Hope?
Her car was parked in a spot under a shade tree, but she wasn’t in it.
And Brice’s heart was nearly beating through his chest, thanks to his arch nemesis, fear. “Where is she?”
His world was about leads and conspiracies. Government cover-ups. Dry, emotionless facts.
And yet, here he was, nearly blinded with fear, and discovering a deep-seeded loathing for himself.
I didn’t protect her. All of this, all the shit I’ve survived, and I let her walk into a trap.
Hadn’t he learned his lesson with the ATF?
Mitch checked, and
sure enough, the doors of the car were locked up tight.
Brice cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hope?” he called, praying against the awful rot-gut feeling flooding through him that she was simply out walking in the park. That they had gotten to her before Martin Block did.
Her name, a noun and a verb that hadn’t been in his vocabulary until he’d met her, slammed through the trees and faded into silence. Mitch took up the call as well.
“Hope!”
“Hope!”
“Hope,” they kept calling, even after there was no response.
The park was empty, except for a few mothers with young kids and a couple of hikers.
The past few days played out in Brice’s head, a damning loop of information that he hadn’t tied together until now.
He leaned over the trunk of Hope’s car, tried to force air into his lungs. “Tell me she did not go off with Block willingly.”
“There was no sign of a struggle,” Mitch said.
Brice grabbed Mitch’s phone and called her again. The call went directly to voicemail.
A black SUV came roaring into the parking lot. Tony Gerard.
He took off his sunglasses and rolled down his window. “Where is she?
Brice let out a soft curse. How could she be so naive to go off with a stranger? “No idea. We believe she’s gone with the scientist, but we don’t know where. There’s no sign of struggle, but we know Block is up to no good. She’s still not answering her phone, and I’m...”
“Worried,” Gerard supplied. “You fucking should be. She’s gutsy, but naive. No telling what she’s gotten herself into.”
Fuck. Brice wanted to ram his fist into the bed of his truck, let off some frustrations, but a few broken digits wouldn’t do him any good.
A ringing came from Mitch’s phone. Not Hope. It was Teeg. Mitch snatched the phone from Brice. “Yo,” he said by way of greeting. “What’cha got for me? Is it up and scanning?”
Gerard spoke to Brice. “You think Block would hurt her?”
While Mitch talked to Teeg, Brice filled Gerard in on the latest. “The cab driver, Lamar Kostas, along with Charley Winslow and the DDOT guy, Felix Warren, all went to school together. They were part of a high school competitive shooting team.” He pointed at Mitch. “We were just at Felix’s house, and overheard him talking to Block. They know we’re onto them, me and Hope. Dr. Block set up a fake interview with her, but he wasn’t planning on talking, if you know what I mean.”