Packing Heat

by Penny McCall

  “You kicked me in the shin,” he shot back. “If that’s not a Barbie move I don’t know what is.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah, right up to the moment the cop jumped back up and came after you.”

  “And if you hadn’t horned in I’d have dealt with him.”

  “How? Scratched his eyes out? Or maybe you could have strangled him with your designer jeans.”

  That stopped her. “How do you know these are designer?”

  “Even in jail there’s television. Any show with supermodels was real popular.”

  “There’s a mental picture I could live without. And just for the record, I was taught there’s no wrong way to handle a situation as long as you come out of it alive and with your goal accomplished.”

  “Next time ask for help.”

  “Next time I’ll just pretend it’s you.”

  She slung her jacket back on and pushed her feet into a pair of running shoes, stuffing her dress into her duffel before she shouldered it, along with her laptop. “So, how do we do this?” she asked, stepping into the open doorway, the wind whipping cold across her skin.

  “They don’t teach you how to jump off trains in FBI school?”

  “They don’t teach any of this in FBI school.”

  Cole came to stand beside her, looking, as she was, down at the ground rushing by. “Just jump,” he said. “Gravity will take care of the rest.”

  “Just jump,” Harmony repeated. Or get shoved, which was what Cole did when she balked at the idea of flinging herself into the darkness and taking the landing on faith.

  She slammed into the ground feet first, tried to go into a tuck and roll but wound up flopping uncontrollably, arms and legs windmilling, until she came to a graceless stop. In a marsh. Facedown. If not for the cold water seeping through her clothes she would have stayed where she was, taking stock and getting her breath back, but she jumped up immediately, only to have Cole blunder into her and knock her down again—and then fall on top of her.

  “Oh, there you are,” he said, not making any effort to get off her. In fact, he was resisting her efforts to shove him off, laying the whole hard length of his body on hers. The parts of her that had managed to stay dry were losing that battle. And Cole was getting aroused. Big surprise. The man had been in jail for eight years, a picket fence with a convenient knothole would probably turn him on.

  “We’re in the middle of a swamp,” she said. “It’s cold and wet.”

  “Not from where I am.” His hand crept up from her hip, spreading heat and making her forget about the cold air and the frigid water and the possibility there were state troopers combing the railroad tracks for them. Until she realized his fingers were inches from her gun.

  She slipped her left leg out from under him, braced her hand on his left shoulder, at the same time hitting his right arm at the elbow and when it collapsed she flipped him off her. He landed on his back next to her with a satisfying little splash. “How about now?”

  “Let me guess—they taught that in FBI school?”

  “You’re lucky I used my FBI training,” she said, climbing to her feet. “My self-defense instructor taught me to use my knee. Or my hand.”

  Cole levered himself upright. “I get the knee. I’m guessing I wouldn’t like what you’d do with your hand, either.”

  “I’d grab your testicles and squeeze as hard as I could for as long as I could. It’s for getting away from a rapist.”

  He sucked some air in through his teeth. “Makes me glad I’m just a terrorist.”

  “You’re not a terrorist; you were just a dumb kid.”

  “Yeah,” he said on a rush of breath, “and now I don’t even have the excuse of youth. What are you doing?”

  “Looking for my laptop,” Harmony said, walking a couple more steps back along the path she’d have taken when she came off the train. “It has to be around here somewhere.”

  “Shit. Why the hell didn’t you hang onto it?”

  “Hmmmm, let me see. Because somebody shoved me out of a moving train and I was busy trying not to break my neck?”

  Wisely, Cole decided not to respond to that, pacing along about five feet away from her, back toward the train tracks. Luckily, it wasn’t far away, and it was dry. Her duffel hadn’t fared so well. Harmony slung the laptop case over her shoulder again, but when she took the duffel from Cole it weighed at least five pounds more than it had, and she could hear it dripping. So much for dry clothes, not to mention ones that didn’t chafe.

  But she was still alive, still free, and as far as she knew, Richard was all right, too. As long as there was hope for success, a little chafing was a small price to pay.

  “So what’s the plan?” Cole wanted to know.

  “Start walking.” And that’s what she did, scanning the darkness ahead and praying for inspiration. What she got was Cole, sounding like the voice of her own insecurity.

  “Where?”

  “We head west.”

  “Do you know where west is?”

  “I will as soon as the sun rises.”

  “Sunrise isn’t for hours. I’d like to get dry and warm some time in the near future.”

  Harmony stopped, looking back to where he was still standing by the railroad tracks. “You should be used to privation.”

  “Even in jail I got a bed and a hot meal.”

  “You’ve had the hot meal. That will have to do for a bed.”

  Cole came over to her and peered in the direction of her pointing finger. “What is it?”

  “A big, red barn.”

  “How do you know it’s big? And how do you know it’s red?”

  Harmony took another look. The ground rose up gradually away from the tracks, and at the top of a distant hill sat a farmhouse, outbuildings, and something that was definitely a barn, its distinctive roof shape a darker patch against a sky studded with a million stars. “It’s a lot bigger than the rest of the buildings,” she said. “Does the color really matter? It’s close and it will be warm.”

  “What about the farmer? I’m assuming there’s a farmer in your mental picture, probably wearing overalls and holding a pitchfork.”

  She huffed out a slight laugh. “Who’s the one with the imagination?”

  “I had a lot of time to develop it in jail,” Cole said.

  “Don’t get out of practice. You’re going to need it.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Cole smacked her on the backside as she walked by. “But it always helps to have inspiration.”

  THEY WALKED FOR LESS THAN AN HOUR, BY COLE’S ESTIMATION. It felt like forever. He was tired and damp and cold, and hungry since he hadn’t eaten enough of his dinner to dent his appetite. And then there was Harmony, walking in front of him with her trim little ass swaying. She’d had her back turned on that freight car, and it had been pretty dark, but even if her pale skin hadn’t reflected what little light there’d been, he wasn’t kidding when he said he had a hell of an imagination. He had no trouble filling in the blank spots. Hell, he was probably making her look better than she actually did. For one thing, in his fantasy the FBI badge was nowhere to be found.

  Too bad it was reality he had to live with.

  When they got to the farm they gave the house and the other buildings a wide berth, approaching the barn from the rear.

  “Hayloft,” Cole said, indicating a door sitting about twenty-five feet off the ground, at the top of a conveyor.

  He took her hand and pulled her up the ramp, wincing when he opened the door and the shriek of unoiled hinges cut through the still night air. A dog barked from the farmyard, but Cole relaxed when he heard the faint rattle of chain that told him the animal wasn’t roaming around free.

  Cole wouldn’t have risked it, but Harmony went past him, continuing across the loft to look out the window on the other side.

  “The house is still dark,” she said softly, “and the dog has stopped barking.”

  “What about tomorr
ow morning?”

  “We’ll be gone before anyone knows we were here,” she said, and then for the second time that night she decided to torture him, digging through her duffel. “Yes!” she said, pulling out another pair of jeans. “They’re still dry. Mostly.”

  She toed off her shoes and peeled out of her wet jeans one agonizing inch at a time. Cole turned his back. He could still hear the rustle of cloth, imagine too well what she was taking off and regret what she was putting on, but at least he had the self-control not to watch this time.

  “It feels good to be dry again,” she finally said, dropping down onto the hay.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Cole said. “I don’t have anything to change into. But we can share body heat.”

  “You want to share body heat?” she asked, her voice dropping from chipper to sultry. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

  “Really?” His voice shot up about three octaves and broke at the end.

  “Sure. There’s a cow right down there.”

  Cole stomped to the other side—okay, it was more like wading, since it was impossible to stomp in knee-deep hay. “It’s your fault I’m cold,” he griped. “You didn’t bring me a coat.”

  “Sue me,” Harmony said groggily, the hay rustling as she settled down, her duffel under her head.

  Cole waded back and lay down behind her, but she scrambled away before he could get too cozy.

  “Time to get some things straight.”

  Cole blew out a breath and rolled onto his back, crossing his arms behind his head. “You do like your rules, don’t you?”

  “Not rules,” she said, “these are more like guidelines.”

  “Guidelines.”

  “Suggestions,” she amended. “Obviously you’ve decided to help me, and I think it would be a good idea to agree—”

  “Agree?” Cole sat up, exasperated. “Sweetheart, if you want to be in control, just take charge. Don’t ask or suggest or supply guidelines. Tell.”

  “Fine, I’m the FBI agent—”

  “Having a job title doesn’t make you the boss, either.”

  “Back off, Mr. Chips.”

  “That’s better,” Cole said. “Nice snap to the voice, good touch with the sarcasm.”

  Harmony didn’t say anything.

  “Earth to Blondie.”

  “I’m reminiscing about our first meeting, when you refused to talk to me.”

  Cole smiled before he could stop himself. It was surprising. And troubling—even more because he was feeling . . . friendly. Lust he could understand; anything else was sheer stupidity. Sure, she was attractive, and yeah, he enjoyed the fact that she could keep up with him. Hell, she gave as good as she got, mentally and physically. But she was FBI, and if she hadn’t lied to him outright, she definitely hadn’t told him everything. She’d managed to answer all his questions, and she’d looked sincere while she did it, but the FBI operated on a need-to-know basis, and he wasn’t in the loop.

  “You have something to say, say it,” he said, feeling as grim as he sounded.

  Harmony must have heard it too because she got right down to setting boundaries, no edge, no banter. “Like I said, I’m the FBI agent, so I’ll deal with any threats and I’ll handle strategy.”

  “Nope. I’m laying my life on the line, too. I get a say in what we do.”

  “I have contacts at the Bureau,” Harmony countered. “I’ll have the intelligence—”

  “And you’ll share it with me.”

  “Your job is to hack into the accounts and move the money,” she reminded him, “but only where and when I tell you.”

  “Because?”

  She huffed out a breath, but she didn’t answer his question.

  “You’re right,” Cole said. “I agreed to help you. That makes us partners in my book, and partners watch each other’s backs. I can’t do that if you’re not straight with me.”

  “We’re partners?” she said in a voice that sounded like an awww should go along with it. But she dropped that tone and became all business again. “You were right. I’m going after Richard. I need you to move enough money to fool the kidnappers into thinking we’re cooperating. I’m scheduled to call them tomorrow night. We only have to show them enough progress so they believe we’re doing what they ask. So they won’t hurt Richard.” Or kill him. “And we need to get as many miles behind us as we can.”

  “To give you time to find out where he is and come up with a way to rescue him.”

  “Yes, but you won’t be in danger.”

  He snorted. “You come with your own warning label. And then there are the people trying to capture me and take me back to jail.”

  “That problem will be going away,” Harmony said. “Once we get out of Pennsylvania, we won’t have the state police to worry about anymore, and as soon as they’re out of the picture, the FBI won’t have any way of knowing where we are.”

  “Famous last words,” Cole said. “Those are your last words, right? We’re going to be partners in this. Full partners. No secrets.” Except the ones he was keeping.

  “Yes,” she said, no hesitation, which didn’t mean she was telling the truth, just that she’d decided her course, same as him.

  “Except . . .” she added just when he’d begun to relax, “you can’t have a gun.”

  “I don’t want a gun.”

  “Why not?”

  “People have a tendency to shoot back at you for one thing. And when I get caught with a gun, it’ll only go harder for me.”

  “If you’re caught,” she said. “You really should try to have a little faith in me.”

  “No problem,” Cole said. “I have just as much faith in you as you have in me.”

  ♥ Uploaded by Coral ♥

  chapter 6

  HARMONY WOKE UP WITH COLE WRAPPED AROUND her like a big, warm blanket. Straw poked her everywhere, and she had a face full of dog parts. It was still dark, but she could see two black-and-white speckled dog legs and a blaze of white dog chest about two inches in front of her face. The dog was licking Cole’s face, and since Cole was behind her, there were a couple of soft dog ears brushing across her cheek. Not to mention the drool.

  Cole didn’t seem to be enjoying the adoration. “A little help here?” he said, his breath warm on her neck.

  Harmony shifted, the dog backed off far enough to snarl at her, upper lip curled back over really big teeth. She froze. “You’re on your own.”

  “If he doesn’t like you, he’s not going to like me,” Cole said.

  The dog sat down and let out a low whine, which told Harmony two things. “It’s a she,” Harmony said. And apparently Cole was a babe magnet regardless of species. “I think she has a crush on you.”

  The dog snarled at Harmony again.

  “He’s all yours, Fido.”

  The mutt’s ears perked up.

  “Awwww—” Harmony began.

  Cole’s arm tightened around her ribs. At the same time Harmony heard the barn door roll open, followed by the sound of footsteps and the clank of something metal. She raised her head—careful not to piss off Cole’s canine fan club in case the bite was worse than the bark—and peeked over the edge of the loft. A farmer, complete with overalls and a straw hat, hung a lantern from a hook on the other side of the barn and pulled out a small stool. He hunkered on the stool and proceeded to get intimate with a cow. The cow looked less than invested in the process, chewing her cud and staring placidly at the wall. The cats were a different story. About a dozen barnyard tabbies sat to the farmer’s left side, which made perfect sense when he aimed a teat in their general direction and squirted one of them in the face.

  “There’s a farmer down there,” Harmony whispered to Cole.

  “What happened to ‘We’ll be gone before anyone knows we’re here?’ ” Cole asked, managing to put an amazing amount of snottiness into a whisper.

  “Who knew farmers milked cows in the middle of the night?”

  “Everyone who didn’t g
row up in Hollywood, where apparently milk appears magically on store shelves.”

  “Why didn’t you wake up before milking time? Apparently you’re the expert on dairy production.”

  “It’s your show, remember?”

  “Maybe you could can the sarcasm and help me come up with a plan,” she hissed, shifting to aim her narrowed eyes at him.

  The dog growled. Harmony’s glare hadn’t worked on Cole, so she decided to try it on the dog, who went into full-blown Cujo mode, lip snarled back, growling low in her throat, half-crouched and ready to spring.

  “Dot,” the farmer thundered, his voice echoing off the rafters about a mile overhead, “kommen sie hier.”

  “I think this guy is Amish,” Cole said, putting the lack of overhead lighting and the German-studded commentary together.

  “And how does that help us?”

  “They don’t believe in guns. That’s got to be a plus.”

  “Unfortunately, they believe in dogs.”

  Dot took offense to Harmony’s observation, loudly.

  “Dot,” the farmer bellowed, sounding at the end of his patience, “come down from there and leaf the mice for the cats.”

  “Mice!” Harmony squeaked, Cole pulling her back down on the hay before she could bolt to her feet and give them away. Just for good measure he laid his long body over hers, clamping his hand over her mouth.

  Dot sank her teeth into Cole’s pant leg and tried to pull him off Harmony, growling and snarling.

  “Dot!” the farmer yelled again. “You haf a skunk treed up there?”

  Harmony’s eyes cut from the dog to Cole, and they all froze, listening to the creak of the ladder leading up to the loft. The crown of a straw hat appeared, followed by the farmer’s head. He lifted the lantern, his eyes taking in the scene, Cole on top of Harmony, his hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with fear.

  “Schwein!” he yelled, charging the rest of the way up the ladder. Amish people might not believe in guns, but they had no moral objection to pitchforks. The farmer grabbed one from the corner and brandished it, one-handed, at Cole.

  Cole scrambled off Harmony, both hands up to ward off the tines that were pointing his way. “It’s not what it looks like,” he said, backing away slowly.