Perilous Trust

by Barbara Freethy

  "No, he was quite vague. And I'm not lying about that. I wish he'd said who or what or anything specific, because then I wouldn't be running away without knowing who might be chasing me." She licked her lips. "I believe he really just wanted to say good-bye." Her eyes watered, and her hands on the gun began to shake as her shoulders grew weary.

  "So, what are you going to do now? What's your plan?"

  "I'm still trying to figure that out. I know I can't stay here."

  "No, you can't. I don't even understand why you came here at all. Surely, someone at the FBI knows about this place. Peter told me your dad brought him into the FBI. He must have made the trip up here at some point."

  "No, he didn't come here. Only the Rowlands were here with us. They own the cabin next door. Vincent and my dad bought the cabins as safe houses a long time ago. When we were here, we used fake names. I thought it was a game back then. My dad never let his work touch our lives."

  "Well, someone from the Bureau will talk to Vincent Rowland. Vincent may be retired, but he and your father were good friends; he'll be interviewed."

  "I know all that, but I had to go somewhere," she said. "I needed to be alone to cry, to think. I wasn't planning to stay longer than a night."

  The doubt in his eyes grew as his gaze moved past her to the fireplace, to the empty space and the brick she'd placed on the floor.

  "You didn't come here to mourn—you came here to get something," he said.

  "This gun," she lied.

  "You drove all the way up here to get a gun? No way. I don't buy it. You're not telling me the whole truth, Sophie. And I can't help you if you don't."

  "Damon, please, just go. Just leave me alone," she pleaded, desperate to get him out of the cabin before she did something even more stupid—like start to trust him. "I'll disappear. I'll go somewhere no one else knows about. You don't have to worry about me. You've done your duty. You came after me. You did that for my dad. Now do something for me—leave me alone. You've managed it for four years. You can keep going."

  His mouth tightened. "I'm not leaving you alone. You won't be safe. You can't get help from a friend, because you'll put them in danger, and even if you are very careful, you'll make a mistake. You don't know how to stay off the radar, but I do. You're going to have to trust someone at some point. You're going to have to put your anger aside and let it be me."

  Before she could answer, she was suddenly hit with a shower of glass from the nearby window.

  What the hell had just happened?

  Another pane blew out, and something whizzed by her ear.

  Damon grabbed her arm and pulled down as a third window exploded.

  Someone was shooting at her!

  "Are you hit?" Damon asked, his gaze raking her face.

  She shook her head, unable to find words. There was glass in her hair and her bare arms were bleeding, but she'd managed to escape the bullets. "Who is shooting at me?"

  "Doesn't matter. We need to get out of here. There's a back door, right?" Damon asked in clipped tones.

  "Yes, but what if they're out there, too?"

  Another shot took out the last of the front windows, and she ducked closer to Damon. The shooter must have some sort of silencer on his weapon because she couldn't hear the blasts, only the glass breaking.

  "Stay down," Damon said, as he crept closer to the window and took a look outside.

  "Do you see anyone?"

  "Yes. In the trees. Just one, I think. Looks like he shot out my tires. He probably thinks it's your car. Here's what you're going to do. You're going to run out the back, while I draw out our shooter." He pulled a gun out from under his T-shirt. He'd obviously had it tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

  Her recent stand with her own gun seemed fairly ridiculous right now. Damon could have taken her out any time he wanted.

  "Where's your car?" he asked.

  "I hid it by a boathouse a mile away from here."

  "Good. Go there. I'll meet you as soon as I can. Where's the boathouse?"

  She hesitated for a split second.

  "Seriously?" he demanded, anger in his dark-blue eyes. "Someone is trying to kill you, Sophie, and I'm the only one standing in the way."

  "It's off Caldwell Road, past Kingston Lodge. What if you can't get away? What if there's someone at my car?"

  "There won't be. I'll get away, and you'll wait for me. You need me, Sophie, whether you want to admit it or not."

  The vase on the table shattered with another shot.

  She picked up her gun, crawled over to the kitchen table, grabbed her bag, and ran through the kitchen toward the back door.

  She took a peek outside. The back yard was enclosed, and she didn't see anyone inside the fencing.

  She heard gunfire from the front of the house—Damon was shooting back.

  As she went outside, she stayed close to the back of the structure until she could get through the gate and dash into a cluster of trees. She held her breath every step of the way, expecting to be taken down at any moment, but Damon was doing what he'd promised, keeping the shooter engaged.

  When she reached the woods, she heard the distant sound of sirens. Someone had heard Damon's gunshots and called the police.

  The shots abruptly ended. All was quiet except for the sirens. A car engine roared from somewhere nearby.

  Had the gunman left at the sound of the cops? She really hoped so. She also hoped Damon was all right.

  Five minutes later, she made her way past the old lodge to the boathouse. Her car was where she'd left it. She pulled out her keys, watching the vehicle for a long minute before making her way over to it. She slid behind the wheel, her heart pounding. She wanted to speed away. But would she be safer on the road? Her father certainly hadn't been.

  Damon had asked her to wait. He'd told her she needed him, and she had the terrible feeling she did. She had no idea who had come after her—why anyone would try to kill her.

  Her father's warning voicemails had just been jumbled words before this. Now they felt very, very real.

  Her heart stopped as a man came around the side of the boathouse. To her relief, it was Damon. He slid into the passenger seat and said, "Drive."

  "Where?"

  "Wherever you're supposed to go next." He gave her a knowing look. "Your dad told you to come here, didn't he? I'm guessing his instructions didn't end there."

  She hated that he was right and even more that he knew it. But his cocky arrogance and his powerful male presence made her feel a little safer. "What happened to the gunman?"

  "He took off at the sound of the sirens."

  "Did you get a look at him?"

  "Not much of one. He had on jeans and a sweatshirt, a baseball cap on his head. Didn't see his face. He jumped into a truck and took off. I wasn't close enough to get a license plate. I could guess at the make and model, but right now it's more important that we keep moving. If your father's concerns about law enforcement are valid, then we need to leave before the police find us."

  She hadn't even thought of that. "But you don't need to go with me. You're FBI. You can tell the police you went to the cabin, but I wasn't there. You can tell them about the shooter." She was actually proud of her suggestion, until Damon gave a quick shake of his head.

  "Not a chance. The shooter saw me. I have to be able to defend myself, and I can't do that if I get tied up with the local cops, not to mention the fact that you need me, Sophie." His hard gaze met hers. "You may not want to admit it, but you do. You can't underestimate who's after you."

  She shivered, and it wasn't just because of the recent gunshots. She still couldn't believe Damon had come after her.

  "Like it or not, we're in this together now," Damon said. "Where are we going?"

  "I'll tell you when we get there."

  "Why don't you let me drive?"

  Her hands were shaking and her heart was hammering against her chest, but there was no way she was giving up the wheel. It was all the control s
he had right now, and she was hanging on to it.

  Six

  Damon scoured the road as Sophie drove away from the cabin. Fortunately, she knew where she was going and was able to avoid the police activity at the house and the surrounding woods, but his pulse didn't slow down until they were at least ten miles away.

  He was actually impressed with Sophie's steady hand on the wheel. She was terrified and probably still dealing with a huge adrenaline rush, but she was keeping it together.

  He still wondered why she'd run from NYC to the lake house and what she'd gotten from the hiding spot in the fireplace; he was damned sure it wasn't just the gun. But that raised another question. If Alan didn't trust his fellow FBI agents, then why had he sent his daughter to a cabin he owned—a cabin next door to the one owned by the Rowlands?

  Sophie had said it was a secret cabin, but Vincent Rowland knew about it, and he could have told any number of people at any time.

  Vincent might not have believed there was any need for continued secrecy after he retired. And if Peter or Karen had contacted him last night and asked him if he knew where Sophie might run, he could have told them about the cabin.

  Not that Damon wanted to believe Peter or Karen had sent someone to the lake with a gun to take care of Sophie. But he couldn't rule it out.

  "When is the last time you spoke to Vincent Rowland?" he asked, glancing over at her.

  Sophie shot him a surprised look. They'd both been silent for the past twenty minutes, each lost in their own thoughts, but now he wanted to talk. He needed more information, and he needed it fast.

  "Vincent?" she echoed. "I don't think I've spoken to him since Jamie died. Why?"

  "Still wondering how anyone found you at the cabin."

  "Vincent wouldn't have told anyone. He and my dad had a pact. The cabins were their safe houses. And besides that, I've known Vincent since I was a child. The Rowlands were there for me and my father during the darkest days of our lives when my mom died. There's nothing you could say that would make me believe Vincent or Cassie would send a shooter to the lake to take me out."

  "I'm not saying that's what happened, but if Peter or Karen or anyone else at the FBI called Vincent or Cassie after you disappeared last night and said they were worried about you and asked if either of them know where you might go, it's possible someone might have mentioned the cabin in an attempt to help you. They wouldn't know about your father's warning not to trust anyone at the Bureau."

  "I suppose I could believe that," she conceded. "But Cassie is in London right now."

  "She still has a phone. What about Vincent?"

  "I don't know if he's in New York; he travels a lot."

  His phone vibrated in his pocket, and as he pulled it out, he realized he should have disabled the phone before leaving the cabin. "It's Peter," he said.

  "You can't answer that. You can't tell him where we are," she said, panic in her voice. "You shouldn't have even brought the phone with you. What if they're tracking us right now?"

  "I'll get rid of the phone as soon as I see if he leaves me a voicemail." He waited a moment, then saw the message. "Looks like he did."

  "Put it on speaker. If we're in this together, there can't be secrets between us."

  He did as she asked.

  "Damon, it's Peter Hunt. If you've located Sophie Parker, you need to bring her in. She's in serious danger. I'm extremely worried about both of you. Call me back."

  "That was fast," he muttered. "Obviously, Peter knows about the shootout at your cabin."

  Sophie glanced at her watch. "That was half an hour ago. How did they find out so quickly?"

  "They obviously traced the car to me and notified the FBI. Peter put two and two together, figuring I'd come after you." He paused. "What's the deal with you and Peter Hunt? Why didn't you ask him for help? He has obviously been a long-time family friend."

  "I told you—my dad said not to trust anyone. I didn't know if he was including Peter in that, but he certainly didn't tell me to go to Peter, so I didn't."

  "You said your father's last message was cut off. Maybe he would have said more if he had time."

  "He left me four voicemails before he got cut off, and he never mentioned Peter in any of them."

  He was surprised that Alan had left her that many messages. Her words also led him to believe that she still hadn't told him the whole story, but he'd questioned enough witnesses in his time to know when to push and when to retreat.

  Right now, Sophie was running high on emotions ranging from fear, to grief, to anger. He needed to let her burn some of that off before he tried to gain her confidence.

  He also needed to get rid of his phone. He didn't have a removable battery, so he turned off the power, then rolled down the window and tossed it into the bushes on the side of the road. Hopefully by the time anyone got to his last known location, he and Sophie would be miles away.

  As he disconnected from his phone, it felt both freeing and alarming. He'd gone undercover before and been without a phone, but he'd always had a contact at the Bureau, someone who knew where he was and what mission he was on. He could have called for backup at any point, and it would have come, but this was different. When he'd gotten into the car with Sophie, he'd chosen a side—her side.

  It was a little shocking how quickly and easily he'd done that.

  He told himself it was for Alan; that wasn't the complete truth. But motivation didn't matter. He and Sophie were on their own, and he needed to think about what to do next.

  "Where did you get this car?" he asked.

  "I rented it in New York. I paid in cash. I'm supposed to bring it back today, but I don't see how I can do that."

  "No, you can't do that. We're going to need to switch cars at some point. The FBI will already be checking with rental car agencies in Manhattan. Your photo will be sent around, and if they don't have this license plate number yet, they soon will."

  "How are we going to switch cars? We're in the mountains."

  "We'll figure it out. Hopefully, we have a little time."

  Several more minutes passed, then she said, "Will someone be worried about you, Damon? Someone you care about?"

  He wished he had a better answer to that question. "I'm sure my abandoned car and shot-up tires will cause some concern, but I just moved to New York a week ago, so I haven't gotten close to anyone. I barely know my coworkers' last names."

  "Why did you move? I thought you were a superstar in DC. My dad mentioned you a few months back, saying you were cracking some huge terrorism case. He was quite proud; he liked to brag about the successes of his students. You were one of his favorites." She cleared her throat. "I was happy to hear you were doing so well."

  "Were you?" he asked dryly.

  She shot him an indecipherable look. "Well, maybe happy is a little strong. But you didn't answer my question. Why did you leave DC?"

  "Your father made me an offer. He wanted me to work on his taskforce in New York. It was time for a change, so I said yes." He paused. "You never told your father you knew me, did you?"

  "I said I met you at the wake; that was it. I don't tell my father about one-night stands."

  "So, I wasn't your only one-night stand?"

  Something twitched in her gaze, then she turned her attention back on the road. "Does it matter?"

  It didn't matter, but he knew the truth. That night had been out of character for her. He'd known it at the time, but he just hadn't cared; he'd wanted her too much. He'd taken her yes at face value, because asking if she was sure might have changed her answer, and that had been unthinkable.

  "What was the task force my dad wanted you to work on?" she asked.

  "I don't know. I assumed it had to do with the focus of his division—organized crime. But he never got a chance to tell me. I was wrapping up some details on my last case, and he told me we'd get into my new assignment next week. I wasn't worried about what it was. I wanted to work with your father. I respected him a great deal.
He pushed me to do my best and I liked that. Whatever he wanted me to work on was fine with me."

  "A lot of his students felt that way about him, and it was a two-way street. My dad really cared about the people he worked with. He used to tell me that his biggest flaw was getting personally attached. I didn't understand how that could be a flaw, but maybe it made him vulnerable to betrayal."

  "You think he was betrayed?"

  "Yes," she said without hesitation. "By someone he trusted, and then he didn't know who to believe."

  "What else did he say in his message to you, Sophie?"

  Her hands tightened on the wheel, and she didn't look at him when she said, "I already told you. He was proud of me. He wanted me to have a happy and long life even if he couldn't be there. But he hoped he would be. He said he might be able to figure things out, but obviously he didn't have the time to do that."

  "I wish I could hear the messages," he muttered.

  "So do I," she said, a deep, wrenching pain in her voice. "You don't know how difficult it was for me to crush the phone, to destroy my last connection with him. I almost couldn’t do it."

  "But you did." He was starting to realize that the soft Sophie of his dreams had a steel core.

  "I knew I had to. I couldn't be sentimental about it."

  He couldn't imagine the difficulty of the choice she'd made to destroy her father's last message to her. That must have been agonizing; he knew how close they were. It would have been much easier for him, because he didn't feel close to either of his parents. Their actions had always been disappointing.

  He'd been told that he'd disappointed them, too. That was probably true. Clearing his throat, he repeated his earlier question. "Where are we going, Sophie?"

  "I'll tell you later."

  "Why not now?"

  "I don't know. It's just the way I feel."

  He disliked the edge in her voice, the distrust. The Sophie he'd met at Jamie's wake had been sad, but she'd also been open, warm, and caring. It was what had drawn him to her. He'd wanted to wrap himself up in her softness, her kindness, her passion, and he'd done just that.