Blind Run

by Patricia Lewin

  “Okay,” he said. “Come and get me.”

  “Ethan, stop this. Please.”

  He ignored Sydney’s fear, shut his heart to the panic in her voice. She didn’t understand, couldn’t, without knowing the truth about their son’s death. It hadn’t been an accident. Nicky had been murdered, and the man responsible now had his sights set on Sydney.

  The Mercedes materialized, a dusky wraith in the early morning light. It stopped a block away, spotting them and gauging its next move. Then it started up again, creeping toward them.

  “That’s right, you coward.” Ethan checked the Glock’s clip and ignored the flash of fire in his arm. “Just a little closer, and we’ll settle this once and for all.”

  As the Mercedes approached, the shapeless driver emerged from the shadows and took on Ramirez’s familiar features. Ethan had expected no one else, but the shock of it, of seeing the face of his son’s killer after all this time, froze him in place. The vehicle stopped, and for a moment they stared at each other, the distance between them collapsing in a crush of bitter memories. Ethan saw the hatred in Ramirez’s eyes, the madness, and he expected his own face screamed the same.

  They would end this. Now.

  Ethan grabbed the door handle, but Sydney’s fingers bit into his forearm, stopping him, begging him without words to stay. Her silent plea shredded his resolve. The last time she’d needed him, he’d walked away. Could he do that again and live with himself?

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said. “Please.”

  But could he turn his back on Ramirez? Just take Sydney and these kids and run, and never look back?

  A flicker of movement caught his eye. A blue sedan rounded the far corner, slowed, then picked up speed as it switched lanes to come straight at them.

  A trap. The son of a bitch set us up.

  “Hang on.” Ethan punched the accelerator and twisted the steering wheel hard to the right. Tires squealed and bumped as they struck the curb. The truck careened onto the sidewalk, colliding with a trash can and sideswiping the metal collar around a sapling.

  “Get down.” He shoved Sydney’s head below the dashboard, half expecting a bullet to shatter his window. “All of you.”

  The kids ducked, and Ethan laid on the horn as a warning to pedestrians. Glass-fronted shops whipped by on his right and parked cars on his left. Behind them, Ramirez took off in the opposite direction. But the sedan slammed into reverse, matching Ethan’s speed and blocking his escape back to the road, its tinted windows frustrating his attempt to identify the driver.

  Near the end of the block, Ethan saw his chance and aimed for a gap between two parked cars. The truck hurtled off the curb. The sedan screeched to a stop, but not quick enough to avoid the scream of metal and burst of sparks as Ethan skimmed its bumper. With a clear road ahead, Ethan used the sedan’s turnaround time to put some distance between them.

  He sped back toward downtown, taking a circuitous route and keeping one eye on the rearview mirror. The trick was to lose the tail without picking up a cop. Meanwhile his passengers sat up, bracing themselves against the truck’s erratic maneuvers.

  “Are they still after us?” Callie asked.

  Ethan glanced at her, then her brother and Sydney. All three were noticeably shaken but okay. “We’ll lose them.”

  They ended up back on Commerce, a main thoroughfare through the center of Dallas. He hadn’t seen the sedan for several blocks, but he had no illusions about having lost it. Not yet anyway. And where the hell was Ramirez? Had he set them up and taken off? Or had he been surprised by the sedan as well?

  “Danny, watch for the Mercedes while I ditch the other car.”

  The early morning rush hour was at full force now, which gave Ethan the advantage. He threaded the truck across three lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic, waiting for the right moment. A few blocks back, the sedan entered the fray and Ethan took his shot. Just as the next light turned red, he made a quick left in front of a line of oncoming vehicles. Horns blared and brakes shrieked, but Ethan skidded around their outrage and headed down a secondary road, the sedan stuck in gridlock behind them.

  No one said a word, though Sydney had braced an arm across the front of both kids, holding them against the seat. Ethan expected the three of them were too stunned or frightened to do more. He couldn’t help that now.

  He continued to snake his way through Dallas as even the side streets filled with commuters. Unless Ramirez reappeared, they had a clear shot to the highway, but Ethan wasn’t about to let down his guard. He’d misjudged the assassin once today and wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. “See anything, Danny?”

  The boy took a moment to answer, his voice shaky. “No, I think we lost them.”

  “Me, too.”

  “That’s a good thing,” said Sydney. “Right?”

  “I’ll feel better when we’ve put some miles between us and Dallas.” Not to mention knowing what the hell was going on. “What’s the quickest way to the highway?”

  She hesitated, then gave him directions that put them on the entrance ramp to U.S. 75, heading north.

  For several miles the silence continued. Then Sydney spoke up. “Ethan, we need to go to the police.”

  “They can’t help us.” Ethan released the Glock and flexed his fingers. “You saw what happened at your place.”

  “But they were taken by surprise. If we warn them—”

  “It won’t matter. The man driving that Mercedes was on your balcony this morning.” Ethan hesitated, wondering just how much to tell her. “His name is Marco Ramirez, and the authorities can’t touch him.”

  “But why?”

  “He’s an assassin, Sydney, government trained and owned. Even if the cops manage to arrest him, which is unlikely, they won’t hold him.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. The government doesn’t use assassins, it’s illegal.”

  He didn’t respond, letting her work it out for herself. Legal or not, the Agency had their secrets, and she was smart enough to see that.

  “Okay,” she said. “Say I believe you. What does he want? Why did he kill those policemen?”

  “They weren’t the target, they were just in the way.”

  “Who then?”

  He hesitated, though he could no longer shield her from the truth. It was the only thing that might save her. “You.”

  She flinched as if struck, then sat straighter, instinctually defensive. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I caught this bullet pushing you to the floor.”

  He felt a shudder tremble through her. “That doesn’t prove anything.” But doubt had crept into her voice.

  “Do you really want to take a chance on that?”

  For what seemed a long while, she didn’t answer. “What about that other car?” she asked finally.

  “I’m not sure.” His thoughts jumped to the kids, no doubt listening intently. “I don’t know who they were or what they’re after.” Though he had a pretty good idea. What he didn’t know was why. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “Me? I don’t know anything about any of this.”

  “Do you remember Anna Kelsey?” He pulled the cell phone from his pocket. “She worked with me at the Agency.”

  “Of course I remember her.”

  “This”—he handed over the phone—“was hers. Push the redial button.” When Sydney hesitated, he said, “Go on, listen.”

  She obeyed with obvious reluctance, her eyes widening as the recorded message reached her ears. “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I.” He took back the phone, snapped it closed, and slipped it into his pocket. “Did you talk to her? Or get a message from her?”

  “No, I hardly knew her. Why would she call me? Have you asked her?”

  “I would have . . .” He paused. “Except Anna’s dead, Sydney. Murdered. And that call to you was the last she ever made.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MURDERED?

  For
a moment, Sydney couldn’t speak. She’d met Anna Kelsey only once, years ago, although she couldn’t say exactly when or where. The only reason she remembered Anna at all was that a woman that beautiful was hard to forget, especially when she worked with your husband. Now, according to Ethan, Anna was dead, murdered, and she’d called Sydney before dying.

  It must be a mistake.

  Or was it? Something nipped at Sydney’s thoughts, a hazy memory or bit of information she was forgetting. What? She almost caught it, but it slipped out of reach.

  “Ethan, what’s going on?”

  He shifted on the cracked vinyl and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “I hoped you could tell me, or at least shed some light on the subject.”

  She couldn’t, not about Anna or anything else that had happened in the last few hours.

  “You might know more than you think,” he said. “But let’s get somewhere safe, then we’ll talk.”

  Somewhere safe.

  Just a few hours ago, she’d taken safety for granted. Now it had become something to seek, a goal to reach. Or die trying.

  Then the memory snapped into place. Charles had listened to her phone messages last night. “There were a couple of hang ups on my answering machine yesterday.”

  Ethan looked at her. “Is that unusual?”

  She shrugged. “No, but if Anna called me, why didn’t she leave a message?” In truth, Sydney couldn’t have sworn the other woman hadn’t left a message. Although she couldn’t imagine why Charles would lie about it.

  “Too dangerous. Anna wouldn’t have exposed herself like that.” For a moment, Ethan let the silence rest. Then he said, “Do your parents still own the cabin on Lake Texoma?”

  The question seemed out of place, and it took her a moment to understand what he meant. “Yes, why? Is that where we’re going?”

  “Not exactly.” He checked the rearview mirror, as he’d done a dozen times or more since getting into the truck. “It’s too obvious and will be one of the first places Ramirez and company look.”

  “How would they even know about it?”

  Ethan shot her a quick glance, eyebrows raised.

  “Never mind,” she said. It had been a stupid question. This was the information age. Any kid with a computer and a talent for snooping could get into state or county tax files and find a record of all property owned by her or her family.

  “I was thinking of Laurel Lodge,” Ethan said.

  The statement surprised her as much as anything else he’d done since storming into her apartment. “Are you serious?”

  “It’s off the beaten track and won’t open for another month or so.” He flexed the fingers of his right hand, balling his fist then reopening it. “Unless—”

  She lost his words as he worked his arm, straightening and bending, demanding its mobility despite the pain shadowing his features. She checked the makeshift bandage for signs of fresh blood but saw none. Not yet anyway. But if he continued pushing himself, it was only a matter of time.

  “Sydney?”

  She met his gaze, fear and something stronger clenching her chest. With a bullet hole in his arm and Dallas falling farther behind, he remained vigilant and determined to protect them no matter the cost. In some ways, he hadn’t changed at all.

  “Has something changed?” he asked.

  Again he’d thrown her, as if he’d been reading her mind. “What?”

  “Laurel Lodge, have they altered their season?”

  “I don’t know.” She forced herself to forget the man and consider his question.

  Laurel Lodge was a small, exclusive resort perched on the rocky bluffs above Lake Texoma. For thirty years it had opened on Memorial Day and closed the day after Labor Day weekend, catering to wealthy Dallasites wanting to get away from the heat. The owner had been a friend and patient of her father’s, and she and Ethan had . . .

  “I haven’t been to the lake since . . .” since Nicky. “For a long time.” And she didn’t want to return with Ethan now. Or ever.

  “Will anyone look for us there?”

  “I doubt it.” Laurel Lodge had been their secret, one she’d kept safe amid the rubble of her marriage. She hated admitting it and letting him know how much the memory meant to her. “But someone may already be there, a cleaning or set-up crew.”

  He considered that, then shook his head. “We’ll have to chance it.”

  Everything inside her rebelled at the idea, but she didn’t argue. It wouldn’t have done any good. Once Ethan had made up his mind about something, nothing could change it. Besides, objecting too strongly would only draw more attention to her discomfort at returning to the lodge.

  So the quiet stretched out, punctuated by the rhythmic thump of hard rubber against asphalt and the grumble of an old engine. Miles of spring green grassland flowed past them, watched by the endless blue of a Texas sky. With the silence came an acute awareness of the close quarters: the truck, ripe with the copper of dried blood and the scent of overheated children; Callie, her head lolling in sleep against Sydney’s arm; Danny, his eyes fixed on some unknown point past the windows. And Ethan, mute and tense beside her, his muscular thigh pressed against hers, electric and unsettling.

  A sense of unreality swept through her. If she thought too hard about the last couple of hours or how she came to be here beside Ethan, she might start screaming. Yet she felt more alive than she had in years.

  An hour and a half later, they pulled off the highway and headed toward the lake. As far as she knew, Ethan had never driven to the lodge, but he found the entrance, an unmarked dirt track like a dozen others in the area. A mile or so down a shaded road, Laurel Lodge emerged from the woods.

  On the outside, it looked the same.

  Sitting amid a smattering of oak, elm, and bois d’arc, the two-story structure rose atop a limestone bluff. Clustered beneath the trees and edging the base of the building, spring wildflowers—anemone, blue-eyed grass, and purple verbena—flourished. Beyond the clearing, the woods closed in, a dense growth shielding the lodge from the bustling tourism of the lake community.

  Off to one side of the cliff, a path led down to a ragged beach, boathouse, and dock. From there, if you followed the shore another mile, climbing over rocks and wading through slippery pools, you’d come to a secluded inlet with sandy beaches and a cluster of vacation homes. Her parents owned the largest of these.

  Shortly after their marriage, she and Ethan had spent a long weekend there. Her parents hadn’t approved of her husband, but she’d believed if they got to know him, they’d change their minds. By the second night, however, she acknowledged her mistake. All they’d seen was the Army brat raised in a dozen different military towns and educated in the public school system. They’d closed their eyes to the man, to everything that made Ethan special, his strength and kindness, his intelligence and warmth, his integrity and devotion to his country.

  It had made her angry, but Ethan had agreed with them, claiming he wasn’t good enough for her. She’d known better, and later that night had talked him into sneaking out in search of privacy so she could prove it to him. With a full moon reflecting off the lake, they’d followed the nonexistent path along the shore to Laurel Lodge, silent and deserted, as it was now.

  “Callie, wake up.” Danny nudged his sister and reached for the door handle.

  “Wait—” Sydney and Ethan said at once.

  Sydney glanced back at him, awkwardly aware they’d fallen into an old pattern. How often had they spoken to Nicky at the same moment, to issue a warning or give an instruction?

  “Stay out of sight,” Ethan said, seemingly unaware of her discomfort. “And away from the cliff.”

  The boy nodded, and both children scrambled from the truck.

  Their enthusiasm made Sydney smile, reminding her of how much Nicky had loved the lake. Every summer she had brought him to spend a week or two at her parents’ cabin. Sometimes Ethan joined them, but mostly they’d come alone or with her folks, who ador
ed their only grandchild.

  Neither she nor Ethan had ever brought Nicky here though, to Laurel Lodge. “How are we going to get in?”

  Ethan smiled, a ghost of his old self peeking through, and another unwanted shiver of awareness caressed her. “The same way as before.”

  He climbed from the truck, using his good hand to slip the gun into the waistband of his jeans. Then he grabbed his duffel bag from behind the seat and started toward the rear entrance. Sydney hurried after him, and by the time she caught up, he’d started on the back door, working the lock with two slender metal picks.

  Once before, she’d watched him do this and had half-jokingly asked, “Does the Agency train all their analysts to pick locks?”

  “Sure, they taught us all kinds of nefarious skills.”

  She’d laughed, unsure whether he was kidding, though it hadn’t really mattered at the time. Their adventure held little peril that night. If caught, she and Ethan risked little more than embarrassment. Now, however, the stakes were higher, and she shuddered at the thought of the men from Dallas finding them here.

  Isolation could work for or against them.

  Ethan finished with the lock, retrieved the gun from his waistband, and opened the door. “Wait here while I make sure it’s clear.”

  She nodded, her eyes drawn to the weapon, no longer taking anything for granted. “I’ll check on Danny and Callie.”

  Back out front, she spotted the children at the edge of the woods, facing the lake. Danny was talking and pointing toward a large turkey vulture perched on a scraggly ash at the cliff’s edge. She couldn’t hear him, but he seemed to be explaining something to Callie, who listened with rapt attention.

  The resiliency of children never ceased to amaze Sydney. No one watching them would guess what these two had been through in the last few hours. They seemed so normal, so unaffected by the morning’s harrowing events.