by V. R. Marks
Catastrophic failure didn't begin to cover this fiasco.
He threw a punch at the wall, pulling back at the last second. He'd save that – and more – for the man helping her.
With no valid reason to be there, he'd had to avoid the pre-op interrogations of the two surviving bikers. Since he was still in his hotel rather than a jail cell, he had to assume they hadn't given him up. Yet.
But he could hear the clock ticking like a bomb in his head. He knew how his agency worked. It was just as likely the authorities running the case were trying to verify any wild claims made by the bikers. With one brief phone call he used the shame of failure to adjust the terms of his agreement with the Dragons. The injured bikers would soon die from complications while under guard at the hospital.
He knew he could leave the country tonight and to hell with his reputation. The money would buy him all the respect he needed in Abu Dhabi. But he would know he'd been out maneuvered by a little girl.
There had to be a play, a way to finish this on his terms. He just had to think.
His computer chimed with an email update. The agent had provided a full report, including the detailed record the DEA maintained on Bartholomew, his businesses, and his associations. Clifton swore at the obvious regard the local office held for Bartholomew. Seemed the man had been helpful in chasing down drugs and money over the years.
How convenient that he'd called his own wrecker company to tow the sedan to the evidence lot. According to the email, the other vehicles were accounted for as well. But Bartholomew hadn't walked up on the scene and the lead biker had reported the woman was in the sedan before he'd attacked.
Where was Livingston?
Clifton combed through Bartholomew's resume, quickly finding the medical discharge from the Army. A veteran. A vet had started that investigation company in South Carolina too. The company that held the registration on the sedan.
He sat back, tapping his fountain pen to the notepad. It was worth a shot. He shut down his computer and slid it into the pocket of his overnight case. Grabbing his keys and cell phones, he prepared for another road trip.
No better place to start than a fill up at the busiest truck stop on Interstate 95.
* * *
Nicole came awake as the sound of the truck engine changed. She glanced around, amazed that the haze and blurriness had disappeared.
"Oh! Rick! I can see. Everything is clear at last."
Rick glanced her way and smiled. "You're not even squinting. Guess I should have stopped for gas sooner."
"I didn't mean to doze off."
"No problem."
She glanced at the clock on the dash, but had no idea how long she'd been out. "Where are we?"
"Just entered South Carolina."
She'd slept for hours. "You must be tired too," she said as he pulled into a gas station and stopped at the pump furthest from the store. "Want me to drive from here?"
He made a show of pocketing the keys. "No thanks."
She watched him walk away to pre-pay with cash. Better that than risking a trace on a credit or debit charges, she supposed. Digging some money out of her purse, she hopped out of the truck and rushed to catch up.
He glanced around, reminding her to look for cameras. "Do I need to buy another hat?"
"How close are we?"
"Maybe another hour, two at most."
"Then don't worry about it." He opened the door and motioned her through. "Even if they pick us up here," he said under his breath, "they don't know where we're going. There's a case to be made that I'm taking you to the RC Investigations office."
Her resulting questions had to wait as he headed for the counter and she headed toward the coolers in the back. Grabbing two bottles of soda, she headed for the counter.
Instinctively, she kept her gaze down, but the chattering anchor on the television behind the cashier caught her attention.
"Police still aren't clear as to why the bikers attacked the driver of the sedan, but the assumption is a drug exchange gone bad."
Clifton.
She barely contained the burst of profanity burning on her tongue as she paid for the sodas and a couple of candy bars she'd added on impulse. The slimy bastard was trying to smear Bart's reputation. Talk about predictable!
Thanking the cashier, she tossed a brittle smile up at the security camera over the door and rolled her shoulders back. Let Clifton find her. She'd be ready this time and armed with evidence he couldn't possibly twist out of.
She rushed back to where Rick was coaxing the aging gas pump to cooperate.
"What's wrong?"
"Clifton is trying to smear Bart's rep in another media mis-management." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder toward the store. "It was on the television. The reporter is calling the incident with the bikers a drug exchange gone bad."
Rick laughed. "That'll be an epic fail."
"You're sure?"
"Oh, yeah."
His easy confidence gave her a boost. "I hoped so. But well… I really appreciate you."
His smile faded and his eyes narrowed. "You appreciate me?"
"Definitely." The gas pump chimed as it reached the pre-paid limit. She hurried around to the other side, suddenly eager to get to the beach and get on with Rick's plan.
It was an exhilarating thought that Rick might be able to liberate her from this limbo in a legal way. A way that let her have a real life. She wasn't particularly eager to return to a name and life she'd left behind, but it would be such a relief to live without hyper-analyzing every moment for a potential threat.
The giddy sensation buzzing in her blood made her realize the true price of living with an axe hanging over her head. It was always there in the back of her mind, the constant wondering when she'd be found again – or worse – caught by the bad guy.
But now the vicious, bad guy who'd killed Mr. Chan had a name. She smiled as she thought about it. Not for Clifton and definitely not for what he cost her. No, the smile was all for Rick, who'd given her that first step toward real freedom.
"You look pleased with yourself," he said when she settled back into the passenger seat.
"Not with myself. With you. Well, maybe with both of us."
"Pardon?"
She knew what he must be thinking. "I know the happy is a turnaround. You don't have to look so shocked."
He kept his eyes on the road as they continued toward the beach. "I figured it's either the bump on your head or ah, maybe last night."
"Hmm." She pretended to think about it. "Probably the bump."
He shook his head.
"Seriously, I wouldn't even have Clifton's name without you. I wouldn't have this new hope that this nightmare might really be over soon without your –"
"Interference?"
"Dedication." He was one of the good guys who'd seen a woman in trouble and decided to stick around rather than walk away.
"I hope you're not lumping last night into that definition," he grumbled.
Her face went hot and she raised the cold plastic soda bottle to her cheek. Last night proved dedication of a completely different variety. "I didn't mean to force that, umm…" her voice trailed off at his thunderous glare.
"What I mean is –" That look tripped her up, made it hard to know quite what she meant or how to find the right words to explain it. She took a long drink of the soda, hoping the carbonation would clear a path through her suddenly parched throat. "I'm attracted to you, obviously. And it, umm, seemed mutual, but I don't expect anything," she finished in a rush.
"Maybe you should."
What did that mean? And why did thinking about Rick and expectations in the same sentence cause an unprecedented flutter low in her belly? She'd heard girls talk about this feeling, but it had never happened to her.
Because you always kept your distance. Until now.
She couldn't really let herself expect anything from Rick. Could she? The idea took root in her heart before she could stop it. Meeting him wa
s a chance encounter. He helped her because his company was helping Allie. The sex, well that had been an amazing culmination of consenting adults reacting to mutual attraction and surviving a deadly attack.
She slid a glance his way, noting the tension in his shoulders, the tic in his jaw, and his intense focus on the road in front of them.
In his line of work he must have faced countless threats to his life. He'd been married so he couldn't have turned to mindless sex to get over all of them could he?
"Let's just get back on point," he said, his voice heavy with disappointment.
In her?
"Right." Her giddy confidence long gone, she organized her thoughts on Clifton, drawing connections between past and present behavior. "You don't think he'll manage to hurt Bart, do you? Not even personally?" She worried for Kyle.
"Not a chance. Bart knows all the major players in the local game and Clifton's not one of them. I don't care what title or power he thinks he has, his tactics won't convince anyone who does know Bart."
"Good."
"It is good. Trying to discredit Bart only proves Clifton doesn't know everything."
"I'd just hate to have –"
"Your mess hurt others," he finished for her. "I get it." He started to reach across the cab, then deliberately put his hand back on the steering wheel.
She didn't care for the feeling that she was missing out on something precious. It put her back on the defensive. A position she thought she was done with where he was concerned. "It's true. My decisions have been ruining lives for too many years now."
"Every decision has ripple effects on the people around us, Nicole. You don't have a monopoly on that."
Comments like that made her want to ask about his wife and why he still felt so much guilt over her death. They both knew some ripples were bigger than others. It might be nice to know more about what he did or how he usually went about doing it. "So where is the RC Investigations office?"
"Columbia." He shot her a look. "You want a tour?"
She ignored that. "If they figured out your real identity and matched the car that got attacked with your office where does that leave us?"
"Can't say for sure." He flexed his hands on the steering wheel. "Seems like Clifton has remarkable reach and sources and I can only hope his determination to silence you will lead him into a trap he can't escape."
"You want him to have your information so he can track us?"
"It's the only way to be sure he has enough rope to hang himself."
If Rick had a plan for using the evidence she'd stashed to make the noose, she might feel as if her family could be vindicated.
Catching the scent of saltwater, she rolled down her window, inhaling deeply. "Nothing like the coast," she said, hoping to get back to more comfortable territory for both of them. Traffic was minimal this time of year and as they rolled down the main street Myrtle Beach felt more like a ghost town than tourist hub.
"Where are we headed?"
"My place is on South Kings Highway, just keep heading south."
"Okay."
"Let me plug the address into your phone."
"Just use the navigation thing there," he said, nodding at the GPS device on the truck's dash.
He'd turned gruff and quiet and didn't show any indication of perking up. What was his problem? Where had the easygoing charm gone? She thought it was usually the female who got all goofy or moody after sex.
Not that she hadn't felt plenty of things she didn't expect to feel after their encounter, but still. He was the one who'd planted kisses on her just for show. Kisses that sparked reactions she wanted to recreate and explore. He'd seemed more than willing last night.
She let her thoughts wander as the navigation device calculated the route and guided Rick toward the Oceanside campground.
The security guard at the gate waved him on toward the check in station. He parked and followed her inside. She handled the details and secured a pass for the truck while he hovered near the stand of tourism brochures near the door.
He stared at her for a long minute when they were back in the truck. "You bought a beach house."
"Sue me. I missed the ocean. East coast surfing isn't quite what I grew up with, but it gives me the fix I'm after."
"You surf?"
"Not so uncommon for a southern California native. WITSEC made me give it up."
"And they don't know about this place?"
"Nope. Bought it years ago under a different name. Private sale."
He stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. "Wow."
She didn't think he sounded as much impressed as doubtful. "There had to be some place for me to be myself. A place where all of the pieces of my life felt like they were in order."
He reached out again, this time catching her hand in his. An inexplicable sense of comfort radiated from that one point of contact, easing the knots in her shoulders and neck.
She let the navigation guide him around lakes and through acres of mobile homes, campers, and cottages.
"This place is huge."
"I know. It was such a great discovery." She'd done the same thing, peeking down streets and aisles of campers, mobile homes, and pre-fab cottages. "I started with a little camper they stored for me and eventually upgraded to my own cottage." She took in the changes since her last visit as they approached her wooded lot. "Part of the appeal was the size of the campground."
"Anonymity in numbers?"
"Absolutely. Along with lots of traffic year round and 24/7 security. The storage option made life so simple. Whenever I needed to get away, I just called and they pulled it into a space on the beach side campground. No towing or the hassles that went with it."
"No big signals about your destination. You thought it through."
"I told you I'm not always as flaky as the night of the fire. Park right here." She pointed to a patch of sandy grass as the navigation voice announced their arrival.
"We should have stopped for groceries on the way in," she mused.
"Let's see the evidence first."
Her tension ramped up again in response to his stern, waste-no-time approach. She breathed slowly, telling herself he just wanted this over as much as she did. For different reasons, but 'over' seemed his top priority. Making advances –who was she kidding with that politically correct phrase – jumping him had been a mistake. It had changed the dynamic and she didn't understand the new rules. Were there any? She felt unsteady, like walking on the shore as the tide sucked away the sand from under her feet.
"Of course." She wrestled her purse out of the book bag and started to dig for the cottage key. Rarely used, it always wound up underneath everything else. She was grateful for Kyle's book bag, but she planned to be a girl all the time from this point forward. No more hiding. No more ducking from anyone. It was amazing how empowered she felt, how ready to make a stand just because Rick was beside her.
"Cute place," he said.
She didn't have to watch him to know he was taking in all the variables with a quick, casual look around. "It does the trick. The last renters left two weeks ago."
"Hang on? You rent out this place?"
She suspended her key search, looking up into his eyes this time. The hard expression matched his voice. "Sure. It's financially smart."
He slung his backpack down to the step and turned her to face him, his palms heavy on her shoulders. "You rent out a space where you keep vital evidence stored?"
She pitched her voice low to match his. "Who's going to look here? No one who knows me now or knew me way back then can connect me to this place."
"Good lord, Nicole!"
"Hush." It was her turn to look around, but they were alone. She squirmed out from under his grip. "Come on in and you'll see."
Chapter 12
Rick told himself to shut up. Bottom line, it had been her problem and her business for years and she'd apparently done a good job of protecting the evidence so far. He was new to the situation and sho
uldn't criticize the choices she'd made. Still, her cavalier attitude about such damning proof bothered him. The negatives were probably stashed in the bottom of a cookie jar or wrapped up in the back of the freezer. Why would she risk a stranger tripping over something that could end her ordeal?
Assuming she had what she thought she had.
In his gut, he knew she did. Worse, he believed Clifton suspected the same thing.
He followed her up the steps of the cottage, his gaze roaming the neighboring properties and layout while she fiddled with the lock. The area was quiet enough he could hear the surf meeting the nearby beach. "Is the beach public access?"
"Not on this end. There's a stretch of a little more than a mile that's reserved for owners."
Score one for campground security. "Nice perk."
"One of many." The door swung open and she walked inside. "Home sweet home."
"Uh-huh." The layout was roomier than first glance from outside, and it was clean and bright inside. Neutral colors on the furnishings and décor, with the requisite coastal prints on the walls. Except for one panoramic sunrise in the place of honor over the loveseat.
He walked closer, knowing the truth. "You took this one." It was in the composition, the way she used the light and seemed to catch the life of one individual swell.
She stepped up beside him. "It was a good day."
"You thought it might be your last day here."
She paled, and pushed a hand through her hair. "That's silly." Her protest only confirmed his theory. "I own the place and come here at least once a year."
That was another concern about her plan. Alias or not, if she traveled here frequently, her handlers at WITSEC had probably figured it out. At this point, he might count it in the positive column. Based on Clifton's long reach, he and Nicole would need some back up. "You really were planning to run away."
"Eventually." She shrugged. "If they wouldn't bring the case to trial, well… no one likes to wait forever."
"Have you already moved the evidence out of here?"
"No." Her eyes went wide at his sharp accusation and he coached himself to ease up. "I've always had a reserve file. In case one or the other gets compromised by nosy renters."