Seduced by the Enemy (Blaze, 41)

by Jamie Denton

  Crouched in front of the parked car, she balanced on the balls of her feet while using her night-vision binoculars to scan the twelve-room inner-city motel. The heat from the still-warm engine of the Malibu offered some comfort against the brisk autumn night air, but did little to stop the chattering of her teeth.

  While she watched the motel rooms for any sign of Romine or Douglas, Gib waited to give the signal for them to move. Two other agents had been sent to rouse the motel manager. With the heavy drapes drawn on all the rooms but one, which was pitch-black, anyway, there was absolutely nothing to be seen.

  The sound of rustling leaves drew her attention momentarily, but it was nothing more threatening than Mother Nature teasing them during a tense moment. The two additional agents were stationed at other locations around the motel. Any minute now the first two agents would return with the manager, and then they’d move in on the suspects. Until then, all she could do was wait—and try to keep the chattering of her teeth down to a minimum.

  “Cold, MacGregor?” Gib asked her suddenly.

  Sunny shivered in response. “Just a little, sir. Too much sun today, I think.”

  “Such as it is for this time of year.” Gib shifted beside her. “We’ll be going in first, MacGregor. I want you to focus on Douglas. I’ll handle Romine.”

  “Yes, sir.” She had a dozen questions, but considering Gib had already told them they were operating on a need-to-know basis, she figured he wouldn’t be forthright in providing the answers she sought. All she and the other agents apparently needed to know was that Douglas and Romine had been tracked to this location. She didn’t even know how they’d been tracked, whether via a paper trail, wiretapping or a snitch. There was only one thing she was certain of: by being called in to assist in the Romine matter, she might actually be able to review the files. She nearly rubbed her hands together in hopeful anticipation.

  She flipped up the collar of her black windbreaker with the large yellow letters FBI emblazoned on the back. The move did zilch for keeping the cold bite of air from making her earlobes numb.

  “Here they come, sir.”

  Caldwell, one of the two agents ordered to wake up the motel manager, appeared. He jogged across the parking lot, then crouched down as he wound his way among the parked cars to where she and Gib waited.

  “Matthews is with the manager. Douglas is registered in room eight,” Agent Caldwell explained. “Checked in about four hours ago.”

  Damn, Sunny thought. She’d been hoping they’d be storming a room on the end of the motel. That way if things went bad and fire was exchanged, the chances of an innocent bystander getting in the way were greatly reduced.

  Gib nodded, then spoke into his communication device. “We’re heading into room eight. Be alert and stay alive.”

  Sunny pulled her weapon from her shoulder holster, opened the safety, then slid the bar of the 9 mm back to be sure the chamber was loaded. She didn’t like this. Not one bit. Whether her unease stemmed from the fact that she was going in to arrest a fellow, former agent or some other instinct, she couldn’t say. She didn’t know Gib Russell all that well and had no clue how to read his cool demeanor.

  “Ready?” Gib asked her and Caldwell.

  They nodded and moved out. She and Caldwell followed Gib across the row of parked cars near the chain-link fence toward the end of the motel. Keeping low, they hurried across the lot to the side of the building. Plastered against the rough-textured wall, they waited for Gib’s next signal. He motioned for her to stay close and for Caldwell to bring up the rear.

  Slowly making their way along the front of the motel, they inched toward room eight. Gib stood to the right of the door, his weapon aimed toward the sky, clasped firmly in two hands. On his left, Sunny mirrored his movements.

  Muffled voices could be heard on the other side. Gib gave her a brisk nod, then rapped his knuckles hard on the door.

  Adrenaline rushed through Sunny. This was it. They were going in and God only knew what would happen next.

  “Who is it?” called an angry voice from the other side of the door.

  “Manager,” Gib answered back.

  More voices, but Sunny couldn’t make out the words.

  The rattle of the safety chain followed by the twist of the doorknob was the signal Gib obviously needed before he charged forward. Sunny followed, weapon drawn, sweeping the room. Caldwell came in behind them, blocking the door with his large body.

  “What the hell?” one of the four boys in the room shouted. Sunny stared at the three other youths scattered around the motel room, their eyes wider than the Potomac. The boys had shot to their feet when she and Gib had stormed into the room, and now stood with their hands above their heads as if Jesse James were about to grab the Wells Fargo payroll. The scene was nearly laughable, except a quick glance at Gib quickly quashed any humor she might have otherwise found in the situation. He was not pleased.

  Without holstering her weapon, Sunny moved deeper into the room to search the bathroom. An exercise in futility, she figured, because she knew there was no way Romine or Douglas were anywhere near this place. For some reason, that gave her a sense of relief.

  After a quick search, she walked back into the room. Gib and Caldwell were patting down the teenage boys. Glancing around, she figured local law enforcement would have a field day with these kids. Charging minors in consumption, with a small bag of weed, was definitely not FBI jurisdiction. Well, not on such a low-end scale.

  “Ooh, look what I found,” Caldwell said, holding a gold card between his fingers. “Care to tell us how you got this?”

  Without having to look at the credit card itself, Sunny guessed it belonged to Peyton Douglas. Stolen? Or planted? Considering Romine’s expertise, she suspected the latter.

  “I don’t have to tell you shit,” the boy spat defiantly. The other three boys shifted their gazes from one to the other, all of them looking more than a little scared.

  “Wrong answer,” Caldwell told the boy. “Because unless you can prove to me you’re Peyton Douglas, I’d say this is a stolen credit card.”

  Sunny holstered her weapon as the three remaining agents entered the room. “Definitely a stolen credit card,” she said, inclining her head toward the corner and the stack of shopping bags, filled to overflowing, from the local mall. She walked around the room. “That’s gonna get you two to five, young man.”

  She pulled a pen from her pocket and nudged the bag of marijuana with the capped tip. “Oh, now this looks really interesting. How much pot do you think this is, guys? An ounce? Two maybe?”

  “Not even,” the kid argued.

  Gib crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels. “At least two.” A chilling smile curved his usually grim mouth. “Maybe three.”

  “That’s what I thought, sir.” Sunny walked toward the telephone sitting on the nightstand and picked up the receiver. “That just might qualify as trafficking. I’ll call DEA. They’ll want to be in on this one.”

  “No way,” the kid Caldwell held argued. “I ain’t selling nothin’.”

  “Then tell us how you happen to be in possession of that credit card,” she ordered.

  Though he was looking more and more nervous by the second, the boy remained silent.

  She shrugged. “Have it your way.” She started to punch in the number to access her voice mail at the bureau.

  “Just give it up, Jimmy,” one of the other boys said. “They got you cold, dude.”

  The other two boys nodded in agreement.

  “Okay. Okay,” Jimmy said. “Just put down the phone. I don’t wanna go to jail, man.”

  She set the receiver back on the cradle as Gib grabbed the boy by the front of his pizza-stained T-shirt. “Good choice, Jimmy. Otherwise someone named Bubba would be finding a sweet young thing like yourself real attractive for the next two to five.”

  The kid blanched and Sunny struggled to hide the twitch of her lips. Although empty, Gib’s threat practically
ensured the kid would have plenty to say. Except she didn’t think for a minute the boy might know the whereabouts of Romine and Douglas.

  And maybe that was a good thing.

  THEY FINALLY REACHED the cottage in Maine early Monday morning. Not much about the place had changed since the last time Jared had been here with Peyton, something he found oddly comforting, he realized. With a strange sense of coming home, an emotion that made him almost as wary as the feel of Peyton’s sleeping body beside his during the night, he hefted their bags out of the truck and followed her over the sandy path flanked by railroad ties and up the steps leading to the front door. The vinyl siding was new and the railing surrounding the porch that stretched across the front of the cozy seaside cottage had been repainted. Otherwise, time had virtually stood still. At least it did in the quaint cape town of Maine where Peyton had often come to escape, seeking a little downtime. Her sanctuary, she’d often called it, and he fully understood for the first time what she’d meant.

  There was something inherently comforting about finding the key Harry kept under the plastic, urn-shaped planter overflowing with dried-out summer petunias. Just the sense of knowing that once they stepped through the door, they’d be safe, even for a brief period, offered a modicum of comfort in an otherwise terrible nightmare. Safe and able to pull themselves together, to find a way out of the insanity both of their lives had become.

  He rolled his shoulders, still stiff from sleeping in the truck while Peyton drove. Before she had a chance to slip the key into the lock, the door to the cottage swung open.

  The relief in Harry Shanks’s eyes was palpable as the old man immediately pulled Peyton into a tight embrace. “You had me worried sick,” he drawled in his heavy Maine accent. “Are you all right?”

  Peyton dropped her purse, burst into tears and clung to Harry. The old man inclined his head toward the entrance. Jared took the hint to make himself scarce. Picking up her purse, he walked into the cottage, giving Harry a moment alone with Peyton.

  Jared had been waiting for her to have some sort of a meltdown, and it had finally arrived. Her tears did what her words and a few hours of sleep could not, alleviating his irritation with her for putting them in further jeopardy by using her cell phone back in Pittsburgh.

  She’d known the risks, yet she’d blatantly chosen to ignore them. All because she’d needed to advise Kellie to find a warm body to cover a hearing on a motion for some jerk who would probably walk, and to let Atwood know she was safe. Surely she had to have realized that Atwood’s phone might be tapped. Perhaps even her secretary’s. Jared didn’t want to believe she’d intentionally been trying to lead the feds to their location. No, the truth of the matter was far more disturbing, and something he couldn’t shake.

  Had the old green-eyed monster really nipped him hard just because she’d felt compelled to call her fiancé?

  Ridiculous.

  Was he being unreasonable?

  Definitely.

  Was he headed right back into dangerous territory where his feelings for Peyton were concerned?

  Undoubtedly. And based on his reaction to a telephone call, not to mention the unrealistic stab of jealousy pricking him now that Peyton had turned to someone other than himself for comfort, he needed his head examined. He didn’t have time for useless emotions like jealousy or anything remotely resembling lust. Unfortunately, he’d been feeling a major dose of both for the last thirty-six hours.

  He set their bags in the corner nearest the hearth in the quaintly furnished living room as Harry and Peyton walked in. Peyton’s tears had ebbed somewhat, but she looked twice as exhausted as before they’d pulled into Maine. Even Jared wanted nothing more than to catch up on much needed sleep, but there were details he still had to tell Peyton before he could suggest any such luxury.

  She pulled in a deep breath. “Is that coffee?”

  Harry gave her shoulder a squeeze and led the way into the small kitchenette. “With cinnamon, just the way you like it.”

  Jared followed. “How’d you know we were coming?” he asked Harry.

  The older man shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t.”

  Jared wasn’t buying it. Not only did Harry have a full pot of coffee ready, a pound of bacon sat defrosting on the counter next to a glass bowl filled nearly to the brim with shredded potatoes. Jared looked meaningfully at the evidence as he leaned against the tiled counter. “Either you’re expecting a small army or you’re planning to drive your cholesterol through the roof. Care to try again, Harry?”

  The old man let out a sigh. “I didn’t know you were coming, but since I saw the news reports yesterday, I suspected. Or rather, hoped.”

  Jared nodded in understanding. Old Harry Shanks had been rescuing Peyton since she’d first arrived at the Biddeford Home for Girls. It made sense that he would expect her to come to him in her time of need.

  Harry and Peyton shared a bond, and were closer than many fathers and daughters. The alliance hadn’t always been easy, and had taken years to build solid trust on Peyton’s part. After what she’d gone through following her mother’s death, Jared couldn’t blame her. In fact, he gave her a hell of a lot of credit. He didn’t think he’d ever be so trusting, and he hadn’t suffered one iota of what she had before she’d arrived at Biddeford.

  Peyton poured each of them a cup of steamy, fresh coffee. “You shouldn’t be here, Harry. We shouldn’t have come here at all, but I didn’t know of any other place where we could hide for a few days.”

  “Bull,” Harry told her, taking the mug she offered. “This is the perfect place for you. No one will look for you here.”

  “She’s right,” Jared said. Nowhere was safe, but at least here he didn’t think anyone would be looking for them. As far as he was aware, no one other than himself knew of Peyton’s close association with Harry. “We won’t stay long.”

  Peyton took a tentative sip of coffee, closed her eyes and groaned with pleasure. “God, this is so good.”

  Harry grinned and slung his arm over her shoulder. “I know what my girl likes.”

  She turned and placed a quick kiss on his lined cheek. “Thank you.”

  Harry’s faded blue eyes misted and he turned away. “You can stay here as long as it’s safe for you,” he offered quietly.

  He cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together suddenly, offering up a grin that failed to chase the worry from his gaze. “Let’s have some breakfast, and then you can tell me what the hell you’ve gotten my girl involved in.”

  “It’s not Jared’s fault.” Peyton set her mug on the counter and gave Harry a stern look. “I’m going to shower and get rid of this road dust. You take it easy on him, Harry.”

  Stunned into silence, Jared watched her walk out of the kitchen. Not his fault? When had she come to that startling conclusion?

  He should be thrilled. Finally, she’d begun to trust him. But he had a more important question. When had her belief in him started to matter to his heart?

  PEYTON REFILLED their coffee mugs and carried them into the living room. The shower and a hot, home-cooked meal had done wonders for her disposition. She still could use a solid eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, but that would have to wait until after she learned everything Jared knew about the people who were after them. She’d successfully avoided hearing the rest of the story, but the time had arrived for her to stop hiding from the truth and reclaim her life. Or their life?

  No, she firmly reminded herself. Her life. Jared’s life. The two were separate entities, no longer intertwined. They hadn’t been for some time. She’d moved on and was engaged to another man. Obviously Jared had had no trouble moving on, as well, considering his marital status as a widower.

  She attempted to shut those thoughts from her mind. Not only did she have no right to feel even a hint of the hurtful emotions that clutched her heart and gave a painful squeeze every time she thought of Jared in the arms of another woman, but jealousy shouldn’t even be an issue for her, consideri
ng the two-carat diamond on her left hand.

  She’d so wanted the phone call she’d placed to Leland to provide her with a sense of comfort. She’d desperately hoped hearing his voice would have grounded her, helped bring her back to reality. Foolishly, she’d believed that’s all it would magically take. Instead, she’d been left with a hollow emptiness, which only served to add to the confusion and chaos.

  She set the mugs on the rough-hewn pine cocktail table, then took a seat on the far end of the faded plaid sofa. Dressed in black leggings, another of her recently acquired sweaters and a thick pair of socks, she curled up on the end of the couch and pulled her feet beneath her. As Jared explained the events of the last day and a half for Harry’s benefit, she paid attention, looking for any scrap of information she may have missed previously.

  For a brief moment, she considered the wisdom of passing so much information on to Harry. If he knew too much, his life would be worth as little as hers and Jared’s. Based on what Jared had already told her, and what she had seen the other night, she knew what kind of evil these people were capable of, and she couldn’t bear the thought of Harry being in harm’s way. On the other hand, if anything happened to her, then perhaps Harry would find a way to reveal the truth, thereby clearing her name. Posthumous, of course.

  That thought had her clutching a tattered throw pillow to her chest for comfort.

  Jared arranged the papers from the manila envelope in three separate piles on the cocktail table as he spoke. The first stack she recognized as the financial documents surrounding her and the charitable contributions made to the Biddeford Home and the Elaine Chandler Foundation. The second and third piles were new.

  A deep frown marred Harry’s heavily lined face. “Explain to my why someone is going to so much trouble to involve Peyton?”