She scowled, her eyes flashing with irritation. Chance Miller hadn’t mentioned his plan to come to River Fork. Not while he’d been talking to Cyrus. It could have been that he was concerned about having his team step on toes in small-town America. Getting a bad reputation was a surefire way to close down a business, and HEART was Chance’s baby, his brainchild. He’d conceived of the idea, built the hostage rescue team from the ground up, handpicking the men and women who worked for him.
Cyrus had a feeling there was another reason that Chance had made the trip. Stella hadn’t been herself since she’d returned from Somalia, and Chance had made no secret of the fact that he was worried about her.
“Do not mention that man’s name to me again,” she snapped, shoving her phone into the pocket of her navy-colored coat.
“He’s your boss.” Also her ex-boyfriend, but he decided not to mention that. “I think you’re going to hear his name a lot.”
“Not in the next ten minutes,” she responded, moving closer and watching as the doctor put in the last stitch. “Unless Boone comes walking in here spouting off about what that man wants us to do next.”
“You know, Stella,” Cyrus said as the doctor bandaged his arm. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were still smitten with Cha—”
“I don’t do smitten,” she cut him off.
“You must. You were married.” And widowed before Cyrus had ever met her. He didn’t know much of the story, but he knew that she’d loved her husband, and that everyone on the team had been surprised when she and Chance had started spending time together.
“I wasn’t smitten with Gus. I loved him.”
“There’s a difference?” he asked.
“Smitten is what you have before you really know someone. Love is what happens when you know a person—every wart and every wound—and you love him anyway,” she said, pulling open the triage room door. “Obviously, you’re going to live. I’m going to get some coffee.”
She stalked from the room, and he stood.
The ER doctor sat in front of a computer, typing something. Whatever it was, Cyrus didn’t have time for it. “Thanks for stitching me up,” he said, walking to the door.
“It’s my job,” the doctor said, not bothering to look up from the screen. “But I appreciate the thanks.”
Cyrus stepped out into the hall, and the doctor finally looked up.
“Hold on,” he called. “I’m going to print out your discharge instructions. That was a pretty deep wound. You need to check in with your doctor within the next couple of days.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks.”
“Let me print this out before you go. It will only take a couple of minutes,” the doctor said, apparently confused by Cyrus’s rush to leave.
“I need to check on my friend. I’ll pick the paperwork up at the front desk.”
“If you’re talking about Lark Porter, she’s already been released,” the doctor said absently as he turned his attention back to the computer and began typing again.
The news sent a shot of adrenaline through Cyrus.
“When?”
“I handed her follow-up instructions right before I came in here to stitch you up.”
That explained the text Stella had been reading. Either Boone or Chance had given her information that no one had bothered giving Cyrus. They’d probably been afraid he’d walk out of the hospital before the doctor was finished stitching him up if he knew that they were leaving with Lark.
They were right.
He would have, but that was his decision to make. Not theirs.
He stalked into the hall, walked out of the triage area. No sign of Stella in the waiting room, but the receptionist was happy to point him toward the hospital’s cafeteria.
Stella was there, sitting at a booth in a far corner of the room, staring into a cup of coffee.
She looked…sad. Which surprised Cyrus. Usually, she was filled with sharp wit and offering sharp retorts, her expression waxing and waning between exasperation and intense concentration.
She didn’t look up as he approached, and he thought that she hadn’t noticed him, hadn’t realized he was moving toward her.
He should have known better.
“So, you’re done,” she said, still staring into the coffee cup.
“And you’re keeping secrets.”
“No secrets, Cyrus. Just information that I planned to disseminate at an appropriate time.” She stood, finally meeting his eyes. The sadness was gone, and she looked like she always did—just a little hot under the collar.
“I don’t need you to protect me.”
“I’m not protecting you. I’m protecting Lark. That’s what we’re here for, and you running out of the hospital with a wide-open wound on your gun arm isn’t going to benefit the team, and that’s not going to benefit her.”
“Where are they headed?” he asked, dropping the subject, because neither of them would win the debate. She had her way of doing things. He had his. They still always managed to work well together.
“Over to the sheriff’s department. I have directions. Johnson wants to take your statement while we’re there. Once he’s done that, we should be free to go.”
“Any information on how Johnson is going to handle things?”
“He’s not going to bust down the gate at Amos Way and arrest Elijah Clayton, if that’s what you’re asking,” she responded, leading the way out of the cafeteria. “The way the boss tells it, Johnson is trying to procure a search warrant for the compound. With Lark’s testimony about being held prisoner there, he should be able to get the local judge to issue one. Once he arrives at work. Which, apparently, won’t be until sometime Monday morning.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Anything could happen in that amount of time. Certainly whatever had been hidden in those storage sheds would be gone before then.
“I wish I were, but this is very small-town America. The town has four full-time police officers, six part-time and one judge.”
“You’ve been doing your research.”
“The boss did the research. I’m just spouting what he found out for you.”
“The boss, huh?”
“Yeah. The boss. Now, hurry it up, Cyrus,” she demanded as she held open the exit door. “The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can head home and I get can some sleep.”
“I guess I was right about you being tired.”
“I passed tired six hours ago, but we just keep going, right?” She smiled, but it didn’t meet her eyes, didn’t make her look any less exhausted than she was. “Now, move! I’m getting impatient.”
“Getting?” he responded as he walked outside into cool dawn. The first rays of sunlight splashed across the sky in an array of gold and pink that glinted off distant mountains and set fire to the orange-and-red foliage.
If he’d been home, he’d have gone camping on a weekend like this, spent a few days outdoors, clearing his head, trying to find his center and his balance.
Life had been crazy the past few years. One mission after another. One trip after another. He didn’t have a family, didn’t have the kind of relationships that required plenty of time and attention, so he was often chosen for the missions that required long amounts of time out of the country. Sometimes weeks. Sometimes months. During those times, he’d be deep undercover, working an angle to get to whomever it was HEART had been paid to rescue. That was the way he’d wanted it.
There were times, though, when he wanted to be home. Times when he wanted all that home should mean—people waiting for his return, smiles and conversations and even arguments. He had a nice apartment in a nice neighborhood. He had friends and, recently, a church that he attended when he was in town.
What he didn’t have was what two of the HEART team members had found. Jackson and Boone had both found women who understood their schedules, who supported their goals. They’d found that special kind of peace that only came when a person was exactly where he was s
upposed to be.
Even out in the woods, even with nature all around him, God’s creation nearly shouting the truth of God’s power, Cyrus didn’t have that.
Maybe. One day.
When he wasn’t so busy that he barely had time to breathe let alone think.
He got into Stella’s SUV, took a small bag she handed him. He opened it, smiled. Inside were the things he’d left behind when he’d exchanged his real identity for his assumed one. His wallet. His phone. No more Louis Morgan. He was officially Cyrus Mitchell again.
“I picked them up from the office,” she said.
He shoved his wallet into his pocket, grabbed his phone. Fully charged. Of course. Stella wasn’t the kind of person who let any details go. “Thanks.”
“Thank me by making your statement to the sheriff short and concise,” she responded, speeding onto the road.
He didn’t tell her to slow down.
He was just as anxious to get to the sheriff’s department as she was.
*
She wanted out, but she didn’t think Sheriff Johnson would appreciate her climbing out his office window and scrambling down the fire escape. Lark also didn’t think he was going to let her waltz out of the office, down the three flights of stairs and out the door.
She paced across the small office, looked out the third-floor window for what seemed like the thousandth time. It didn’t change anything. She was still in Sheriff Johnson’s office, waiting. He’d assured her that he’d be back shortly. That had been thirty minutes ago.
Thirty very long minutes.
At least her head wasn’t pounding anymore, and she had on a fresh set of clothes. Soft jeans that were a little too long and a little too big. Faded blue T-shirt that was just as soft and comfortable as the jeans. One of Cyrus’s coworkers had handed them to her, and she’d been so excited to have them that she hadn’t asked where they’d come from.
Probably Stella Silverstone’s. Lark had met her briefly when the HEART team had arrived at the hospital. Chance Miller, Boone Anderson and Stella. They’d been kind, but all business, asking questions rapidly and purposefully. They knew what they were doing. She’d had that impression. She’d also thought they were a good team, all of them in sync and working toward a common goal.
That goal seemed to be getting Cyrus back to their headquarters in Washington, DC, and keeping Lark safe.
She wanted those things, but she also wanted Elijah taken down. She wanted Amos Way closed. She wanted the people who lived there—the ones who really believed the lie, who had no idea that Elijah was running something more than a religious community—to find something better, something more real, something truer than the lie they’d been fed.
She opened the office door, peered out into the hallway, determined to find the sheriff and find out exactly what was going on. A few feet away, a tall red-haired man leaned against the wall, what looked like a doughnut in his hand.
“Hungry?” he asked, gesturing to a white box that sat on a chair someone had pushed up against the wall. “There’s ten more where this one came from.”
“No. Thank you, Mr. Anderson.”
“Boone. That’s what my friends call me. It’s what my clients call me. It’s what my wife calls me. As a matter of fact,” he said, taking another doughnut from the box, “it’s what everyone calls me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she responded, stepping out into the hall and trying to remember if the staircase was to the left or the right.
“You going somewhere?” Boone asked conversationally. He seemed more focused on the doughnut than on her.
“I was looking for Sheriff Johnson. I’m curious to hear what he plans to do about Elijah and Amos Way.”
“Aren’t we all?” Boone licked chocolate off his finger and eyed the box. “I’m thinking about having another one. I’m also thinking that you need to go back in the office.”
“I’ve been there for thirty minutes. I need the change of scenery.”
“Do you need a bullet through the heart, ma’am?” he asked. “Because that’s what might happen if you wander around on your own.”
The words were enough to make her pause. “John is dead.”
“And Elijah is alive, and so are most of his security team. For all we know, there’s a price on your head.”
She hadn’t thought about that.
She probably should have.
Elijah had enough money to get the things he wanted. Even if what he wanted was someone dead. “He’d be a fool to hire a hit man,” she said. “If the police catch the guy, he’s going to point his finger straight at Elijah.”
“Will that matter if you’re dead?” Boone asked as he opened the doughnut box.
“I don’t guess that it would,” she murmured, suddenly not nearly as comfortable with her plan as she had been.
“I agree,” he said with a charming smile. “Now, go on back into the office. Take a load off your feet, and give the sheriff a few more minutes. He’ll be back before you know it.”
He cupped her elbow, urged her over the threshold and into the office.
Next thing she knew, the door was closing in her face, and she was right back where she started.
Trapped.
The guy was smooth. She’d give him that. But she still had no intention of waiting another minute. She was in a police station. Even if Sheriff Johnson was on his brother’s payroll, she couldn’t imagine that he’d try to murder her there.
“He’d be shot by his own police force if he did,” she muttered, yanking the door open and walking straight into a hard chest.
She jumped back, her heart slamming against her ribs as she looked into Cyrus’s dark brown eyes. “Cyrus!”
“You were expecting someone else?” he said. He had a full-out five-o’clock shadow, and the sleeve of his shirt had been cut off to the shoulder, a bandage wrapped around his biceps.
“The sheriff,” she admitted. “But I’m just as happy to see you.”
Boone snorted.
“We’re not interested in hearing from the peanut gallery, Boone,” Cyrus said, and Boone laughed.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I won’t hold my breath on that.” Cyrus’s gaze drifted back to Lark, and he offered her a smile that made her heart do a funny little dance. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m not the one who was shot.”
“Grazed by a bullet,” he corrected. “Which is not the same thing. So…how are you feeling?”
“Much better. How about you?”
“Like he’s been ridden hard and put up wet, would be my guess,” Boone intoned, and Cyrus shot him a hard look.
“How about you shove another one of those doughnuts in your mouth?”
“You’ve wounded me, Cyrus, but—” he reached into the box, took another doughnut “—don’t mind if I do.”
There was something about him that made Lark smile, and she was still smiling when Cyrus took her hand, led her back into the sheriff’s office.
A few minutes ago, she’d been anxious to escape. Now, the room didn’t seem as small, her need to leave didn’t seem nearly as desperate.
“How are you? Really?” she asked as Cyrus pulled a chair away from Sheriff Johnson’s desk and gestured for her to sit.
“Like I’ve been ridden hard and put up wet.”
His response surprised a laugh out of her.
“There you go,” he said. “That’s better.”
“Better than what?”
“Better than you looking scared to death.”
“I am scared to death,” she said truthfully, because he was watching her with those deep brown eyes, his expression intense and soft all at the same time.
“You’re safe here.”
“I’m not scared for my safety. I’m scared for all the people who are still living in Amos Way. I’m afraid that they’ll go another thirty years with Elijah as their leader. That whatever he’s doing will never be uncovered. That—”
“That’s a lot of worries, Lark.” He cut her off. “But none of them are yours to carry.”
“You’re wrong. I lived in Amos Way for three years. I got to know the people there. A lot of them were wonderful, warm and caring, and they deserve better than what they’re getting.”
“That doesn’t mean that it’s your responsibility to make things better for them.”
“Someone has to do it.”
“Someone isn’t going to be you. We’re heading back to Maryland tonight. I already spoke with Sheriff Johnson. He agreed to allow it as long as he has our contact information.”
Go back to Maryland?
It sounded like a great plan, a wonderful one. Probably the best plan she’d heard of in a long time.
But she didn’t know if she could do it.
She hadn’t proven anything. Bringing Elijah down wouldn’t raise Joshua from the dead, but it would make the memories a little easier to live with. “I’m not going back.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re not thinking that you can stay in River Fork?”
There were tiny lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes, a small scar near his ear. He looked like he spent a lot of time out in the sun, and like he was used to getting what he wanted.
This time, he was going to be disappointed.
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking. People around here have probably seen things, heard things. They probably know things that they won’t just come out and say. They need to be asked.”
“And you don’t need to be the one to do the asking.”
“My husband is dead. He shouldn’t be,” she responded. “I can’t go home until I know why.”
His jaw tightened, and she had a feeling they were in for a rip-roaring debate.
They probably would have had one, but the office door opened, and Sheriff Johnson walked in. A man stood behind him, a cardboard box in his hands. Tall, a little stooped in the shoulders, a white beard covering the lower half of his face. Blue eyes that should have been kind, but always seemed cold.
Elijah Clayton.
He walked into the room, his gaze settling on Lark.
For a moment, he said nothing. Did nothing.
Love Inspired Suspense June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Exit StrategyPaybackCovert Justice Page 10