Compromised Security

by Cassie Miles

  “Nothing so far, but I have an idea.” She pointed to the upper shelf with the camera. “He didn’t bother to hide that mini-cam very well, so he probably expected us to find it. Maybe he hid something up there with it.”

  Carefully, he crossed the floorboards. Outside, the day was turning to dusk. The sunlight dimmed. He could barely see the pale oval of Marisa’s face.

  She couldn’t reach the shelf without climbing on the rotting shelves, but it wasn’t much of a stretch for him. His fingers closed around the wireless mini-cam.

  “Feel around on the shelf beside it,” she said.

  He handed her the little camera and slid his fingers along the shelf. He felt something. A small, square box. “I’ve got it.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  He couldn’t have agreed more.

  OUTSIDE THE GHOST TOWN saloon, Marisa inhaled a deep breath of the clean air and shook herself, wishing she could take a hot shower to wash away the dirt and the stench. Though it was a relief to be away from the carnage in the saloon, now wasn’t the time to lower her vigilance. There could still be a sniper in the area. A hired gunman.

  She urged Flynn forward. “Let’s go to the car before you open that box.”

  Flynn stumbled behind her. He might deny it, but he’d been affected by the references to his mother, and to those words scrawled in blood across the bar. What did they mean to him: Welcome home, hero?

  Inside the armored jeep, she studied his features. His lips were tight. His squint narrowed his eyes to slits as if he couldn’t bear to see what came next. He’d been hurt as a child, and the pain still lingered. His vulnerability touched her. She wished she could take him into her arms and comfort him. Marisa knew the agony of holding tightly to secrets from the past.

  “Let’s see what’s in that box,” she said.

  When he handed the small cardboard box to her, his fingers trembled. “You do it.”

  She lifted the lid. Inside was a key. Their next clue. There were also two numbers printed on circular pieces of paper. A nine and a three.

  Flynn seemed relieved as he cleared his throat. “This looks like the key to a padlock. The kind of thing you’d buy in any hardware store.”

  “A locked storage unit? A shed?”

  “Could be any damn thing.” His voice was angry. Tense. “How the hell can we figure this out?”

  They had to make sense of the clue. Grace’s life hung in the balance. “It’s up to you, Flynn. This is about your past. Do those numbers mean anything to you?”

  He leaned back against the seat. His eyelids closed. He looked exhausted. “Can’t think of a thing.”

  “You’ve got to.”

  “Can’t think,” he repeated.

  She whipped open the car door, hefted the mini-cam in her hand and threw it into the weeds. She closed the door with a slam. “He’s not watching anymore. We’re alone. Just you and me. Nothing you tell me will leave this car. You’ve got to level with me, Flynn. ‘Welcome Home, Hero.’ What does it mean?”

  He spoke without opening his eyes. “It’s about football.”

  She remembered a perfect autumn afternoon when they’d attended an Oakland Raiders game at McAfee Coliseum across the bay from San Francisco. He told her that he’d been a running back. Fast and tough. Able to take a hit. “Okay, tell me about it.”

  “I scored a winning touchdown, and there was a celebration party. They hung a banner for me.”

  “Welcome Home, Hero.”

  “My mother showed up drunk. I don’t know how she figured out where I was. Bunny had never been supportive of my football playing, said I was wasting my time and I ought to get a paying job.”

  “What happened at that party?”

  “My drunk mother started hitting on my friends. One of the guys grabbed her breast. I hit him.” His forehead creased in a frown. “I did more than hit him. I beat the crap out of this kid. Before the other guys could pull me off him, I’d cracked his jaw and broken two ribs. He spent a couple of days in the hospital with a collapsed lung.” He glanced toward her. “Some hero, huh?”

  She wasn’t here to judge him. “Were you arrested?”

  “I spent three days in jail, but that wasn’t the worst part.”

  “What was?”

  “I got kicked off the team. Forever. I was coming up on my senior year. The time when college scholarships get handed out, and I wasn’t allowed to play.”

  Football had been more than a game to him. It had been a chance to excel, to escape his dismal life and have his college paid for. “You lost your future.”

  “I should have known better. There was no excuse for what I did. Just blind rage.” In his gaze, she saw a depth of regret. “Coach Cortez was right to boot me out.”

  “Cortez?”

  “Yeah, that was the coach’s name. Hank Cortez.”

  She made the obvious connection. “Like the town near the safe house. Cortez, Colorado.”

  He sat up straighter. “That’s got to be part of the clue.”

  “What about the numbers? Three and nine?”

  “I was number nine. That was the number on my jersey.”

  “And three?”

  He thought for a minute, then shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Might be a street in Cortez,” she said. “Third Street.”

  “Open the glove compartment. There’s a street map of Cortez.”

  Though she could have found the street just as easily on the dashboard screen, she did as he asked. She didn’t want to interrupt the flow of his thinking.

  Spreading the map wide on her lap, she found Third Street and traced it across the town. “Where on Third? There must be something else to give us a clue to the cross street. Something else you remember about football.”

  He cranked the key in the ignition and started up the car. “We can think while we drive. Cortez is about an hour away from here. By the time we get there, it’ll be nightfall.”

  If they couldn’t figure out anything else, they could drive up and down Third Street until they saw padlocks. “I’d like to narrow the search. We don’t have much time,” Marisa said.

  “What do you need for me to do?”

  “Think about your football days. Does anything else come to mind? Any other names?”

  “Too many names. All the other guys on the team. My girlfriend. Other coaches.”

  “How about a street name? Where did you live?”

  He thought for a moment. “I think it was Springer Street. We didn’t stay in any one place for very long. Mom would come up short on the rent. Me or my brother would get into a fight. And we’d move.”

  His younger brother was in prison for manslaughter. “His name was Derek, right? Did he play football?”

  “No sports. He was into drugs. An addict, like my mother.”

  He gripped the steering wheel with both hands. She was glad to see that he was driving these curving mountain roads with care. Even after these devastating blows to his emotional stability, his training as a federal agent kept him from falling apart. “After you were arrested, what happened?”

  “The kid I beat up didn’t press charges. I got off with probation for being disorderly, but I paid for what I did. Every penny of the kid’s medical bills. Took me a year. Part-time work after school and full-time in the summer, but I made full restitution.”

  “Were you court-ordered to pay the bills?” she asked.

  “I paid because it was the right thing to do.”

  Though Flynn clearly saw this incident in his past as a failure on his part, she saw it as a pivotal event that built his character. Maybe the NFL had lost a great running back when he’d been kicked off the team, but the FBI had gained a strong, determined agent. A man who knew right from wrong.

  As they drove out of the forested mountain area, she gazed up into a Rocky Mountain sunset. The sky, streaked with pink and magenta, seemed more vivid. The underbellies of clouds were gilded with pure gold. There was paved r
oad under their tires. Smooth sailing.

  For the first time since the abduction, she dared to hope. She and Flynn had overcome the first hurdle. They’d figured out the first real clue, and the process hadn’t destroyed them. The opposite, in fact. She unfastened her seat belt, leaned across the gap between the bucket seats and planted a light kiss on his cheek.

  He scowled. “What was that for?”

  “I’m proud of you.”

  “Don’t start patting me on the back, I’m no hero.”

  “To me, you are.”

  He pulled up at a stop sign. Two long roads intersected in the middle of vacant fields. Flynn gazed toward her. His light brown eyes reminded her of warm honey.

  “I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life,” he said with a rueful smile. “A lot of screwups. Do you want to know the worst? My biggest regret?”

  “Sure.”

  “Losing you.”

  Too surprised to speak, she could only stare back into his rugged, amazingly handsome face.

  “You’re a good woman, Marisa. And a good partner. There’s nobody else I want at my side.”

  These were the words she’d been longing to hear. In spite of their epic bad breakup, they had shared a wealth of good times. The best times of her life.

  When he pulled her toward him, her body responded instinctively. She was in his arms, leaning across his chest. Face-to-face. Inches apart.

  Her lips joined with his.

  Their kiss was familiar and wildly exciting at the same time. Poignant memories blossomed inside her. She remembered his earthy scent. The taste of his mouth. The utterly satisfying heat of his hard body against hers. She wanted his sex, yearned for it.

  This was where she belonged. In his arms.

  She felt alive again. Without him, she’d been an empty shell. And now…

  Sensation jolted through her as she dug her fingers into the thick hair above his nape. He deepened the kiss. Oh yes, she loved that thing he did with his tongue. Adored the way his hand slid inside her jacket and cupped her breast.

  A car horn sounded behind them.

  She gasped and bounced back into her seat. Breathing hard and laughing at the same time, she glanced over her shoulder. They’d been caught making out like a couple of teenagers on a country road.

  Flynn slid the jeep into gear and made a right turn. His low chuckle tangled with the sound of her giggles in a lovely harmony, the best she’d ever heard. “How long has it been since we laughed together?”

  “Too long,” he said.

  “I’m glad this happened, Flynn.”

  “Me, too. Lady, I’ve been wanting to kiss you since the first minute I saw you again.”

  Though she would have loved to dwell on this almost magical reawakening, there wasn’t time. This wasn’t the time. “We need to get back to business.”

  “Right. We’ll be in Cortez in twenty-five minutes.”

  She gathered up the map that had slipped off the seat to the floor. “Why don’t I read off the streets that cross Third? You can tell me if anything sounds promising.”

  He nodded. Using her flashlight, she stared down at the fine print and began reading.

  After only a few minutes, he said, “Stop. That’s it.”

  “Buffalo Street?”

  “My high school football team was the Buffaloes.”

  That was their next destination.

  Chapter Twelve

  The corner of Third and Buffalo was at the outskirts of Cortez. On one corner was a strip mall with a fitness center. A place where they might find lockers. Seemed obvious. Was it a trap?

  Flynn hadn’t forgotten the last time they’d been in Cortez when the shooter in black had fired a bullet through their windshield. This time, he wouldn’t let his guard down. His mind needed to be clear.

  An hour ago in the saloon, his world had been a dank, bleak prison shadowed with bad memories and regrets. But he’d crawled out of that pit and was standing tall. No matter what else the Judge threw at him, he’d take it and come back stronger. Being with Marisa gave him confidence. She be lieved in him. Her kiss reminded him of what it meant to be a man.

  His right hand rested on his gun handle as they entered the fitness center. The piped-in music was an oldie with a solid beat. A tune by the Bee Gees. “Stayin’ Alive.” Ironic.

  From behind a cream-colored partition, he heard the voice of an instructor counting beats and the thud of sneakers from her class. It was hard to imagine the Judge with all his dark rituals being in a brightly lit fitness center decorated in turquoise and pink.

  He and Marisa approached a counter where a skinny woman in hot-pink latex flashed a perfect white smile. Her lips barely moved as she said, “Welcome to Fit ’n’ Fab—No More Flab. Are you members?”

  Flynn showed her his FBI badge. “Do you have a locker room?”

  “You betcha.” Her smile didn’t waver. “And the most up-to-date exercise equipment in southwestern Colorado. We offer discounts to the local police. You might qualify.”

  “Are the lockers assigned to members?”

  “Some of them. We advise everyone to bring their own lock. The management is not responsible for misplaced or stolen items.” She pulled open a drawer under the countertop. “I have locks you can buy or rent.”

  “Locker number three,” he said. “Who does that belong to?”

  “Oh, gosh. I can’t tell you that.” She wagged a manicured finger in his face. “Our membership list is strictly confidential.”

  “I’m FBI,” he said. “This is an investigation.”

  “And you look like you’re in good shape, but there’s always room for improvement. Do you know your cholesterol level?”

  What the hell was wrong with this Twinkie? Had she exercised so hard that her brains had fallen out? He raised his voice so she could hear him over the Bee Gees. “Check your list and see who has locker number three.”

  “But I could get in trouble.”

  She didn’t know the meaning of real trouble. “Just do it.”

  She grabbed a pink telephone. “I’m calling the manager.”

  Marisa stepped up to the counter. “I’ll deal with this, Agent O’Conner.”

  Leaving him free to try the key. While Marisa engaged the Twinkie in conversation, he slipped behind the partition. Three rows of ladies in leotards and sweats were high-kicking to the oldies. Their images reflected in a wall of mirrors: an army of Rockettes.

  He edged around the room to a corridor. A sign on the wall pointed to the men’s locker room. Flynn slipped inside and found rows of metal lockers. Some had padlocks that would require a key similar to the one in his pocket.

  Number three was unlocked. He opened it. Nothing inside.

  What the hell? Had they made a mistake interpreting the clue? He couldn’t believe it. Everything made sense. Cortez was his coach. His team, the Buffaloes, named one cross street. The other was Third. Or was it nine, like his jersey number? He went to locker nine. Also unlocked and empty.

  He didn’t have time for mistakes. Grace Lennox didn’t have time.

  Back in the corridor, he looked toward the ladies’ locker room. He had no desire to go bursting in there and surprise some woman in her undies, but the process of waking a local official and getting a legal search warrant would waste valuable minutes.

  Gulping down a deep breath, he shoved open the door and yelled, “FBI! Take cover.”

  There were a couple of feminine shrieks.

  “FBI,” he repeated. “I’m coming inside.”

  When he charged through the door, he spotted only one lady standing at the end of a row of lockers with a long T-shirt covering all her vital parts and a hair dryer clutched in her hand like a ray gun. Her eyes were huge. Bambi in the headlights.

  “Federal officer,” he mumbled as he brushed past her.

  This locker room was three times larger than the men’s, and it smelled a lot better. Locker three was fastened with a simple padlock. He fitted the key
and twisted. It opened.

  On the top shelf was a cardboard shoe box—much larger than the one they’d found in the saloon. Flynn grabbed it and headed toward the exit.

  The woman in the towel hadn’t moved a muscle.

  “Carry on,” he said as he passed her.

  “Is it terrorists?” she squeaked.

  Yeah, right. An international cabal of overweight assassins had targeted a fitness center in Cortez. “You’re safe now,” he said.

  At the front counter, Marisa stood arguing with an overly muscled man in snug bicycle shorts and a gold T-shirt that said, “I’m The Boss.” Apparently, he was the kind of guy who needed the reminder.

  Flynn gave Marisa a nod, and she abruptly ended her conversation. They went out the door into the night. Without breaking stride, they got into the jeep.

  “Drive,” Marisa said. “The Boss is going to be calling the local cops, and I don’t want to spend time explaining.”

  “They’re going to get an earful from a lady in the women’s locker room.”

  “Women’s?” Her eyebrows raised. “You went into the women’s locker room?”

  “I’m a Fed. I do what I have to do.”

  She tried—unsuccessfully—to stifle a burst of laughter. “I wish I’d been there. Did you sneak inside or kick the door down?”

  He heard the sound of a police siren, probably streaking toward the fitness center. They’d been right to flee the scene; the last thing he needed was to be written up as a Peeping Tom.

  Marisa continued to snicker. “Could have been dangerous, Flynn. The ladies in that exercise class could have attacked. Could have kicked you to death with their sneakers. To a disco beat.”

  Why had he ever thought that the sound of her laughter was beautiful? Though he didn’t want her to retreat into her all-business attitude, the teasing was getting on his nerves. He parked on a side street away from the light. “Are you done?”

  Though she nodded, he could still see her wide, amused grin through the shadows. “Almost.”

  “Let’s see what’s in the box.”

  He looked down at the shoe box with a certain amount of dread. The incident at the ghost-town saloon had been agonizing. What else did the Judge have in store for him? He yanked off the lid.