And as amazing as it felt to have him inside her, to feel him on top of her, flesh against flesh, his lips pressed against her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, it was the words she remembered, the words he had spoken with such unabashed sincerity that she couldn’t deny them. Didn’t want to deny them.
In any other context they might be the corniest words ever uttered, but they had been meant for her, only her, coming from a man who brought to the surface feelings and emotions Tara had never before felt.
When I look at you…
I see my soul.
And it was true. She saw her soul, too. Felt as if they were connected by some unseen, unspoken force. A shared emotional history, an understanding of what it means to be alone.
And maybe he was her soul mate.
Her Henry.
Matt’s breathing began to quicken now and she sensed that, like her, he was close. Very close. A wave of pleasure rolled through her, threatening to capsize her and carry her away.
And in that moment, Tara knew that no matter what happened after this, if this night were never to be repeated, was merely the merging of two wounded souls in search of temporary refuge from a lonely and violent world…she would never forget it.
Would never regret it.
Would always remember it as the most exhilarating night of her life.
Matt lay still now, breathing quietly beside her. Tara snaked her arm around him, kissed his cheek, then let her hand drop down, brushing her nails against him, teasing him.
Unfortunately, there was no time for a repeat performance. Not if they wanted to look presentable for Ron and his crew.
“Shower,” she said. “We both need one.”
“Is that a command or an invitation?”
She laughed against his neck. Kissed him there. “Both. We’ll save time if we go in together.”
So that’s what they did, sharing Tara’s bar of rose petal soap, lathering up each other. Then Matt grabbed the shave cream and squirted her, a pile of foam gathering on her neck and breasts.
They laughed and laughed hard, as Tara wiped the foam from her chest and smeared it on his face, smashing his nose with her palm.
And then suddenly, still in perfect sync, they both stopped laughing and stared at each other.
Said nothing for a long moment.
Let the water cascade over their bodies.
Reaching up, Matt gingerly touched her bruise, then put his lips there, as if to kiss away the pain. Then he kissed the tip of her nose, her lips, and she turned away and pressed her backside into him, feeling him grow against her, wanting him again, wanting him inside her.
A moment later, she got her wish.
And the wave came crashing into her, harder and faster than ever before.
As much as Tara hated the idea of Matt wearing his filthy clothes again, they didn’t have a choice. She had nothing to replace them with.
Besides, considering that he’d be pleading his case on camera any minute now, it was probably best to keep him in character, as calculating as that might sound.
Tara knew from long experience that the viewing public made far too many snap judgments based on first impressions, and if a freshly laundered escaped convict were to show up on camera, they’d likely smell a rat. It was bad enough that she and Matt had taken a shower, but she couldn’t have gone another minute without one.
Maybe she was overanalyzing all of this. Who really cared what the public thought? Their only goal here was to spur the police into taking action against The Brotherhood.
When Matt was dressed, he squeezed her hand and said, “I’ll try Abernathy one more time.”
As he went into the living room, Tara ran a comb through her freshly washed hair, then checked the clock on her nightstand, wondering why her doorbell hadn’t yet rung.
Ron and his crew should have been here by now.
And as she crossed to her bedroom doorway, she heard a sound, jerked her head up.
Her front door burst open and a platoon of Sheriff’s deputies crashed into the room wearing helmets and flak jackets, their automatic weapons pointed straight at Tara and Matt.
“Down!” one of them shouted. “Noses to the floor! Get down! Now!”
Before Tara could fully comprehend what was happening, she was facedown on the carpet, the barrel of an automatic rifle touching the back of her head as her arms were jerked behind her and nylon cuffs were wrapped around her wrists.
“Don’t even flinch, lady. You’re under arrest for harboring a fugitive.”
Eighteen
Jimmy Zane was watching television when someone knocked on his office door.
The satellite signal, which had been hacked and cloned by one of his men in the computer pool, was coming in clean and clear tonight. This pleased Zane, because it gave him a chance to watch his plan in action. A plan he had been working on for two long years.
A special bulletin played out on-screen, a report on the capture of prison escapee and wanted fugitive, Nick Stanton. Stanton was found at the apartment of one Tara Richmond, a KWEST Television news producer—which was ironic, since the reporter covering the arrest was KWEST’s most trusted news anchor, Ron Michaels.
The video footage, with a fancy graphic that read RECORDED EARLIER, showed Stanton and Richmond being perp-walked in handcuffs to a pair of Sheriff’s patrol cars. The news anchor watched in stunned disbelief, a look of unscripted horror on his makeup-caked face.
Despite that horror, however, he managed to keep babbling. “Sheriff’s deputies say they were tipped by an anonymous caller as to the whereabouts of convicted murderer, Nick Stanton. The question of Ms. Richmond’s involvement remains unclear, but sources close to the investigation say that she could be charged with aiding and abetting a fugitive from justice.”
Zane detested men like Michaels. He detested all reporters, who only existed to feed on the misery of others in order to sell bottles of beer or prescription drugs or shiny new hybrid cars and SUVs.
They were vultures, plain and simple. Birds of prey who were more interested in sensationalism than the truth. Who hovered over the carcasses of the disadvantaged and the misunderstood, picking at their bones in search of a story, any story, that would keep their viewers glued to the screen.
They’d have that story tomorrow.
And there would plenty of carcasses to choose from.
Someone knocked again, but Zane ignored it, watching the arrest play out on the screen, amused by something he had just noticed.
Stanton—aka Special Agent Matt Hathaway—was wearing a Marine-green T-shirt with the words NEVER SURRENDER written across the chest.
There was a third knock and Zane sighed. He hated being interrupted at times like this. Much of his work was done in the wee hours, when he could be alone with this thoughts, the pressures of running a command like The Brotherhood momentarily lifted.
But not tonight, apparently.
Frowning now, he grabbed the remote, flicked off the television and called out, “Yes? What is it?”
The door opened and Cameron, one of his best lieutenants, stuck his head inside the room. “We have Maddox.”
“Where?”
“Right outside.”
Zane tossed the remote to the desktop and nodded. “Bring him in.”
A moment later, Cameron returned with two security men who held Carl Maddox by the arms as they marched him into the room.
Zane gestured and they sat Maddox down in a chair in front of the desk.
Maddox was scowling. As defiant as always.
“Leave us,” Zane said to his men.
“Do you want him cuffed?”
Zane shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.”
With a quick salute, Cameron and the security men left the room. Zane returned the salute, then studied Maddox silently, half expecting the idiot to blurt out something in his own defense, to try to weasel out of what was a clear violation of The Brotherhood’s code.
But Maddox s
aid nothing. Simply stared at Zane from across the desk, his eyes hard and his jaw set.
Zane leaned forward in his chair.
“What possessed you,” he asked, “to disobey a direct order?”
Maddox’s gaze didn’t waver. “Which order was that?”
“Don’t be coy with me, soldier. I told you not to go after the traitor and the girl, but you chose to ignore my command. A breach that could have been detrimental to our entire plan.”
“Detrimental?” Maddox said. “What are you talking about? The guy’s a federal agent. He could expose everything.”
“That’s exactly what I want him to do.”
Maddox’s eyes widened and he leaned forward in his chair. “You what?”
“We’re playing chess here, Carl. Not tiddledy-winks. And even when you have a sound strategy and surprise on your side, sometimes a subtle bit of misdirection is necessary to throw off your opponent.”
“What the heck are you talking about?”
“The feds have a strong presence in Whitestone,” Zane said. “Not to mention the local Sheriff’s department and SWAT team. When I found out the FBI was attempting to infiltrate our organization, I could have pulled the plug on the entire operation right then and there, but that would have been admitting defeat before we’d even gone to war. So then I thought, why not counter their move in a way that would get them to focus their attention in another direction entirely? One that would broadcast their incompetence to the world. That’s why I let you and Rusty bring the traitor here in the first place.”
Maddox shook his head in confusion and disgust. “You’ve lost me completely.”
“I know that, Carl. That’s why I give the orders and you obey them. And I don’t like being second-guessed.”
“Well cry me a freakin’ river. Nobody tells me what to do.”
Zane smiled, but it wasn’t meant to be friendly. There was no mirth in it whatsoever.
He was losing his patience with Maddox, but despite the man’s flaws, Maddox was also a patriot. And as far as Zane was concerned, every patriot deserved a second chance.
Assuming he was willing to accept the conditions.
“Know this,” he told Carl. “And I’ll say it in terms even someone of your limited intellectual capacity can comprehend.” He paused. “If you ever disobey an order again, if you ever so much as say a contrary word to me, I will have you shot. Do you understand?”
Maddox opened his mouth to protest, but Zane left no room for disagreement.
“Do. You. Understand?”
Maddox swallowed, looking considerably paler and less defiant than he had when he was first brought into the office. He slowly nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I can’t hear you, soldier.”
“Yes, sir!” Carl shouted. “I understand.”
“Excellent,” Zane said. “Since Rusty’s no good to me with his leg the way it is, I’ll need you on point tomorrow, without the attitude. You have any objections to that?”
He expected a protest, but it didn’t come.
Smiling now, he got to his feet. He’d had enough of this moron.
But before he could dismiss Maddox, his office door flew open and a familiar figure stood in the doorway, a scowl on her weathered face.
“Mother,” Zane said in surprise. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
The old woman’s gaze shot directly past Zane and zeroed in on Maddox. “You and your boys almost killed me out there.”
Maddox’s eyebrows went up. “That was you?”
“Yes, you little pinhead. And I don’t like being shot at.”
Then Imogene Zane walked into the room and slapped Carl square across the face.
Nineteen
They put them in separate interrogation rooms.
Except for one brief moment back at Imogene’s shack, it was the first time since this crazy night began that Matt hadn’t had Tara at his side, and he felt naked without her.
More than that, actually. He felt as if a vital part of him were missing.
Funny how your entire life could change in a few short hours. How something you never thought would happen to you could happen so abruptly and so completely that you mistrusted it at first, only to later realize how foolish you’d been for not recognizing it immediately.
He was in love with her.
Wanted to be with her for the rest of his life.
It was that simple.
And ever since she had been taken away from him, ever since they had been handcuffed and escorted to separate patrol cars, he had felt lost and incomplete.
Sooner or later, he would see Tara again.
But he felt empty nevertheless.
They had left him alone in this room for over an hour now, not a word spoken to him since the arrest—a course of action that was meant to unnerve and disarm him. And when you’re alone for so long with only your thoughts for company, you tend to drift toward self-analysis and personal reflection.
As they were putting him in the patrol car, he had tried to tell them who he really was, to contact the FBI, to reach Abernathy. But just as he had feared, they hadn’t listened. He was a wanted fugitive, a danger to society, and anything he might say would be regarded with suspicion and routinely ignored.
Matt knew the playbook.
Knew all the moves.
He’d made them himself more times than he could remember.
They would let him stew in here for a while, then they’d start to sweat him, questioning him over and over until he finally broke down and gave them exactly what they wanted: the whereabouts of Rusty Zane and Carl Maddox.
And while he knew he could give them the approximate coordinates of The Brotherhood’s compound, he also knew that sending them into the mountains would be a time-consuming distraction, and there were matters here in the city that needed their immediate attention.
So, with or without Abernathy, he had to convince these men that he was not who they thought he was.
And experience told him that this wouldn’t be easy.
Tara had fallen asleep again, but there were no dreams this time. Just a blissful, blank, unfettered loss of consciousness, as she sat chained to a chair in a room not much bigger than a walk-in closet.
She wasn’t sure how they’d been caught. Her first instinct was that Ron had turned them in, but she knew that couldn’t be true. She hadn’t told him about Matt when she called him. She also liked to believe that he’d never do that to her.
But once she dismissed that thought, a picture of Imogene entered her mind. As they were being escorted to the patrol cars, she was almost sure she had seen an old Rambler out of the corner of her eye. Parked down the street.
Was it the old woman’s car?
Had she followed them, then called the police?
And if she had, then why? Why would she help them, only to turn around and betray them later?
It made no sense.
After bringing Tara to the station, the police had kept her in this room for a long time. She had tried calling out to them, telling them that they were making a mistake, a mistake that could cost the lives of innocent people.
But if they were listening, they didn’t care. All of her protests, even those fired at the back of a deputy’s head in the patrol car, had been ignored.
It was, she thought, typical cop behavior. The kind of thing she’d experienced time and again as she was growing up. An inbred arrogance that said, I’m right, you’re wrong, end of discussion.
Not this time, however.
Not if she could help it.
“Hey!” she shouted. “Hey, you out there!” She looked up at the video camera mounted in a high corner. “Are you going to let me sit here all night, or grow a pair and start asking me some—”
The door flew open behind her and a man in rolled-up shirtsleeves strolled into the room, dropping a brown manila folder onto the tabletop.
“Good morning, Ms. Richmond. I’m Detective Roderick Wilkins. I’ll
be handling your debriefing.”
“It’s about time.”
“My apologies for making you wait. Things tend to move a little less briskly around here at this time of morning.”
“Then you’d better start picking it up,” Tara said. “Because what I’m about to tell you will require you to immediately mobilize every resource you have.”
“Oh, we’re mobilized, believe me. Ninety percent for our force is out there in the streets, looking for Rusty Zane and Carl Maddox.”
“Those two are the least of your worries. And if you think grabbing Matt and me is some kind of feather in your cap, you can—”
“Who?”
“Matt. Matt Hathaway. Special Agent Matt Hathaway, the man you arrested in my apartment. He’s working undercover for the FBI.”
Wilkins smiled slightly, trying and failing to hide his amusement. It was a look that made Tara want to scratch his eyes out.
“So is that what Stanton told you? Is that the story he used to get you to go along with him?”
“It’s not a story, it’s the truth.”
“And I assume he showed you proof of this?” Tara hesitated. Matt hadn’t shown her any proof, but she trusted him. Knew he wouldn’t lie to her. Besides, she’d heard the words come out of Zane’s own mouth:
My man tells me he’s Famous But Incompetent.
Why would Zane have said this about Matt if it weren’t true? And why would they have been running around in the woods all night getting shot at?
“Have you ever heard of the term Stockholm Syndrome?” Wilkins asked.
“Of course I have.”
“Then you know it’s not uncommon for victims of abduction to grow sympathetic toward their captors.”
Tara shook her head. “That isn’t what’s happened here.”
“So are you denying that the two of you were intimate?”
Tara hesitated again. Just long enough to make it clear what her answer was. “You were intimate with him, weren’t you?”
She felt herself blush once again, but pushed past it. “Matt Hathaway is not who you think he is,” she said. “He’s been working deep undercover for almost a year now. His handlers were two agents named Everhardt and Abernathy, but Everhardt is dead now and—”
Deep Cover Page 11