11

by Kylie Brant

  Finally the fender of the small blue car could be seen. Then the hood appeared. Samantha melted back against the doorway, counting silently. After thirty seconds she chanced a peek around the corner of the doorjamb, in time to see the sun glinting off the back bumper. Her muscles eased a fraction. Enough to allow her to think for a moment. To plan.

  Was Hoa dead? A brutal hammer of remorse pounded through her. Dead or wounded, the woman had suffered because of Samantha. Grief gripped her throat, hazing logic. They hadn't been close. Samantha’s inner defenses wouldn’t allow that. But the woman had befriended her, offered her a place to live, sharing expenses in a mutually beneficial relationship.

  A familiar cloak of desolation settled over her as she considered options. Hopefully when Quyen spoke to the police, the timing of Samantha's appearance at the shop would remove her as a suspect. But she was realistic enough to know that the fact she was a foreigner, in the country with phony identification would cast the spotlight of suspicion on her. The US Embassy wouldn't be able to protect her once that came to light. Samantha inched out of her hiding place. Her only chance was making it to the airport. She had other ID, but it was likely her face would be splashed over the news within a few hours. The longer she waited, the fewer her options.

  She was about to step out into the sunlight when she noticed two of the taxi drivers straightening on their vehicles, casting glances across the street. Caution reared.

  Risking a peek around the corner of the building, she caught a glimpse of a blue car parked at the curb, a lone occupant behind the wheel. A taxi driver rose to a sitting position on his scooter, directing his companions’ attention across the street toward Samantha as he released a spate of Vietnamese. The driver turned her head, even as Samantha ducked back into the alley, turned and ran. There was a screech of tires. Throwing a frantic glance over her shoulder, she saw the car in reverse, slamming to a stop across the alley’s entrance.

  With a burst of speed Samantha raced to the opposite opening. Only to stumble to a halt when a motorbike roared over the sidewalk to block it.

  Panicked, her head swiveled to the opening behind her. The woman’s car door was opening. She was getting out of the vehicle. Facing forward, she looked at the scooter. Its driver was male. Light skinned. Her memory flashed to the man that had driven past her at the café. The one who had seemed to be staring in her direction. Maybe it hadn’t been paranoia at all.

  Her fingers crept under the hem of her tee shirt to the sheath strapped around her ribs. Of course Four wouldn’t be here alone. Who else would accompany the woman, other than the monster that had once enslaved them both? She withdrew the knife, and raced toward the man.

  The alley might end up being her tomb, but she wouldn’t be the only one to die here.

  “Mia!” The man’s voice was familiar. Sharp with annoyance and command. “Put the knife away and get on. Now!”

  She stumbled to a halt, momentarily shocked. The driver lifted the visor on his helmet. And although she hadn’t seen him for years, she immediately recognized the scarred visage, the short-cropped brown hair and the penetrating moss green gaze. “It’s Bishop. Now move!”

  Without further thought she raced the last few steps toward the vehicle, while replacing the knife in its sheath. “Stop, Eleven!” The woman’s voice was heard behind her, closer than she would have thought. “You must...”

  Bishop reached out a hand when she neared him and practically dragged her onto the scooter. Then flipping his visor down he roared off.

  He wove a zigzagging path through the neighborhood. Down alleyways, up streets, doing U-turns to double back and crisscross the area until Samantha lost track of where they were. She kept a sharp eye out for the blue car but after fifteen minutes her chest eased. They may have outrun Four. For the moment.

  Bishop picked that instant to yell, “Hang on.” She tightened her grip around his waist as he jumped a curb and pulled up onto the sidewalk behind a line of taxi motorbikes. He parked, then, shoving his visor up, turned to face her. “Talk fast. Why was that woman chasing you? Who was she?”

  Mia shook her head, keeping a wary eye on the drivers resting on their scooters in the searing sun. Most natives of the country didn’t speak English well, but there were always a few who did. “You went by when I was at the café.”

  His face was a mask of impatience. “And?”

  “Shortly after you did, that woman threw my roommate off the balcony of our apartment, directly across the street.”

  His expression blanked. “Were there witnesses?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure. I think help arrived, but I can’t return there. I have to get out of the country before she finds me.”

  “Do you know her?”

  Her body gave an involuntary shudder. “She was one of the women kept with me. Five years ago. She had special privileges. He…trusted her. More than any of the rest of us.”

  Bishop studied her enigmatically. One of the man’s most disturbing traits was that she’d never known what he was thinking. Another was that she could never look at his scarred left cheek without wanting to press her palm against it. Her fingers curled reflexively, an unconscious effort to keep from doing so.

  “Do you have a change of clothes with you?” He unstrapped the helmet. Lifted it off and handed it to her.

  “No.” Mia put the helmet on and shoved the ends of her hair up inside it.

  Without another word he started the scooter again and took off. She clutched at his waist, recalling that he’d always been a man of few words. Impossible to read. Nerves tap-danced up her spine until she realized he was heading toward the docks. Not toward the city and the police station.

  Her lungs eased a bit. Of course it would be difficult for Jude Bishop to turn her over to the Da Nang police when it was he who had provided her with the false ID she’d used to enter the country. She’d learned the hard way that she could trust no one. She had only herself to rely on.

  But in this moment, with panic still shimmering under the surface, she distrusted this man less than most.

  * * * *

  Fifteen minutes later he pulled to a stop along a crumbling curb and turned off the engine. He dismounted, but when she would have followed suit he stayed her with a hand to her shoulder. Flipping up the visor on the helmet she wore he bent close to speak in a low tone. “I’m going to find us a room. We’ll need a place for at least a few hours while I figure this thing out. Don’t take off the helmet. It’s your only disguise. ”

  She grabbed his wrist when he would have walked away. “No one can rent you a room without reporting your stay to the police.”

  One corner of his mouth curled. “Don’t worry. There are always people who don’t cooperate with the police and their regulations. I just need to find one.” Extending one index finger, he tipped down the visor and walked away, his stride swift.

  Unease skittered down her spine. She’d been to the wharf area many times. It was well traveled by tourists and locals alike. Restaurants and shops crowded the trendier streets near the bay, but they were blocks away from that neighborhood in a shabby section dotted with deteriorating apartment houses, dive bars and brothels. Mia swallowed, looking from side to side. The helmet hampered her vision. Her skin prickled. She wouldn’t be able to see behind her.

  The realization had her leaping from the scooter with more haste than gracefulness. She squatted down next to it, as if to check the rear tire and surveyed the street behind her. There was no blue car in the vicinity. No blonde driver, who—at any rate—would have stood out like a neon sign among the dark haired Asians ambling along the sidewalks. There were more trucks than cars lumbering down the streets. The vise in her chest eased a fraction. In this locale, under these circumstances, Four would stand out even more than Mia did. Still, she willed Bishop to return soon. She’d lost track of him when he’d melted into a group of men lounging against a building half a block away.

  Perspiration dampened her sca
lp beneath the helmet. The heavy covering was suffocating. But Jude was right. It was the best disguise she had available; even if some of the men nearby were casting her odd looks for keeping it on.

  She moved to the opposite side of the scooter, kneeling before the front wheel in a feigned inspection. The activity on the street continued around her without a break in rhythm. An illegal dice game on the corner had drawn a crowd, and there was steady foot traffic in and out of bars and tattoo parlors. Scantily clad women enticed passersby with sultry poses and thinly veiled invitations. She knew this area came under closer scrutiny from law enforcement in the night hours, but there was no sign of a police presence now.

  Still, the minutes crawled by until she caught sight of Jude again.

  He attracted more stares than she did from the people on the sidewalks. He topped most of the locals’ height by six or seven inches. His pale skin would draw attention; the deep scars on his left cheek would hold it. Crowds parted for him as he strode toward her. Mia rose and remounted the scooter. He got on without a word and started it, pulling slowly into the street.

  They drove close enough to the wharf to catch the smell of the fresh catches filling the bottom of a couple small fishing boats before Jude turned left to travel three more blocks. He halted before a two story building in a state of advanced disrepair, got off and went inside without a word. This time Mia stayed on the scooter. There were fewer people on the street in this neighborhood, and only a couple bars. The buildings huddled close to the curbs. Next to the doorway Jude had disappeared into a man sat slumped against the wall, head on his chest. After she stared for several minutes without him moving, she began to wonder if he was asleep, drunk or dead. The few people who shuffled by never gave him a glance. They seemed far more interested in Mia.

  Her hand crept under the hem of her tee shirt, withdrawing the knife she had strapped there. She kept it hidden as two men approached, making a wide circle around her. They would be as interested in the vehicle as they were in her. They’d get neither.

  One man looked back at the building Jude had disappeared into. Emboldened, he drew close enough to run his fingers over the handlebar closest to him. “Pretty, pretty.” He spoke in Vietnamese as he leered at Mia’s chest. His hand moved to her thigh. “Dẹp.”

  She withdrew the knife in a flash and drew it across the back of the man’s hand in one smooth slice. He leaped back, howling, his free hand clapped around his wound, blood seeping between his fingers.

  Jude picked that moment to exit the building, and was on the stranger in a few long strides. “Cut đe! Tao sẽ giết may!” He grasped the man’s shoulders with both hands, spun him around, and sent a hard right punch to his mid-section. The smaller man folded, gasping for air. Jude gave him a shove to send him on his way and turned toward Mia. “Are you hurt?”

  His words were muffled by the helmet she wore but she could read his lips. Shaking her head, she fumbled for the hem of her shirt, replaced the knife beneath it. He reached her, opened the helmet’s visor to look at her face. Whatever he read in her expression must have reassured him. “Come with me.” She got off the motorbike, faintly shocked when he took the handlebars and walked it back to the building. Up the two steps to the entrance, and then inside and down a long dark hallway lined with doors. At the fifth one on the right he stopped and fit a key into the lock. Swinging the door open he waved for Mia to precede him and followed her in with the scooter.

  The door had an old-fashioned slide lock rather than a dead bolt. Mia secured it as Jude wheeled the vehicle inside and stabilized it with the kickstand. He did a quick search of the small space, moving in swift economical movements to check under the narrow swayed bed and inside the minuscule bathroom. After examining the lock on the single window in the room, he drew the shade and turned back to her as she was removing the helmet.

  Mia set it on the floor and bent over, raking her fingers through her damp hair. She was a hot sweaty mess and wanted nothing more than a shower. Something told her it would be a while before she got one. She straightened, shoving her hair back from her face and stopped in mid-action when she caught him staring at her with that mesmerizing green gaze.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” He walked to one corner of the bed and sat down gingerly. The mattress sagged beneath his weight. “Your hair is longer.”

  “It matches the picture for the Samantha Simmons ID.” She’d worn wigs for two of the photos, Mia recalled. One ID matched her hairstyle at the time, another had her as a redhead and the third was very close to the length her hair was now. She’d used all three passports to move in and out of countries anonymously.

  “Tell me again what happened.” The command in his voice was familiar. His employees had responded to it. She had not. Rather than seating herself on the bed beside him, Mia moved to take up position near the window. A quick peek under the torn blind showed it faced another building, as shabby as this one.

  She repeated the story she’d told him earlier, ending with, “The Vietnamese government insists that anyone renting a room or an apartment be reported so they can be placed on a list. That’s how they keep track of visitors to their country. I met Hoa my first week here, through Quyen, the owner of the coffee shop you saw me at. After we met a few times she invited me to live with her, to share the rent. She’s an international airline stewardess and is rarely home.”

  He eyed her impassively. “Which means she is in and out of the country all the time. Interacting with strangers every day. Did she ever mention having a problem with a passenger? Do you have any reason to suspect she might be involved in…” He hesitated for an instant. “…illegal activity?”

  Turning to face him, she said flatly, “Those options might be feasible if I hadn’t recognized the woman who assaulted her. Hoa wasn’t the target today. I was.”

  “Because you know the stranger.”

  It was her turn to pause. “Not in the way you mean.” When the man who called himself their master was absent, there had been cameras running. Every movement, every sound they made was recorded. Talking amongst each other was prohibited. Using a given name would result in a brutal beating that would take weeks to recover from. “I don’t know her by name, only by face. He called her Four. She was almost as sadistic as he was.”

  “Would he be with her?”

  Giving word to her fear had gooseflesh breaking out on her arms. “I think so, yes. I can’t imagine him allowing any of the women in his captivity this kind of freedom.”

  Jude stared at her in silence for a long minute. She sometimes went days without talking to another person face to face. It had never bothered her. But the long quiet seconds under his gaze had all her nerves tightening. “Okay.” He got up and without another word started for the door.

  “Wait!” Because her voice held a thread of panic, she worked to steady it before continuing. “Where are you going?”

  “To check on some things. Find a way out of the country. You’re going to stay here and wait for me.”

  The self-assured tone set her teeth on edge. “I’ll go with you.”

  He turned toward her with exaggerated patience. “She’s looking for two of us now, Mia. She’ll recognize you, but probably not me.” He reached into his back pocket and took out a dark ball cap he’d had stuffed inside and put it on, the bill pulled low over his face. “When I leave, move the scooter to block the door. That will slow down anyone who tries to break in, and give you time to get out the window.” He unlocked the door and stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him.

  She resecured the lock, her mind whirling frantically. The last hour and a half was like something out of a nightmare, with a jumble of disjointed pieces that didn’t make sense. How could he be here, now? Four’s purpose for coming had been all too evident. But…Jude Bishop?

  She went to the motorbike and wheeled it to block the door, as he’d ordered. Commands came a little too naturally to him. She remembered the research she
’d done on him years ago when her father’s lawyer had recommended Bishop’s firm for security. He was ex-military of some type. Maybe that’s where he’d gotten in the habit of snapping out orders and expecting them to be followed unquestioningly.

  Because there were few other choices in the room, she sat on the bed. It was all almost too much to take in. First discovering Dr. Halston’s death, and then seeing Hoa… When memory of her roommate threatened to make her nerves quiver, she clamped them tight. Forced herself to think about the incongruity of Jude’s appearance.

  Coincidences always made her paranoia worse, and Halston had advised her on ways to work through it. Look for links. Construct viable and unviable scenarios. Weigh them carefully. Usually Mia found the exercise calming.

  But in this case the quiet time spent thinking filled her with ice. Because there was no escaping the fact that despite all her precautions, somehow Four had found her.

  And the only person who could know the names Mia traveled under was Jude Bishop.

  * * * *

  The open area on the dock was a prime location to use the satellite cell he traveled with. Open water all around him. No buildings to block the signal.

  And an opportunity to observe the boats punctuating the horizon. To think about how to approach an owner. Jude took his time with his calls, content to watch the activity around him, taking mental notes.

  First he sent Raiker a text. Two words, no more. Found her. At this point he had little else to share. Tracking down Mia Deleon hadn’t been an issue. The scenario he’d discovered her in was. Like everything else about the woman’s life it was messy and murky and he still couldn’t separate her version from reality. Although he’d seen enough to be certain the Caucasian woman in the blue car had been bent on injuring her.

  He just couldn’t be sure why. Not yet. He dialed Kacee; used the intervening time to take the sunglasses out of his pocket, slip them on. The sun was scorching, but he’d been in hotter places. Lying completely still. Waiting. Watching. Compared to the searing sands of Afghanistan, the Da Nang wharf was a walk in the park.