Raja sunk to her knees beside Craig, dusting her fingers across his throat to feel for a pulse. Of course there was a pulse. It was evident in each new surge of blood that filled the kitchen towel. Crawling out of the way, Aimee’s eyes flared at the site of the small vial clutched in Raja’s palm.
“It can work, Aim,” Zak encouraged from his stooped position against the wall.
“If it is administered in time,” Raja clarified. “If too much blood is lost—”
There was no chance to elaborate. Raja unbuttoned Craig’s shirt and peeled the sodden material back, exposing a crimson-tarnished chest.
“Can I have a wet towel?” she asked, not glancing up.
The squeak of Aimee’s sneakers could be heard retreating into the kitchen.
Carefully blotting the sinewy nook below Craig’s shoulder and above his rib cage, Raja felt a wet cloth slap against her shoulder. She grabbed it and began mopping the blood from his skin. Pressing the release for the vial, she dribbled the clear serum on the nickel-sized entry wound.
“How long does it take?” Aimee whispered.
“I thought it took a lifetime,” Zak inserted huskily. “But it’s only minutes, right Raja?”
Raja nodded, her eyes riveted on that bruised circle, as if by sight alone she could coagulate the blood. Continuing her ritual of dabbing the wet cloth, she allowed her fingers to graze Craig’s flesh. Brawny muscles paved a unique terrain for her inquisitive hands. She had touched men before, in a purely clinical sense. This was so much different. This was personal. The cloth swept back and forth across those rugged contours, well after all traces of blood had been removed. In a trance she kept stroking him, committing the long dip of his abdomen to memory. Tan, even where his shirt had concealed him.
Beneath her palm the rhythm of his breathing hastened. The serum was kicking in—disintegrating the obstruction and regenerating the wounded flesh. It was not a miracle cure. There were wounds that were lethal, that no elixir could remedy—but with this—there was a chance.
Raja’s finger traced a circle outside of the laceration as her mind chanted, heal, heal, heal.
A hand seized her. That manacle urged her palm flat against the slick chest. Holding her breath, she watched his face, studying the twitch of his jaw, the indent of his brow, and the quirk of those full lips as he sought to speak. And then, without warning, his eyes opened—dark and churning like the eddy at the bottom of the lake.
“Hi,” he murmured weakly, with an equally fragile smile.
Raja’s lips curled up. “Hi,” she answered softly.
“Wh—what happened?” Anxious, he glanced down at her hand splayed atop his bare chest. Before she could respond, his focus narrowed on the blood-stained shirt.
A line dredged between his eyebrows. “Are you okay?” he rushed.
She wanted to laugh. He was worried whether she was okay? An even greater impulse was to drape herself across his chest and throw her arms around him. That was absurd, though.
Sitting erect, she assured, “I’m fine,” and then added, “You were hurt, but you will be fine now too.”
This declaration was confirmed as his flesh warmed by the second. Feeling awkward she tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it locked against his beating heart.
With his free grip, he probed around the site of his wound, inspecting it before he lifted his head for a visual assessment. Recollection burst in his eyes. His body jerked on the floor and he tried to hoist to his elbows to search down by his feet.
“Where is he?” he rumbled.
Raja grabbed his shoulder in restraint.
“I’ve got him,” Zak called out from behind the table. “He’s still breathing.”
Questions scored his face as he gaped up at Raja.
“He shot me.”
“Yes,” she confirmed.
“And you—you shot him.”
There it was, that tiny sliver of distrust—in his eyes—in his voice. It twisted her heart.
“Yes.”
Grimacing with concentration, he added. “But with what?”
Raja sought out Zak, sending him an unvoiced plea.
“It was with this weapon,” he announced, holding up Alphonso’s SIG. “Given the circumstances, I believe she did the right thing. She saved your life.”
Craig’s eyes swung back to her. The hand that clasped hers pressed down imperceptibly, melding her palm with his chest.
“Could you help me up?” he asked quietly, solely for her ears.
Beneath her palm the muscles flexed as he struggled to sit upright.
“You—you should stay down,” she stuttered. “You suffered blood loss. If you stand you will be light-headed. You might pass out.”
Again, Craig grappled around the wound area.
“I remember being shot,” he grated. “Right here. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, but where—” glancing down at his chest, “—where did he shoot me? There is so much blood—on my shirt—on the floor—”
“I really tried to clean the floor,” Aimee injected from behind.
Craig did not break from Raja’s gaze. In that exchange she came to one conclusion. Even if her identity was about to be revealed she still would not change a thing. If the past few moments were caught in a loop—to be repeated infinitely—in each instance she would react the same. Time and time again, she would save this man’s life regardless of the consequences.
“But there is no wound anywhere,” he prodded.
When he released her hand, she felt lost. She tucked her palm tight against her stomach, curling protectively around it, but her flight was interrupted by the caress of sturdy fingertips beneath her chin. Gently he lifted until she returned his gaze, finding herself pinned by eyes rich with tenderness. His hand slipped up to her face, cupping it. Without warning he leaned in and kissed her. A shiver charged through her when his lips touched hers. It was a slow, soft kiss, and he pulled back enough to speak. “I don’t forget doing that,” he uttered huskily. “I remember that part clearly.” He savored her mouth one last time and drew back.
“Oh,” Aimee croaked in the background.
Raja was oblivious. A ringing in her ears started the moment Craig’s lips touched hers. To her mortification, Craig, wounded as he was, now stood and offered her assistance. As she rose, his hold on her left little negotiating room in the narrow space between the table and wall. She slid up his body and for a moment he held her tight, before he delivered a soft vow. “We will continue this part of the conversation later.”
Feathers tickled her lungs, and the back of her scalp itched—but his intimate smile disappeared. Raw determination poured into a gaze that had just been so tender.
The federal agent had returned from the dead.
* * *
Craig’s gait was stiff as he passed behind the dining room table to join Zak who still squatted over the inert figure on the floor. Just the site of Alfonso stamped out any traces of warmth Craig had just experienced.
“He’s alive?” he asked.
Zak gave a perfunctory nod.
“And that gun,” Craig eyed the SIG, “that’s the weapon that Raja used?”
Clearing his throat, Zak asserted, “Yes.”
Bull.
“Where’s his blood?” Craig challenged. “Does he have a phantom wound like me?”
There was something off with this man, Zak, Craig thought. An anomaly he could not place. Golden eyes looked like they were straight off a Hollywood set. Always poised, even seated on the floor, the man resembled a lion in the wild—temporarily stable, but perpetually ready to pounce.
“I suspect,” Zak began calmly, “that he had a heart attack when faced with Raja’s threat.”
Craig rubbed his forehead. No matter where the hell he’d been shot, right now his head ached the most.
“Let me sit down.” Hand extended in apology, he dropped onto the dining room chair.
No, don’t look at Raja. You need to concentrate rig
ht now.
“Alright,” he started. “Somehow I feel that you want to pin some sort of post-traumatic stress label on me to discredit what I’ve seen. I hate to tell you, but I’m completely lucid, and I remember it all.” Including that kiss. “Yeah, I blacked out for a bit, but I’ll chronicle what happened up to that point because neither of you—” he looked at Zak, and then shot a glance over his shoulder at Aimee, tactfully dodging Raja’s gaze, “—were there at the time.”
“Alfonso here,” he nodded at the unconscious man, “entered the house through your cellar.”
“It’s not really a cellar,” Aimee cut in. “It’s more like a crawl space with a dirt floor, but it does have a short staircase. Dad built it so he could have his hands free. It’s hard to lug stuff up using a ladder—”
“Aim—” Zak stopped her. “Let the man continue.”
“Oh. Right.”
Waiting another second, Craig proceeded. “Alfonso is his name. He is the man who tied up Raja and me in the barn. Apparently he was not pleased that Raja was crafty enough to free us.”
He chanced a glance at her as so many questions rumbled through his head. Mutinous eyes dropped to her mouth before he continued.
“He felt that we were loose ends. He had Raja in the scope of his gun—that gun that you are now holding. I did what I could to distract him—to get him to concentrate on me, which included pissing him off. I guess the pissing him off part worked because he shot me.” Craig tapped just below his collarbone. “Right here. But look—” for show he glanced down at his chest, “—there’s no wound. Lots of blood. But no wound.”
When Zak prepared to respond, Craig held a palm up and continued. “When I went down, I was afraid for Raja. I was afraid that she was the next target. I heard her scream, and then I saw her raise—something—something shiny—hell, it looked like a gravy ladle.”
Aimee snorted behind him.
“She lifted this silver weapon and a light, like a lightning bolt shot across the room, and Alfonso went down. I was on the floor too, but I was still coherent. I was talking to Raja. I was—”
Goddamn. I was kissing her.
“My point is,” he cleared his throat, “that gun you’re holding is not the weapon that Raja used to shoot Alfonso.” This time he sat back and let his gaze slide across the three Patterson faces. “So we have two major mysteries that need to be solved. One—” his finger came up, “where is the weapon that Raja used? Or rather, what was the weapon used?” Slowly, a second finger rose and this time his eyes locked on the ethereal green eyes of the woman before him.
“And two—how am I sitting here, feeling fine, while there’s a bloody outline of my body on the floor?”
Raja blinked.
In the distance a lawn mower purred to life.
“Wait, wait.” Aimee spoke up. “Let’s back up. Why were you here to begin with?”
Craig nearly smiled at her means of deflection.
“To ask questions—” he replied calmly, “—about you in fact.”
The clench of her throat muscles told him he had struck a chord.
“I called him.” Raja admitted softly.
“What?” Aimee and Zak chorused.
Staring down at her hands, Raja shrugged. “I ran a test of the substance found in the barn. I wanted to let him know what I discovered.”
“Oh Raja,” Aimee sounded crushed as she stepped up and looped an arm across Raja’s shoulder.
They were treating this admission like a death sentence. What the hell was going on here?
“Hello,” he waved. “I was already on my way. She didn’t bring me here.”
Across the room, Raja met his eyes. Anxiety, confusion and a glint of passion formed a maelstrom of emotions. He couldn’t fall prey to that spellbinding combination, though. He had to remain analytical.
“As much as I want to delve more into this, we have to get Alfonso to a hospital.” Craig cupped the back of his head. “Although I’m not sure what to report as the source of the injury.”
“Trauma,” Raja offered quietly.
“Ya think?”
A short chime erupted from Craig’s pants. Everyone jumped. He reached into his back pocket and looked at the caller ID. Wally.
One brief glimpse at the blood stains spilled on the floor, as well the anxious trio of faces—and yes, Alfonso’s limp body—and Craig sighed. Great. And most likely this call was a harbinger of worse news.
“Buchanan.”
“Where are you?” Wally shot out with hushed urgency.
“I’m—” One more glance at the melee and he wanted to respond, in some other dimension. “I’m en route to the Patterson house to follow up on a lead.”
“Well, I hope you get there quickly, because Beckett and Saldano are on their way there now.”
Beckett and Saldano. Tweedledee and Tweedledumber. Well, to their credit they were exemplary bloodhounds after someone had fed them all the facts. They were also the duo that reveled in Craig’s misjudgment at the Diego sting, and Craig’s latest mishap at the barn. As he sat in the office yesterday, they barely concealed their sidelong glances and conspiratorial giggles. Forty-year-old federal agents with pot bellies should not be giggling.
“Why?” Craig barked. “What did they find?”
“Well, hell, they found the search history on your computer, of course. Now Gradkowski has them on a manhunt for this Aimee Patterson chick. As you found out, she was kidnapped when she was seventeen, and they suspect she was working for Diego. Based on the location of the farm, she probably has been all along.”
Aimee still had her hand resting protectively on Raja’s shoulder, but Raja looked composed now. It was the dark-haired woman that appeared as if she was about to unravel. Was it because she was hiding something?
“When did they leave?”
“About three hours ago.”
Throw in a rest stop or two and that would put them here in less than two hours, Craig calculated. He glanced down at his blood-stained shirt. Son of a bitch.
“Alright,” he mumbled. “Thanks for the heads-up, Wal. I’m already on top of the situation—and no—I won’t screw this up.” I hope.
Cramming the phone back in his pocket, Craig leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. For a moment he gripped his head in his open palms, aware that he was the center of attention. One sweep of his hand across his face erased some of the fatigue. It bolstered him with enough strength to sit up and confront their distraught expressions.
“So it would seem that more agents are on the way.”
A gasp sucked the air from the room.
“How could they possibly know about Alfonso this quickly?” Aimee challenged, stepping forward. “Did you call them?”
“No.” Craig felt drained. “I did not call them. They were already on their way here,” he paused. “For the same reason that I was.”
Her hands curled up into fists beside her hips, but she still voiced the question. “And what is that?”
“You.” He looked her dead in the eye.
Dodging his glare, Aimee hastened to join Zak who appeared brooding as hell.
“Your kidnapping,” Craig explained in an even voice. “When you were seventeen. Can you elaborate on your whereabouts for the five years that you are unaccounted for?”
Keep it professional. Don’t notice the terror in her eyes. Don’t see the bunching of Zak’s shoulders as if he’s ready to slug you. And don’t—for God’s sake—look at Raja.
Craig opened his blood-stained notepad to read the facts. “You graduated high school, and two days later your parents filed a ‘missing persons’ report. It took the police an additional 48 hours, but you were young enough for them to issue an Amber alert. A massive manhunt was conducted in the woods behind your property within the next 24 hours, and the manhunt continued over the next week with a broadening scope.”
Flicking a glance at Alfonso’s passive form, Craig read on. “After six months your father felt th
at law officials had lost interest in the case and since you were so close to adulthood, assumed you had run away. He solicited a private investigator that also was unsuccessful in finding any trace of you. Five years and one day later, your father reported that you had returned home, but suffered from amnesia. Shortly thereafter you enrolled in classes at North Carolina State University. You received a B.S. in Industrial Engineering, and soon, an MBA. You worked at the Ford Motor Plant as a Project Engineer, and then—” Craig flipped the sheet of paper and held up the blank page. “And then you disappeared again.”
“I went to Europe,” Aimee claimed with little zeal.
“Right,” Craig nodded. He hated doing this, but it did not add up. The numbers simply did not add up. “Germany, wasn’t it? I asked Raja what city in Germany you had all traveled to. She said, New York City.”
Aimee slumped against Zak as his arm snaked around her waist for support. He whispered something in her ear, but it seemed to do little to ease the turmoil in her eyes.
“I’ll tell you what the working theory is.” Setting the pad on the table, Craig sat back. “The working theory is that Diego Carlo arranged for the car accident that killed the Kings for the purpose of appropriating the farm next door to use as one of his many inventory warehouses. He was known for preying on the old in such a manner. And, as he has used children in the past as mules, we suspect that he kidnapped you by sheer virtue of your easy proximity.” Craig saw Aimee squelch. “Then, he most likely forced you to work for him either with threats to your family, or perhaps eventually under your own will. Maybe with fine gifts like that fancy necklace of yours. When you were finally released under strict orders to never tell of your years under his control, you resumed your normal life. At some point, though, he found the need to call upon you again, and perhaps recruited your friends as cohorts.”
Aimee clasped the peculiar necklace with white knuckles.
“Well—” Zak snorted, “It is more plausible than the truth.”
Finally, Craig sensed that he might be making some headway—but they were running out of time. Beckett and Saldano were very narrow-minded. There was no such thing as gray for them. And there was plenty of gray with this trio—so much so it looked like they were wading through a pool of cement.
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