Trust No One (Vista Security)

by Diana Layne

  “Yeah, bright side,” she muttered to herself.

  Navigating the fastest way through the deserted streets of the town, MJ turned her Mustang north to head for the highway. She perked up when a car turned in behind her. With the town basically rolled up for the night, it was unusual enough to encounter a car on city streets, but one turning after her as she headed for the highway was too much of a coincidence.

  Not Ben, though she knew he’d follow if he could. But even if he’d managed to wake up, his truck wasn’t drivable. Of course, he could have had another car stashed somewhere. She would have. But the likelihood of him waking up and moving at the kind of speed it would take to be behind her now just wasn’t feasible.

  Whether MJ slowed down or speeded up, the car stayed the same general distance behind her. When she got off the highway for a detour through a drive-through restaurant, the car didn’t follow. MJ knew better than to relax her guard, knowing if she were driving the car behind her, she’d be waiting on the other side of the entrance ramp.

  The aroma of strong coffee in her hand mingled with the smell of the hot apple pie waiting in the sack. It had been hours since dinner, the adrenaline rush from patching up Ben and sneaking out was wearing off. A good jolt of caffeine and sugar would give her a boost to ward off a fast-approaching slump.

  She took a sip of coffee, almost spewed the scalding brew back out. She swallowed, felt a blister form on the roof of her mouth. “Damn.” Hadn’t that lawsuit done any good? She twisted her lips in a grimace, blew into the little hole in her coffee lid, sipped more cautiously. She pulled back onto the highway.

  As she had expected, the car was waiting for her. It took up its place behind her again, keeping the distance between them steady.

  Sixty miles further into the trip, the coffee now cold and more than half gone, and a long stretch of empty road ahead of her, MJ found herself feeling bored and bitchy. With the car still tagging behind her, she decided to liven up the evening.

  Time to test out the new rebuilt engine.

  “Let’s see what kind of muscle you got,” she said to the rearview mirror, watching the car behind her. She downshifted to third, stepped on the gas. The engine growled, the Mustang shot forward. MJ let the rpm’s build and popped the gearshift back to fourth. By the time she had the gas pedal to the floorboard, the speedometer had pegged 120 mph.

  The car behind her sped up as well, keeping the same distance between them. “Interesting. Something with power definitely.”

  MJ held the Mustang wide open—wide fucking open as those racing boys liked to say—and the car behind never wavered. She saw an approaching exit for a farm-to-market road.

  “Okay, you got horsepower, so what kind of driver are you?”

  Lessons from Ed came into play as she hit the exit just under 100 mph. The back of the car fishtailed but she straightened it easy enough. Like most fathers, or men stuck in fatherly roles, Ed taught his new kids what he thought they needed to know. Not something simple like take a jacket when it’s cold or make sure your cell phone is charged. No, for Ed, important lessons consisted of learning to drive fast, and to maneuver a car through obstacles at high rates of speed.

  She had the speed. Now for the obstacles. The approaching turn to the farm road fit the role—she tilted the car on two wheels to make the 90 degree turn. The car behind her lost speed, but on the straight stretch of road, caught back up to the Mustang easily enough, suggesting it had more horses under the hood than the Mustang.

  Ahead MJ saw a small country post office. Next lesson of Ed’s—how to spin a car in a tight 180 at speeds a little less than needed to reach orbit. The tires screeched with the fast turn into the post office parking lot. MJ worked the clutch, gearshift, brake and steering wheel as well as any musician on a fine instrument, and spun the car in a half circle to head out again.

  With no electric window, she rolled the window down by hand before snatching her gun off the passenger seat. Prepared for Ed’s last lesson. How to shoot out the tires of a moving car with her left hand while driving. She pulled back onto the road just as the Porsche pulled even with the parking lot.

  Porsche. The car stopped MJ from shooting, not that she meant to shoot anyway, unless it had been necessary.

  But the car was a sleek silver Porsche 911. Tasha.

  The thought registered at the same time MJ realized the Porsche hadn’t stopped. MJ spun the car around in another U-turn and took off after Tasha.

  The pursued became the pursuer.

  The blacktopped two-lane farm road was riddled with curves. MJ kept the car steady easy enough, but the Porsche pulled away. Tasha was as skilled a driver as MJ, and her car had more power.

  “Come back here, damn it. I want to go home to my daughter.” MJ slammed her hand on the steering wheel. Just then Tasha spun around a tight curve that was almost 90 degrees. The car skidded crazily before straightening back out. MJ hardly had time to draw a breath before she was forced into the turn too. Her heart pounded in her throat while she fought to keep her car on the road. An unexpected turn like that at 120 miles an hour made the adrenaline pump.

  Her cell phone rang. Her hand still shook from adrenaline overload as she answered.

  “Wasn’t that fun?” Tasha’s voice came across as breathless, excited.

  “My idea of fun has changed over the years.” MJ tried to keep a level voice though her throat was still tight.

  “Your pretty pink Mustang doesn’t have enough ponies to keep up with my baby.”

  They were on a straight stretch of road again and once more, Tasha’s Porsche pulled away.

  No, MJ’s car wasn’t a match. Niko had spent a whole summer rebuilding the 1976 turbo charged 911 Carrera for his sister as a college graduation present, bitching the whole time at the intricate German engineering.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Race you to the highway,” Tasha challenged, ignoring MJ’s question.

  “Damn it, what’s with the dead senators?”

  “Don’t have time to talk now. I have places to go, and I’ve played around long enough.”

  “Tasha, I want to go home.”

  “Turn your car around, and I’ll give you a head start.”

  The phone went dead. The Porsche taillights flashed. MJ jerked her foot to the brake to stop from slamming into Tasha’s car. The tires squealed as MJ spun 180 again, and jammed the Mustang into gear. She’d need a set of tires after this. Possibly a new clutch, too.

  But she wasn’t going to race. She slowed down, looking for a place to pull over. No prospects in sight since the two-lane road didn’t have a shoulder, just a large grassy ditch ran beside the road. So far Tasha was still following.

  MJ’s phone rang again.

  “Speed up.”

  “Tasha, racing makes no sense.”

  “We have sense now?”

  MJ blew out a breath. “Tasha, you know why I’m after you. Make it easy on me.”

  “I’m not ready to die yet.”

  “What? You think I’m going to kill you?”

  “Not you, whoever they sent. Cute guy.”

  “He said he doesn’t have orders to kill you.”

  “You know him?”

  “No.”

  “So you believe him because. . .”

  Tasha had a point. MJ had been so busy building up her defenses against Ben, she hadn’t considered Tasha in danger yet. “Just tell me what’s going on?”

  “All in good time . . . sis. Now, put your car in gear and get a move on, or you’ll never find me again.”

  “Damn it, Tash–”

  The line went dead.

  MJ resisted flinging the phone through the windshield. Feeling manipulated every step of the way, MJ opened her Mustang one more time. Tasha held the Porsche steady behind her, and MJ felt a whole sense of déjà vu.

  Her phone rang again as she approached the highway.

  “Nice car. You rebuild the engine yourself?”

 
; “Yep.”

  “Niko taught you well.”

  “He did.” MJ paused. “Where is he? He’s disappeared.”

  A pause from Tasha this time. “I have an idea where he is.”

  “Is he in trouble?”

  “I don’t know for sure.”

  “But you know something?”

  “I know where he was.”

  Now, wasn’t that cryptic. But the back and forth was getting nowhere. “Give up the senators and let’s find him.”

  “Can’t do that yet. I’m not finished.”

  “Can you not finish and pretend you did? Just come in, damn it.”

  Again, Tasha ignored her, giving MJ the impression that she was seriously behind in the script. Senators, Tasha, Niko, she had no clue how they all tied in together.

  “Head back north on the highway,” Tasha instructed. “You were going in the right direction. I’ll be in touch.”

  The phone went dead again. MJ tried to redial the number, got no answer. It was on Tasha’s terms then. Once back on the highway, the sleek silver Porsche blew by the pink Mustang like it was sitting still.

  No doubt, Tasha didn’t want to be late for her appointment. An appointment that gave MJ a relentless stomach-sinking feeling that was most likely with another senator.

  * * *

  “Why are they leaving? Why do we have to leave our homes?” Fatima’s voice rose shrilly with each word.

  Questions Ben heard repeated often in the last 72 hours. In shrill voices, screeching voices, soft voices filled with despair and tears, loud voices raised with anger and fear. No need to explain the troops were pulling out, leaving the city unprotected from insurgents. No need to explain that leaving, while dangerous, was much safer than staying. He’d said it all already in three different languages.

  So he patted his wife’s knee, knowing she only needed reassurance. “Everything will be fine. And now your father is free.” Fatima’s father had been arrested by the allies on a stupid charge that Ben had tried his best to clear. The soldiers released the man when they decided to pull out of the city.

  “Father! Mother! Are they still behind us? Is everyone fine?” She tried to look out the side mirror, but they were set for his view not hers.

  “Your family is two vehicles behind us. I see them.” There had been too many family members to fit into one jeep, so her mother, father and two younger brothers took one, while he, Fatima, the baby and Fatima’s little sister took another.

  “Relax, or you’re going to wake the baby.” Ben sent her a smile meant to soothe.

  Her face softened. She glanced down at her sleeping son. “I never dreamed I could love him so much.”

  “He’s a part of you, how could you not?”

  She looked at Ben and said fiercely, “I wish he were yours.”

  “He is mine,” Ben said, and meant every word. “I will take care of him for the rest of my life,” he added, and meant those words as well.

  She took his hand. “You’re a good man, Benjamin. We’re lucky to have you. You always make me feel safe.”

  He saw it then, a movement just off to the right of the vehicle. He jerked his hand away. “Hang on,” he warned her. “Keep a tight hold on the baby.”

  He gripped the steering wheel as an insurgent tossed what had to be a bomb under their jeep.

  Ben tried to steer around the IED. He jerked the wheel hard left, so close he could reach out and touch the side of the mountain with his hand. The sudden move tossed Fatima and the baby to the seat.

  “Keep down,” he ordered.

  He thought he’d made it when another IED he couldn’t avoid rolled in front of the jeep. There was no road left, nowhere to move to avoid it. The squad leader implemented the electronic countermeasure device equipped vehicle, but nothing could stop an IED launched by hand.

  The right front tire landed squarely on the bomb. The explosion happened in vivid, high-density color, slow motion.

  “Nooooo!”

  Ben woke up screaming. He shot upright, struggling to breathe. Blinking rapidly, he looked around the room without anything coming into focus. Nothing he recognized.

  Where the hell was he?

  As the adrenaline seeped out, his breathing deepened. More oxygen rushed to his brain. Then it came to him that he was still in MJ’s apartment.

  With no sign of MJ.

  God damn it.

  His head felt more stuffed than a cotton sack; she must’ve knocked him out with something potent. Still his brain wasn’t so fuzzy that he didn’t doubt his first impression he was alone. Emptiness permeated the apartment, more potent than a poison gas.

  Serious fucking mistake—sucked into believing a beautiful woman. How long had he been out?

  A scan of the room showed no clock in sight. He pulled out his phone, checked the time. Almost four hours. Even allowing time for her to drop off the baby with the sitter, she still had at least a good three hour head start.

  The sucky thing of it was his shoulder still hurt like a bitch. No help for it.

  Ben pushed himself to his feet, and just then noticed a note taped to the front door. He walked that way, his head spinning now that he was on both feet. Definitely made it hard to walk a straight line. He read the note taped to the door with a key.

  Cop’s still snooping around. Be careful, he’s looking for a truck with a broken windshield, so I would stay away from it. If you’re still in pain, the real OTC pain medicine is on the kitchen counter. Use the key to lock up when you leave. P.S. I left my biggest sweatshirt out for you. Try not to get blood on it, okay?

  Ben took a deep breath, which helped to clear his head some. First, he found the shirt she’d left and pulled it on. A little snug, but he felt more in command fully dressed again. Next, to find a good car to temporarily borrow without the owner’s permission.

  Thank God he’d had the forethought to make sure she couldn’t go anywhere in that Mustang of hers without him being able to follow. But at this point, did he have the strength for a long drawn out chase? Did he have the energy? Or should he give up now and call Jeff for reinforcements and head back to oblivion? Kill the pain in his shoulder and his heart . . . .

  Chapter 8

  For a little over an hour MJ concentrated on driving, enjoying the almost deserted highway, the steady purr of the Mustang’s motor keeping unpleasant thoughts away. Yet when she slowed to find the exit, the conversation between her and Tasha replayed in MJ’s mind.

  That appointment Tasha said she had to make. Was it really an appointment, or was she on the way to her next victim? Of course, that was the only logical conclusion. But as MJ thought about it, she couldn’t fathom what had set Tasha on a killing spree. Damn, why couldn’t the woman have answered some questions instead of racing away? Numerous redials to Tasha’s number just sent her straight to voicemail indicating she’d turned off her phone.

  MJ didn’t like this game; she felt too much like a mouse being batted around by a cat, only escaping long enough to think freedom was near before being pounced on again. And eventually devoured.

  No, MJ didn’t like either the analogy or the feeling it invoked.

  Here was hoping Ed’s wife had some answers. Or if not, maybe there was something in Ed’s office to give her a clue. If Lauryn hadn’t already cleared out all his papers, a distinct possibility since Lauryn was one of the most anal, organizing freaks MJ had ever known.

  MJ frowned. She hadn’t seen Ed since before she’d taken off for her last assignment. He suffered a massive heart attack and died while she lay hovering near death herself from Keith’s bullet. When she found out, the loss of someone else close to her had nearly crippled her.

  When the children had gone to live in their new home, Lauryn had mostly ignored the three “renegade projects” as she liked to call them. Lauryn loved the appearance of being self-sacrificing and loving, and volunteered for many worthwhile causes, but in reality, she wasn’t mother material. Ed had been the one to step into the par
ent role when an automobile accident had killed both MJ’s parents and Tasha and Niko’s dad, and left their mother in a coma.

  MJ’s grandparents had been dead for years, and while Tasha and Niko had family in Russia, they didn’t remember them and had no desire to go to their home country. Understandably, they wanted to stay in the United States and hold out hope for their mother’s recovery.

  With all her nine-year-old logic, MJ had sometimes resented that other two children’s mother survived. No matter she lay in a coma, there was hope she would come back. And at least the brother and sister had each other. Other than Ed, who worked very long hours, MJ had no one.

  Until Nikolai.

  Four years separated Tasha and MJ, and even if they’d been closer in age, the two girls were as different as night and day. Tasha was beautiful, and by age thirteen, she’d begun honing her skills to use her beauty to her advantage. Rebellious and at times uncontrollable during her teen years, Tasha ran off with friends, usually a group of boys looking for trouble. Rumors were she’d had an abortion before she was seventeen.

  While MJ, more studious and definitely gawkier, kept to herself, did her lessons, made good grades. And inside, slowly died from loneliness.

  Until Nikolai.

  The first thing Niko did after getting his driver’s license was buy an old Chevy Corvette. The engine needed work, and he had access to tools and the desire to learn.

  One afternoon, the school bus dropped her off and she found Niko already home and working on the car. She wouldn’t have expected to find him anyplace else. But at the rate he was going, he might have the car running in time for her to get her driver’s license in two years.

  “Hey, MJ, give me a hand, will you?” he called from under the car.

  “Okay, hang on.” MJ neatly stacked her school books on the wooden patio table on the back porch. Back at the car, she squatted next to the scuffed up Nikes, the only part of his body visible from beneath Corvette. “What do you need?”

  “Hand me that wrench, would you?” He moved a leg in the general direction of a stack of tools. “The three-quarter socket.”