“Try the stove. I don’t think it’s been that long since someone was living here.”
Tara slowly made her way across the dilapidated floor on hands and knees. She found the stove and patted the area around it, coming up empty.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Keep trying.”
So she tried again, still finding nothing, her frustration rising. She was about to turn away when her hand brushed against something solid, sent it toppling. She quickly reached out, groped for it and caught it just before it hit the floor.
A lamp. A kerosene lamp.
She picked it up, shook it, found that there was still fluid inside. Which was all well and good, but without matches, it was useless.
Setting the lamp aside, Tara took one last lap around the track and ran her hands up the sides of the stove.
There it was, an indentation carved into the iron, carrying a small, oblong box.
Tara removed the box, heard the rattle of match-sticks, surprised that something so simple could bring her such a feeling of triumph. But she felt it nevertheless, another rainbow spreading through her, a tiny but significant sliver of hope.
She knew this was an overreaction, brought to her courtesy of what might well be the worst day of her entire life, but that didn’t matter. She allowed herself to enjoy this moment. To revel in it.
They had escaped. They were safe.
And now they had light.
Tara opened the box and struck one of the matches. Reaching for the lamp, she removed the chimney and put the flame to the wick, then adjusted the level until the lamp burned brightly.
Replacing the chimney, she grabbed the light by its handle and turned around. “Ta-da!”
But her smile faded as she realized Matt’s eyes were closed, his bare chest gently rising and falling.
He was asleep.
She crouched next to the cot again and brought the lamp close to his wound. It was a nasty gash and would probably need stitches, but it was nothing life threatening.
Matt’s skin glowed in the light. She held the lamp over him for a moment, staring unabashedly at his muscular frame, noting a thin scar along his abdomen. Appendix?
Something deadlier?
Believe me, he’d said, I’ve been through worse.
Feeling a small but familiar tingle inside her, Tara resisted the urge to reach out and touch the scar. It seemed to be begging for her to run her fingers along it, just as she’d run them along his arm, searching for his wound.
But she didn’t act on the impulse. Dropped her free hand to her side and kept it there.
He’s a stranger, she told herself. You barely know him.
But he wasn’t a complete stranger, was he? There was that feeling of kinship she’d felt earlier, and in the past few hours, Matt had proven himself to be thoughtful and kind and courageous. An inner beauty that more than matched the handsome, rugged exterior.
He didn’t seem to be a creature of ego. He simply was what he was: a man who did his job and kept his promises.
And she felt safe with him.
Protected.
What more could she want?
Tara had spent her entire adult life dating men who turned out to be much less than what she had hoped for. She had developed a pattern of attraction that seemed to reflect her animosity for her father. Had fallen in and out of love with men who showered her with attention, blissfully ignoring the fact that this attention had little to do with who she was as a woman, and everything to do with the desire to share her bed.
She had never given herself away easily, and when she did succumb, she hadn’t always regretted it—she had needs and desires equally as strong as theirs. But unlike her mother, she had never found her Henry.
That one perfect match.
Her soul mate.
And while her mother was proof that it could happen, Tara began to believe that it may never happen for her.
Was she too picky?
Should she have simply settled for less in hopes that it would grow into something more?
Should she have said yes when Ron the newscaster had asked her to move in? Or when Eric the architect had halfheartedly suggested they marry? Neither of them were even remotely like her father, but neither of them had occupied a place in her heart the way she had hoped they would.
Those relationships lasted months rather than years, and Tara blamed herself for that. Weeks in, she had felt as if she were pretending, only going through the motions because that was what was expected of her.
But she wasn’t happy. Hadn’t felt that twinge of satisfaction she knew she should be feeling whenever she was around these men. Whenever she thought of them.
So the search for her fantasy man continued.
And as she stood there, crouched over Matt, staring at his perfectly muscled body in the warm lamplight, she wondered, for the just the briefest of moments, if she had found him.
It was a ridiculous notion, of course, born out of stress and fear and hardship, but in that one brief moment, something swelled in her heart. Something warm. Exciting. A vague yet unmistakable feeling of…
What?
Fulfillment?
But that moment was gone as quickly as it came and Tara had to remind herself once again what Matt did for a living and how that kind of man had nearly ruined her childhood. If it hadn’t been for her mother’s strength, her mother’s unending optimism and love, Tara would probably be a basketcase right now.
The day her father died, she made a vow to herself, finally bringing to the surface a thought she had carried in her subconscious for years: that she would never allow herself to fall for a man like him. Would never subject herself to a life of waiting and worrying and wondering.
When will he come home?
Will he come home?
She could not and would not go through that.
As she lowered the lamp, Matt stirred and opened those green-gray eyes.
He silently studied her in the lamplight, and she couldn’t be sure he was fully awake. Wasn’t quite sure if he was seeing her, or some phantom from a dream.
Smiling slightly, he reached up and touched the side of her face, using his thumb to wipe away a smudge of dirt or blood.
Tara thought it was one of the most intimate gestures she’d ever experienced. Her heart swelled again, and she felt an unmistakable stirring in her loins. That same feeling of desire that overcame her as she’d stared at his scar. She wanted to lean forward, to kiss him, taste his lips, feel his tongue brushing against hers….
But then he lowered the hand and closed his eyes again. Fell back asleep. She wondered for a moment if she, too, was asleep. Was seeing phantoms of her own.
No, she could still feel the warmth of that hand on her cheek. Could still see those green-gray eyes staring up at her.
But with great reluctance, she dismissed it all from her mind, knowing this was something that wasn’t meant to be. Like Ron the Newscaster and Eric the Architect, she would be remembering him as Matt the Cop and regretting she’d ever gotten involved with him.
Hating herself for it.
Better to stop now before it started. Fewer casualties that way.
Setting the lamp on the floor, she removed the tourniquet above his bicep, then tore another strip of his shirt and used it to cover the wound. It wasn’t close to being clean, but she figured it was better than nothing. And tomorrow, when they reached the city, he could be properly taken care of.
When she was done, it occurred to her that this place, this ramshackle structure, gave them only the illusion of safety. If she and Matt knew about the mine, then there was a good chance that the others did, too.
Moving to the window, she decided that her time here would be better spent standing vigil. Watching the darkness.
Watching for Carl.
And The Brotherhood.
Eight
“How long was I asleep?” Matt asked.
It took Tara a moment to answer. “Not long
. Less than an hour, I think.”
The cot groaned beneath Matt as he fought his way through the cobwebs in his head and sat up. His arm was throbbing. Felt stiff and brittle. But the nap had rejuvenated him a bit and he was feeling stronger now. Not one hundred percent, but definitely a good three-quarters of the way there.
Ten months in prison had taught him the value of power naps. Getting a full eight hours was next to impossible when you’re surrounded by a constant barrage of taunts and threats and, sometimes, shouts of pain.
Tara stood at the window, her gaze on the campground beyond. The past few hours had gone by so fast, he’d almost forgotten how stunning she was.
He vaguely remembered seeing her face in a dream and reaching out to touch it, thinking he might have died and that she was his guardian angel, here to guide him to heaven.
Matt wasn’t sure he even believed in heaven, but if it did exist and he was lucky enough one day to be headed that way, he wouldn’t mind having Tara as his traveling companion.
But then this brought up thoughts of violence and death and, if he had anything to say about it, nobody would be dying tonight.
He’d seen his share of death, had struggled for years to come to terms with it, and had no desire to repeat that struggle.
Tara was an innocent. A bystander. And he would do everything he could to keep her safe.
Assuming he could stay awake.
“Sorry for passing out on you,” he said.
Tara turned now, facing him. She had smudges of dirt and a few specks of blood on her face and clothes, but this didn’t mar the image. “You’re kidding, right? I’m surprised you didn’t pass out on the back of that horse.”
He shrugged. “I had a beautiful woman to prop me up.”
He was fairly certain this wasn’t the first time she’d heard such a compliment, but you wouldn’t know it by her reaction. “Are you sure that bullet didn’t graze your skull, too?”
He offered her a small laugh in response and she joined in, a short retreat from the seriousness of their situation.
Then Matt sobered and nodded toward the window. “They’ve found the horse by now. They’re out there looking for us.”
She nodded. “I’ve been waiting. Not that I’ll know what to do if they show up.”
He gestured to the lamp. “I don’t suppose there’s enough fuel in this thing to help us find someone with a phone?”
“I wouldn’t want to chance it unless we’re forced to. And I wouldn’t want to be stuck out there without light.”
Matt was itching to get moving, itching to let his people know what The Brotherhood was up to, but she was right. Unless Carl and his cronies found them, they’d have to stay here until morning.
Hopefully that wouldn’t be too late.
Zane had said that detonation of the federal courthouse was scheduled for nine o’clock, but that plan might have changed in reaction to their escape.
There was also the question of who to tell. There were only two people who knew what Matt was up to. Only two people who knew that the ten months he spent in prison were a sham. And one of those two people had just given him up to Zane.
He looked toward the window. “I guess if they do show up, there’s no point in making it easy for them.”
He leaned over and blew the lamp out, plunging them into near darkness. Rising from the cot, he flexed his bicep slightly, feeling the sting of the wound, then crossed the room and joined her at the window.
“You must be exhausted,” he said. “Let me take over for a while.”
“I’m too keyed up to sleep.”
He could barely see her in the moonlight, but now that he was up close, he sensed that she was shivering. He was shirtless, and not exactly warm and toasty himself, and he briefly entertained the thought of slipping an arm around her and pulling her close to generate to some heat. But however good-natured the gesture was, it might not be welcomed.
And he had to admit that his motives weren’t completely pure.
Instead, he grabbed the tattered blanket that lay atop the cot and draped it over her shoulders.
She watched the darkness beyond the window again, clutching the blanket tighter against her body.
Her eyes reflected the pale moonlight and he thought he saw tears in them.
“You okay?”
It was a stupid question. How could she possibly be okay after what they’d been through? What they were still going through? But it would’ve been awkward to stand there and watch her cry without saying something.
“It’s silly,” she said, “but I was just thinking about my nieces.”
“Nieces?”
“Kelly and Kimberly. They’re four years old. Twins. Called me the other night and asked me if I’d come watch them sing at the new Performing Arts Center tomorrow. I promised I would.” She paused. “I guess that’s out of the question now.”
“Don’t worry,” Matt said. “You’ll make it up to them.”
She laughed mirthlessly, a tinge of bitterness to her voice. “Where have I heard that one before?”
Then she retreated from the window, leaned against the adjacent wall and slid to the floor. “I guess I’m no better than my father.”
Matt sat down next to her. Knew that the events of the day had begun to overwhelm her, and figured the best course of action was to simply let her talk.
“He made promises all the time,” she said. “But I can’t count on one hand how many he kept. He always had trouble with the follow-through.”
“You were taken hostage by three escaped convicts. I’m sure your nieces will understand.”
“My father had good excuses, too, but I never understood. All I knew was that he wasn’t there when I needed him to be. After a while I just gave up, and he quit pretending.”
“Pretending?”
“To love me. To care about me. And I don’t want Kelly and Kimberly to think I don’t care about them.”
“Sounds to me as if you love them too much to let that happen.”
She nodded. “Susan’s done a wonderful job. They’re almost like my own.”
“Then I guess it’s safe to assume you don’t have any children?”
Another mirthless laugh. “No children, no husband. Just work.” She shook her head. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my job, but sometimes—I don’t know—I just get that ache. A house in the suburbs, two-point-five kids, someone to share my life with…My mom was disappointed the first time around, but she finally got it right. And I guess I want that, too.” She paused. “But listen to me, crying in my beer. What about you? Do you have a family?”
“Two healthy parents and three brothers,” Matt said.
“Older or younger?”
“I’m the oldest. About six years ahead of the others. And when I decided to go into law enforcement, they followed in my footsteps.”
“Oh?”
“Mark and Evan are working together as sheriff’s deputies out in Fort Worth, and the youngest, Sam, is on the SWAT team in Los Angeles.”
“That’s a lot of broken hearts,” she said.
Matt frowned. “What do you mean?”
“My father was a cop, too. And the only time he ever paid attention to me was when he wanted to show me off to his friends. ‘Look at the pretty little thing I created. Isn’t she a cutie?’ He was the same with my sister Susan. If he could’ve bronzed us, he would’ve put us on his shelf with his bowling trophies.” She drew in her bottom lip. “He really screwed up, you know?”
“I’m sure it wasn’t intentional.”
“Oh? The straw-and-the-camel’s-back moment came when I was about sixteen. It was a Friday night and Susan and I were out on dates, when some guy broke into the house, assaulted Mom on the sofa. Would’ve raped her, too, if I hadn’t come home and pepper sprayed the creep. He took off and she wound up in the hospital.”
“Jeez,” Matt said. “And where was your father? On the job?”
“That might’ve been a decent
excuse. Better than the one we found out about a couple months later.”
“Which was?”
“Turned out he was sleeping with his partner at the time. A woman who had the gall to sit at our table for Thanksgiving dinner.”
Matt was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I can understand your anger. I really can. And I know you got a raw deal. But what does any of that have to do with my brothers and me?”
“They’re cops. You’re a cop. You’re all the same.”
There was a bitterness in her voice that was hard to ignore. A hurt. But he couldn’t let her statement go unchecked.
“You’re using an awfully broad brush, Tara. Not all cops are like that. I’m not like that.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But what does that prove? You don’t have a wife and kids waiting for you at home.”
Matt knew she didn’t mean anything by this. Knew that it was coming from a place of pain. And exhaustion. But she had managed to insult him and stir up unwanted memories at the same time, and he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t keep the heat from rising in his chest.
He thought about what Zane had said to him earlier.
Collateral Damage. Something I understand you’re pretty familiar with.
Barely controlling his anger, the words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to stop them.
“You’re right,” he told her. “I don’t have anyone waiting for me at home. Not anymore.”
She was silent as it sank in. “Anymore?”
Matt took a breath, not wanting to say it. He didn’t like saying it. Never had, never would.
“My wife and daughter are dead.”
Nine
Six words.
Six simple words.
Separately they meant nothing, but hearing them strung together into a sentence—into that particular sentence—delivered a devastating blow to Tara’s chest.
My wife and daughter are dead.
Dead.
Like anyone, Tara had felt foolish many times in her life, but she didn’t think she’d ever felt it with quite the same intensity as she did at that moment.
Foolish. Absurdly so.
Deep Cover Page 5