A red haze swamped Noah. After having Samara tell him to let her go, pure adrenaline and strong denial shot like a geyser through his body. The knowledge that the one connection he’d had with her might now be lost had wound him tighter than a drum. This was not a good time to piss Noah McCall off.
He slammed Ethan back against the window, wrapped his hand around the other man’s neck and pressed hard. “I told you when I brought you in—egos have no place in LCR. You went against direct orders. Almost got yourself killed. And in the process fucked up an ongoing investigation. That’s my fucking gripe.”
With absolutely no emotion, Ethan stared at him and in that moment, Noah knew he’d lost him. Ethan no longer cared about anything or anyone. Whatever had happened with Shea and Cole on the op several months back had been the last straw.
No, dammit, I have to try one more time.
Backing away, Noah blew out a long breath. “Take some time off. I’ll get someone else to watch Samara. Get your head back on straight. Purge those demons that keep you from being able to do your job. Don’t come back until you do.”
“No.”
“What?”
“You heard me. You don’t like the way I handle an op … that’s just too damn bad.”
“You’re quitting?”
“Hell no. I don’t quit … at anything.”
Noah could only shake his head. “Ethan, you quit living a long time ago. I thought having Shea in your life would give that back to you. I don’t know what happened between you or how she ended up with Cole. I don’t need to know.”
Noah waited to see if mentioning Shea and Cole would produce some sort of reaction. Other than an infinitesimal flicker in his eyes, there was nothing.
“You’re not responsible for Cole’s death. I read the report. He got himself killed.”
“Tell that to his widow.”
“Shea knows the truth, whether she wants to admit it or not.” Noah blew out a sigh as he slumped into his chair behind his desk. “The burden you’ve carried on your shoulder for years has just grown instead of easing. Most people filled with that kind of regret are empowered by helping others and that grief seems to lessen. That hasn’t happened for you, has it?”
Still no response.
Noah closed his eyes at Ethan’s granite expression. Giving up on this man was not something he took lightly. But he’d been given an ultimatum and both of them knew exactly where it would lead … exactly where Ethan wanted it to go. “Fine, Ethan. You got what you wanted. If you’re not quitting … then you’re fired.”
A small, humorless smile lifted Ethan’s mouth. “Told you years ago, when you hired me, you’d regret it.”
“I never, for a second, regretted hiring you. You’ve saved a lot of people and done some fine things with your life. The only thing I regret is not being able to help you see your worth.”
“Maybe that wasn’t your job.” With those enigmatic words, Ethan started toward the door. When he stopped and turned, Noah knew a moment of hope. “For what it’s worth. Thanks for saving my life … and giving me a chance.”
“Dammit, man. It doesn’t have to end this way.”
“Yes it does.” Ethan closed the door behind him. Shit. Shit. Shit. Could this day get any worse? He looked down at the photos Ethan had left. Pride filled him. Though the pictures were still shots, they revealed the precision and grace she’d used to take down the creep. Ethan was right. He didn’t give Samara enough credit.
Another photo showed a tall, blond man standing beside her. They were both laughing. Pain speared deep. He knew who he was … Kyle Macklin. Smart, successful, and single. Exactly what a woman like Samara needed. The kind of man who would be happy to help her get over a broken heart. The kind of man who could share his life with her, give her a family.
Noah knew he should be happy she was seeing someone. Samara deserved only the best.
The photo crumpled in his hand.
Running his hands up and down his legs, Mitch smoothed the wrinkles in the cheap polyester pants. He’d told the corrections officer helping him to provide something average and common. The idiot had brought in clothes so cheap they’d probably fall apart before he got to Birmingham. No matter. With the money he had stashed away, he’d be looking like a GQ model soon enough. Just like the wealthy businessman he’d become.
Lifting his foot, Mitch reared back and gave the jerk on the floor a glancing blow to the ribs. “Make it look good” was what Boyd Lemming had told him. Then he’d turned his back so Mitchell could knock him out. Mitch gladly obliged. He’d clubbed the prick with his own nightstick. Damn, that’d felt good. Boyd wasn’t dead, but he’d have a nice concussion and a hell of a headache that’d keep him out of it for several days. Who knows, it might even teach him a lesson about helping criminals escape. World was getting too damned dangerous. Couldn’t trust anybody anymore. Mitch grinned at the thought.
Rubbing the smudges from his visitor’s card, he clipped it to his shirt pocket. Yep, just another slub visiting one of the misguided and unfortunate residents of the Blount County Jail. Slicking his hair back, he checked the wall mirror in the small bathroom once more. The beard stubble gave him a somewhat rakish appearance. With his looks, he’d never had a problem attracting women, but he had to admit, the beard made him even sexier. Once his business was taken care of, first thing he’d do was get him some nice duds, then he’d go find a couple of high-priced whores who could appreciate a well-hung and handsome stud.
The husky laugh he heard in his head was his daddy’s, who was probably somewhere cheering him on. Easing the door open, he listened … heard nothing. He turned the lock and closed the door, locking poor Boyd inside. By the time he was found, Mitch would be long gone and several hours would have passed before he was discovered missing. They’d been planning this for weeks. No way in hell would there be a screwup. He had important business to handle. One Michael Stoddard to be executed and one Samara Lyons to be screwed until she too begged for death. Damned if he knew which one he looked forward to the most.
“Go!” On Noah’s command, five LCR operatives slammed through the doors of André Morley and Associates. Sadistic bastards, who for the last two years had been grabbing kids off the streets of Paris and selling them across Europe.
Noah kicked a door open and then whirled to the side. Bam … bam … Bullets slammed into the wall behind him. One man squealed. Another man shouted a curse. Three more shots rang out and then silence.
Doors opened and closed. Footsteps stomped around him. Holding his gun at the ready, Noah inched his head around and then jerked back out again as another bullet came flying at him.
He pressed back against the wall and calculated. In that split second, he’d seen two men stooped behind a large desk. Both had guns and though he’d only seen the tops of their heads, he was pretty damn sure they weren’t likely to give up anytime soon. Shit. He didn’t want a standoff. He wanted to get these creeps out of here as peacefully and painlessly as possible.
Barging in on them wasn’t really LCR’s way. However, since the children were being held at a different facility and even now were being rescued by another LCR team, Noah had wanted to go in with a bang and scare the shit out of them. Unfortunately, he’d overestimated his shit-scaring tactics. Was he getting too old for this? Was his mind so distracted by his personal life, his instincts were off? He gave himself a mental kick in the ass. Great. Now he was having a philosophic contemplation while two thugs a few feet away would love to put a bullet in his head. Next thing he knew, he’d be consulting an astrologer before he planned a rescue.
“Noah, you okay?” Jordan’s low growl came into his earphone.
“Yeah, got two holed up in the office. You?”
“Eden and I took care of one up here. There’s another running loose. Dylan’s after him.”
“Tell Eden to stay put and come on down and help me coax these assholes out before I shoot them just for fun.”
Jordan chuckl
ed. “On my way.”
For the hell of it, Noah yelled out, “Hey, assholes, you’re outnumbered! Throw your guns out now before you get hurt!”
“Go to hell!” one man shouted. Another shot fired.
Blowing out a half sigh, half laugh, Noah muttered, “That’s what I thought.”
Jordan came loping toward him. “They changed their tune yet?”
“Nope, still singing the ‘Come in and get me’ song.”
Jordan’s mouth kicked up in a grin. “Hate that song. Much rather hear the ‘I’m coming out and throwing myself at your mercy’ operetta.”
“Don’t think they know that one.”
“Okay. So what do you want to do?”
“Well, we could talk about what you and Eden are getting Angela for her birthday.”
Jordan sank against the wall next to him as if in deep thought. “Yeah. That’s a conundrum. We’re thinking maybe a gift card to that new tattoo parlor on Chavez.”
“Damn. That’s what I was thinking, too.”
“What are you guys doing?” Eden stalked toward them, exasperation and amusement glinting her eyes.
“Talking about Angela’s birthday present.”
“Oh, did you tell him our idea, Jordan?”
Jordan pulled his wife to his side and gave her a quick kiss on her nose. “Yes, but that’s what he was planning, too.”
“Too bad. I bought it before we came over.”
Noah grinned, his gun at high ready. “Gabe, you ready?”
“Yep.”
“Go.”
Glass shattered behind the men as Gabe crashed through the window. Noah, Jordan, and Eden stormed through the door. Noah flew over the desk and landed on top of a man. He only saw a flash of pale flabby skin underneath the giant sweatshirt. He wasn’t sure, but he thought this one was Morley’s favorite henchman. He hoped so. Pressing harder, guttural sobs came from the man beneath him. Eden held a gun on the other man while Jordan wrenched his arms behind his back and cuffed him.
Noah twisted to look up at Gabe. “Dylan get the other guy?”
“Yeah. Had to shoot a little hole in his leg. Other than that, he’s fine.”
“Good.” Noah lifted himself off his too-soft, sobbing prisoner. “Take them down to the warehouse. A few people want to have a chat with them before they go to jail.”
Pulling the man’s hands behind him, Gabe cuffed him and then looked over at Noah. “You talk to Angela yet?”
“No. Why? Everything went off okay at the house, didn’t it?”
“Yeah. Went fine. Six kids rescued. Four people in custody. She’s been trying to reach you for another reason. Some politician from Mississippi called.”
Noah was out the door and headed to his car before Gabe finished his sentence. There was only one reason anyone from Mississippi would be calling. Mitchell.
twenty
Wet sand dented under her pounding feet. Hot sun seared her skin. A light breeze floated through the air, cooling her. To the right, waves ebbed and flowed in a lazy, never-ending tide. On the left, hotels, condominiums, and private homes created a mishmash of subtle colors and daring heights. The white sandy beaches of the Alabama Gulf Coast were lovely, but the contrast was almost as breathtaking as her surroundings. Paradise around her, as hell erupted within her. Running toward the sun, Samara picked up speed toward a punishing pace, at some point hoping to outrun a broken heart.
Telling Noah goodbye had to be the single most difficult thing she’d ever had to do. Knowing she’d done the right thing didn’t make it any easier to bear.
After saying goodbye to him, she’d grabbed some clothes and headed to the beach. She needed major quiet time and privacy. To mourn, grieve, and then, hopefully, to accept.
The hurt in his voice when she told him to let her go lingered in her head. He’d told her his protection was all he could offer. To Noah, this was a rejection of the only thing he felt he could give of himself. He cared deeply for her, she knew that. … Even Noah knew that, but he wouldn’t do anything about it and she couldn’t bear to be in limbo like this any longer.
She would always love him. Didn’t doubt that for an instant. Unfortunately loving someone didn’t always ensure you were loved back. Or that you were meant to be together.
She’d always known that one of the reasons she had allowed Noah to protect her was that she didn’t want to let him go. Now she realized another reason. Even after all the training she’d put herself through over the past few months, she still hadn’t trusted she could take care of herself. The experience with Mitchell Stoddard and his men had left her weak and vulnerable, her self-confidence shattered. The training had restored some of that confidence, but she’d still been shaky. A bodyguard, no matter how much she protested, gave her a safety net she hadn’t even been aware she wanted. Could she protect herself if need be? She hadn’t been sure. Until she’d been tested.
The man had been average-sized, with few fighting skills, but bringing him down had shown her something. She hadn’t panicked, hadn’t run, and hadn’t flinched. Was she Wonder Woman? Hell no, but she was a damned sight stronger than she’d been months ago. Not just physically but emotionally.
She’d regained what Mitchell had taken from her and pushed it even further. Moving past that trauma felt freeing and exciting. That realization led her to the next. It was time to move on. She needed a job; she needed a life. In a few days, she’d return to Birmingham and pursue a social work position. She was good at what she did and she made a difference, which is why she’d gone into the field in the first place. If possible, she’d liked to continue her work with the Macklin Agency but more than anything, she wanted to get on with her life.
Without Noah. God, it hurt to hear those words in her head. She couldn’t say them yet. Wasn’t sure she ever could. But neither could she keep alive a dream that would never be a reality. She’d told Noah to let her go. It was time for her to let Noah go, too.
Mitch held the cellphone to his ear as he maneuvered the SUV around a tractor. He was taking a lot of back roads on the way to Birmingham. The highway patrol had probably been alerted an hour or so ago of his escape. Not that they’d be looking for an escaped prisoner in a dark green Ford Explorer, looking for all the world like a regular person on a business trip.
Luther answered on the third ring. “You get everything, boy?”
“Yeah, I did. You done good. Real good.”
“Explorer should be clear for a while. Some boys got it for me in Memphis. Tags changed and I got it painted for you, too. Gun’s clean, too. Wish I could’ve got a passport for you, but just don’t have those kinds of connections.”
“I’ll get out of the country just fine. Appreciate the help.”
“You found the money and the file on the girl I put under the seat?”
“Yeah.”
“I know you’re disappointed I couldn’t find out anything on your brother. But nothing ever came up on him.”
“That’s okay. I’m betting the girl knows.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“If I told you that … I’d have to kill you.”
Mitch heard the man swallow a load of spit. The tense silence that followed told Mitch that Luther Prickrel was terrified of him. Suited him just fine. The more you feared someone, the less likely you were to screw them over.
“Just kidding, man. You know I’m grateful.”
“I owed your papa. We’re even now, you hear? You get caught again, I ain’t comin’ to your aid.”
“Won’t be a need. I aim to take care of business and get the hell out of here before they barely know I was gone.”
“Report came in about your escape about ten minutes ago.”
Smug pride filled him. Damn. He was good at this. He’d been gone from the jail for almost four hours and they were just now finding out.
“That’s good to know. Thanks for everything.”
“Take care, son.”
Mitch disconnected
the call and wiggled more comfortably into his leather seat. Poor Prick sounded as though he was about to cry. He’d have to send him some money or something. No, better not. No telling who might be watching Luther’s house. Besides, he’d owed him. Prick was right. Their debt was settled.
Flipping the top of the cooler on the seat beside him, Mitch pulled out an ice-cold Pepsi and popped the top. Luther had thought of everything. Hell, there were even rubbers in the glove compartment.
His dick hardened. A few more hours and he’d be putting those babies to good use.
Fists clenched and jaw held tight, Noah forced himself to sit still. Hard as hell to yell at his pilot to go any faster. The man was doing everything he could to break the airspeed record and yet it wasn’t enough. A ten-hour flight. Nine hours to go. Shit.
Where the hell was she? As soon as he’d talked to the governor, he’d called Samara’s home and cellphone and got no answer. Police had been dispatched to her house within minutes of discovering Mitch’s escape. They’d reported no one at home. Since the very real possibility existed that she was in imminent danger, they’d entered the residence. No signs of foul play and no signs of Samara.
Noah looked out into the pitch-black night and saw only the blinking of the jet’s lights and his own ravaged expression. Mitch wouldn’t leave her alive this time. He had a score to settle.
The only good news in his sea of bad was that apparently Samara had been gone for several days. The mail in her mailbox was two days old. Mitch had escaped only hours ago, so he wasn’t personally responsible for her disappearance. Even that good news had a dark tinge to it. Just because Mitch hadn’t snatched her didn’t mean he hadn’t paid someone to grab her and bring her to him.
Mitch would use her as bait. Michael was the real person he was after. Problem was, he’d have no compunction in killing anyone who got in his way of revenge. Samara and God knew how many other people might die because of Noah’s cowardice. He hadn’t killed Mitch when he had the chance.
His cellphone rang, pulling him from recriminations that couldn’t be resolved.
RETURN TO ME Page 25