by V. K. Powell
“Don’t do anything stupid. I’m already on the way.”
“How—”
“I got a call, of course. It’s protocol.” He mimicked Loane’s comment in his annoyingly superior tone.
His revelation sent a stab of disappointment and hurt through her. Why hadn’t Abby told her? She thought they’d developed a strong partnership. Obviously what they’d shared didn’t mean anything to her—professionally, and maybe not personally either. Maybe Abby had seen Loane’s feelings reflected in her eyes tonight and was simply backing off.
“Did you hear me, Landry? Don’t do anything.”
Disconnecting the call, she threw the phone into the seat and slammed her fists against the steering wheel. When she looked back, Abby and Torre were gone. “Damn it, Abby. Damn it to hell.”
As she thought about her next move, the house suddenly exploded in a ground-shaking blast. Debris spewed into the air. Pellets of scorched wood and fragments of brick rained down on the car as the building disintegrated. Cinders ignited the dry grass around the house, creating patches of flames between her and Abby.
She jumped out of her Jeep and ran across the road, dodging brush fires, and stared at the last spot Abby had stood. That spot no longer existed, nor did the house supporting it. “Abby!” She tried to get closer but the heat was too intense. “This can’t be happening.”
She ran toward the back of the house. The metal garage doors were twisted awkwardly off the hinges, revealing two vehicles. Inside a flaming SUV she saw the charred silhouettes of human bodies. Abby. I have to get to her. She fell to her hands and knees and crawled closer. Flames licked her skin and the smell of singed hair burned her nostrils. She took a deep breath, stood, and grabbed the garage door and pulled. The pain seared through her as quickly as the hot metal melted her skin. She started to lose consciousness. No way to reach her in time. She prayed that Abby had died quickly and that she would never wake up.
Chapter Two
Abby awoke to a quietness she could only associate with death—no rustling of trees, bird or animal sounds, traffic noise—not even her own heartbeat. She opened her mouth and screamed. The sound died like being underwater. Gasping for air, she panicked and grappled for anything solid within reach.
Lying facedown in a bathtub full of rubble, she swept her hands wildly above her head. A heavy weight pressed against her back. She couldn’t get up. At least I’m not dead yet. Her head ached worse than a tequila hangover and her right leg throbbed. The air stank of scorched wood and burned her throat as she breathed. Her eyes stung as bits of dust and cinder made seeing difficult. What the hell happened? She remembered being in the Torre house and then… Oh, God.
Something moved under her and she pushed harder to rise. The weight shifted off her back and a slab of Sheetrock fell away. As she came to her knees, she looked down on Simon Torre’s two-year-old grandson. Blake’s mouth was open, his eyes tightly closed, and his face bright red. He appeared to be crying but she couldn’t hear him.
She checked the boy for obvious wounds and watched for the rise and fall of his chest. He didn’t appear to be injured, but she had no idea how long she’d been partially covering him or if he’d been hurt before the fall. She knelt in the small space, picked Blake up, and rocked, trying to reassure him as she scanned the area for a way out.
What am I supposed to do? Sweat trickled into her eyes and stung. She shivered while everything around her burned. It was like a scene from a postapocalyptic movie. The explosion had temporarily disrupted her thought process as efficiently as it destroyed the house. Her degrees in dramatic and performing arts were of no use. Focus, concentrate—one rule of acting: if you don’t know what you’re doing, act like you do. She looked at the child in her arms and knew she had to do more than act. Move, get out.
She recognized the basement bonus room of Simon Torre’s home by its orientation away from and beneath the charred remains of the main house. Blake had needed to go to the bathroom and she’d volunteered to take him. She’d chosen his play area at the opposite end of the home, where he’d feel more comfortable practicing his new potty training. That little side trip had saved their lives.
But her relief was short-lived as she took in their surroundings. The main part of the building was still burning. Debris was falling and the structure continued to deteriorate under the wrath of the fire. She and Blake weren’t in danger from the flames, but she didn’t trust the stability of the remaining walls. They’d have to get out soon. What about Simon, Sylvia, and Alma? No one could’ve survived the blast she’d heard before she passed out. Perhaps the tub she’d been blown into had shielded her and Blake from further injury.
But the three people she’d spent so much time with recently would certainly be dead. She could see the garage at the back of the house and almost nothing remained. Had she missed something that led to such a tragic end? Could she have prevented it? The tears threatened but she forced them back. She had to save Blake. She owed the family that much.
Abby settled on the side of the tub and cuddled Blake in her arms, humming his favorite lullaby. Her hearing was returning but her head ached from the concussive blast. The air was thick with floating fragments, and the heavy scent of burning wood filled her nose and throat. She took a deep breath to clear her head but coughed instead. She flexed her shoulders and prickles of tenderness ran down her back. Don’t think about that now.
She rocked Blake as she hummed, and his steady wailing slowly changed to broken sobs. His terrified eyes finally seemed to recognize her. “We’ll be okay, baby boy. I promise. Now I’ve got to get us out of here.” When he stopped crying, she gently laid him back down and tried to stand.
A splinter of pain shot up her right leg and she doubled over. She grabbed the side of the tub to keep from screaming. After a few deep breaths, she pulled her pants leg up, relieved to see only an area of red swollen skin and no protruding bone. She poked the angry flesh around the swelling and winced. The sensation was unpleasant but not as agonizing as when she’d broken her arm as a teenager. She needed something to stabilize her leg but didn’t have time. Blake’s safety was her first priority.
She searched the rubble within reach, finger-tested a few pieces of piping for heat, and chose a curved one as a crutch. Bending over the tub, she coaxed Blake into her left arm and gradually rose. Walking wouldn’t be easy if her leg was broken, but if she waited for emergency personnel, it might be too late.
She settled Blake against her chest and took her first uneasy step. The makeshift crutch gouged her underarm and her leg throbbed, but she moved forward. She dodged shards of glass and jagged wood protruding from the walls and bare earth. A windowpane hung like a guillotine from what was left of the ceiling, and she circled wide to avoid passing under it. Before taking each step, she balanced on her left leg, pushed wreckage aside, and checked the stability of the ground. Her back already ached from the additional weight and awkward gait, and she wasn’t even out of the house yet. To block out her discomfort, she focused on each movement as if it was a major project.
As she made her way through the ruins, the wind shifted and the fire seemed to follow, consuming the remaining building materials. Powered by adrenaline and fear, she moved faster until she lost track of time and the heat subsided. Then she turned and looked back. Only two walls of the main structure still stood, the ones above the basement bathroom where she and Blake had been. The realization made her weak. She pulled Blake tighter in her arm. She hadn’t thought about looking for Simon, Sylvia, and Alma, knowing instinctively that they were dead. The recovery team would make it official.
Why wasn’t the fire department here? Where were the first responders? Emergency personnel equals police equals questions. How would she explain her presence at an explosion of a suspect’s home in the middle of the night? Loane or Agent Bowman could run interference. One of them would take her statement and leave her out of this investigation in order to keep her cover intact. First she’d have
to contact them, but her cell had been destroyed, along with her purse and probably the car she’d been driving as well. She needed a phone.
A short distance away from the Torre home, surrounded by a dense grove of trees, was a neighbors’ house. Though it wasn’t visible from the street or the Torre home, Abby had seen it while walking around the property several weeks ago. Tonight she could barely make out the dim light from the windows.
With each painful step, Blake fretted more and seemed to grow heavier. Her left arm ached from his weight and her right from taking the pressure off her leg. The initial adrenaline rush was gone and she wanted to collapse in the field and wait for help. What had happened was unimaginable, the reason for it inconceivable.
Why would anyone want to kill the Torre family…and her? Maybe someone in the weapons case had become suspicious and wanted to eliminate her. But she wasn’t supposed to be there at all. She’d made that decision—obviously a bad one. And why kill Simon if he was involved in the illegal operation? None of it made sense.
Hours seemed to pass as Abby picked her way through the woods. Still no emergency personnel at the Torre home. Strange, since they weren’t that far out of the city. She wanted an EMT to check Blake and her leg but wasn’t ready to answer questions. Before she made any decisions, she’d call Loane. She’d get a lecture about proper informant procedures, but it would be worth it to hear her voice right now.
As she approached the neighbors’ house, the front door opened before she reached the steps. An elderly couple hurried toward them. The woman took Blake, and the man put his arm around her waist and helped her inside.
“Put her on the sofa, John,” the woman said, pointing to a worn three-seater. The house was warm and cozy, with years of family memorabilia on the bookshelf and mantle.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” Abby said.
“Don’t be silly. You’re hurt. I’m Susan Cooper and this is my grumpy husband, John. I’m an RN.” She nodded toward a faded diploma on the wall as if to verify her qualifications. “Mind if I check you and the boy over?”
“That would be great. Him first, please.” While Susan examined Blake and cleaned him up, Abby watched John pace back and forth in front of the window like a sentry.
“I’ve been trying to get through on nine-one-one, but the system is on the fritz. Happens occasionally. Technology.” He spoke the last word like a curse.
“Keep trying, John,” his wife said before turning her attention to Abby’s leg. “We need to get you and the child to the hospital for a thorough examination. Either of you could have a concussion or internal injuries.”
“You’re right, but can we wait a little longer for the ambulance? I’m sure they’ll be here soon.” Abby had to stall long enough to figure out what to do. Blake should be cleared by a doctor, but how would she explain having custody of a child that wasn’t hers without involving the authorities? She had to fly under the radar, at least until she got further instructions. “I hate to impose on you again, but could I use your phone?” Abby started to get up, but Susan patted her knee.
“Why don’t I bring it to you? You’ve probably got at least a hairline fracture of the tibia. We’ll need X-rays to know for sure. I’ll stabilize it with a makeshift splint, but you need to stay off your leg as much as possible.” When Abby didn’t answer immediately, Susan said, “John and I’ll get the little one settled upstairs.”
Nodding her appreciation for the privacy, Abby took the cordless phone and started to dial Loane’s cell. Halfway through the number, she stopped. Her instincts told her to make another call first. She needed answers before she’d know what to tell Loane.
But what would this call say about her ability to handle herself in difficult situations? Her instructions had been explicit—call Hector Barrio only in case of emergency. Dan Bowman was her contact in day-to-day activities, but if this didn’t qualify as an emergency, she wasn’t sure what did. The case had literally gone up in smoke, but only one man could officially end it. She dialed, waited for the prompt, and entered the Coopers’ phone number.
At the first chirp of the phone, she answered. “This is Abby.”
“Bad news?” Hector Barrio, ATF Special Agent in Charge of the Miami Field Division, was not happy. His tone implied that Abby better have a true emergency.
She succinctly relayed what had happened and waited for the words that would return her life to normal. The tightness in her chest eased and she realized how much she wanted that. Maybe this horrific event had a silver lining.
“Right. Stay where you are. Call Stefan Torre in Miami and tell him everything. Then do exactly as he says.”
“But…isn’t it over?”
“It damn well isn’t. You’ve moved up a rung on the ladder. Congratulations.”
“I don’t understand.” She couldn’t continue as if nothing had happened. How could she tell Stefan Torre that his brother, sister-in-law, and niece had been killed in an explosion? But she was the only person who could. This wasn’t a task she’d pass off to a stranger.
“You’re still an informant and I still need information.”
“Who’ll be my Miami contact?”
“I will. In the meantime, get acquainted with the new family boss, whoever he is. It’ll be good for you to lie low for a while until your leg heals. You don’t need to contact me unless something significant happens.”
“Are you going to tell Bowman about—”
“He doesn’t know the daughter-in-law was visiting, does he?”
“No.”
“Perfect. He’ll believe what everybody else does, that you’re dead and the case is closed, at least until we know who we can trust. Remember your assignment. Get information on the weapons dealer and identify the leak in the Greensboro ATF office. Bowman might be the mole. Think about it, Abby. Somebody wants this investigation shut down. What if the Torres weren’t the only targets tonight?”
“You mean me?”
“And anybody else connected to the family.”
Her heart fluttered and she stifled a gasp. Loane. “What will you tell the local authorities—the officers working on the task force?”
“Nothing. This will close the case as far as they’re concerned. You and I are the only ones who’ll know it’s still ongoing.”
She wanted to demand that Loane be told the truth about the case and her involvement in it. She owed her that much, but Hector Barrio was not a man who gave in or gave up. “Sir, what if these officers are in danger? Don’t you think they have a right to know?”
“They’ll be safe if the gunrunners think the case is closed.”
Leaving Loane’s safety to chance didn’t set well with her. She wanted to get a message to her somehow. At least tell her to be cautious. “Are you sure it shouldn’t be? We haven’t found a connection between the Torres and illegal weapons in over a year. Are you certain we’re watching the right people?”
“Absolutely. The big fish are always the hardest to catch. Stick with it.”
“I’m not sure I can—”
“Of course you can. You’re an actress. That’s why I hired you. Shake it off.”
Abby heard the click and stared at the phone in disbelief. What if she couldn’t shake it off? The emotions of the past two hours churned inside. Simon, Sylvia, and Alma Torre hadn’t been just suspects to her. They were people with feelings and dreams for the future. They’d treated her like family. Could she repay their kindness and disrespect their memory by betraying them further?
She thought about Blake asleep upstairs. At least he wasn’t seriously injured. She’d done one thing right. Now she had to get him back to his father, where he belonged. Nick would be grief stricken and frantic. She dialed Information and the operator provided the number for Stefan Torre and connected the call. It took all her strength not to break down as she told him about the explosion and his only relative who’d survived.
“You and Blake come home now.” Stefan’s thick Italian accent reminded
her of her father and she stifled a wave of nostalgia. Mr. Torre was on the verge of tears so she needed to stay strong. “There is airport near you, no?”
“Yes, Air Harbor.” It was the one she and the Torres used when they came to Greensboro in their private jet.
Stefan asked. “Where are you now?” She flipped over a magazine on the coffee table and read the Coopers’ address. “I send a car and doctor for you and the boy. The jet will be there soon—two hours most. Tell no one where you’re going. Understand?”
“Yes sir, I understand.” His cough sounded like a strangled cry. Abby wanted desperately to say something helpful but words failed.
“And thank you, Abby. You have done the Torre family a great service today.”
Helping Blake was the only thing that made sense about this day. She’d left Loane without sharing her feelings, lied to her about where she was going, and agreed to continue on a case she didn’t believe in—a case that might still jeopardize Loane’s safety. She’d never felt so lost and in need of guidance.
She started to dial Loane’s cell again. Hearing her voice would be comforting, but she thought about Hector Barrio’s question. What if the Torres weren’t the only targets tonight? What if contacting Loane put her at risk? She had too many unanswered questions that might get Loane hurt or worse.
Her feelings were raw and the memory of their lovemaking made her ache. Why hadn’t she told Loane where she was going tonight when she left her house? It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Loane. She trusted her with her life, and the next time she saw her, she’d tell her so, along with the fact that she was in love with her.
Life was too short to risk things like this happening without those she loved knowing how much they meant to her. Tonight she’d simply wanted to help Sylvia, then get back to Loane as quickly as possible. It seemed like such a small thing, but she’d managed to screw it up. As usual, her need to please everyone resulted in helping no one.