An Eye for Danger (60 page)

"Can you maintain, damn it?"

"I don't know. I don't know what to do."
Did I sound like I was maintaining?

The guard's gaze shot to the Urgent Care entrance and he straightened his posture. I followed his sightline to a sheriff's SUV. Burke's men.

"Get out of sight," she said. "We're coming."

How the hell did she know where I was? Maybe Sam's phone was being tracked.

The officer strode through the doors and spoke with the guard, who did a lot of pointing at me. Fear clotted my veins as I stared at the oncoming collision.

"Did you hear me, get out of there."

"Too late," I whispered. "They're already here."

"Run! Get out now!"

"I can't leave him."

"Move!"

While the guard and the sheriff's officer huddled, I stole around the corner and ducked into a stairwell. Up two flights I jogged, and then down corridors, past room upon room of patients. Everyone looked asleep or dead. I slipped into a suite with an old woman sleeping upright, her mouth gaping and drooling, her dusty skin painted over bones.

She moaned, so I pushed the button on her morphine drip to keep her from waking any time soon. "Trust me, you need it." Rummaging through her dresser, I found pink and blue flannel nightgowns. Sam's phone never stopped vibrating. "What?"

"Are you secure?"

Peering out the window to the parking lot, I spotted two patrol cars. "Not for long."

She released a tense breath. "Where's Dad?"

Dad?
Sam had mentioned 'Dad' on his call to her. And Troy said Daddy wasn't coming to Sam's rescue. I stared at the dead-looking lady on the bed.
Reynolds?
"Dad's dead asleep."

"Fine by me. He's an ass."

I almost laughed, relieved to be on the same page for once.

"Can you get out of the house safely?" she asked.

"No exit. Family everywhere." I shivered. "God, I hate relatives."

"You and me both, sister."

"I can't leave him, I can't." My voice strained for composure.

"Listen to me," she barked. "You get yourself up, and you move. I'll meet you. Name a place."

Where could I go? This wasn't a town familiar to me, and common places like restaurants and churches weren't open at this hour. And I needed to stay close to Sam.

My thoughts ran to one place.

"Unless you want to get roasted, you get out."

"No. I'll take my chances with God. And say a prayer for both of us."

***

Electric candles lit the wood-paneled walls. Four rows of folding metal chairs led to a thick mahogany altar, at the foot of which an aluminum bucket waited for flower bouquets from patients' families. My wheelchair fit in the back corner, where I could see anyone entering. A shower cap hid my hair, a thick robe and flannel nightgown doubled my size, and the shadows hid my face as I leaned over a Bible. Besides me, the hospital chapel stood empty.

After an eternity-length wait, the door rattled. An Amazon entered the narrow aisle. She must have stood six-two, runway-model tall, and she wore jeans and a black leather jacket, not nursing scrubs. Though fair-headed like me, her dark roots told me she was a bottle-blonde.

Approaching the crucifix, she knelt and crossed herself Catholic-style. "Lord, we ask that my husband be kept safe, that we move our asses when told, and we keep our mouths shut until spoken to. Above all, that you restore Trust. Amen."

Then she started coughing. A deep, whooping cough.

Turning, she caught my eye. She was stiff, purposeful in movement as she shot down the aisle, a female version of Sam without the charming grin. That's when I recognized her: the deep voice, that spiked hair, the manly build. The cop from the arson scene who'd watched me dumpster dive for Sam's recording; the reckless driver who'd bounced me around in my own truck after the bombing; the silhouette who'd punched Sam with vigor behind the hospital curtain.

"Good Lord, get a load of you," she said, inspecting my disguise.

"Is he alive?" I asked, rotating the wheelchair.

"How the hell should I know, I had to lock down the bar crime scene, then come find your sorry ass. He's probably got a hang nail. Sam's bullet-proof." She checked the corridor then opened the door. "Let's go. No, leave the fucking wheelchair. And the Bible. For crissake, where'd Sam find you?"

We took the hall at a tempered pace and turned into an empty room, like she knew the layout. Door locked, she whipped a bed curtain around us, so anyone looking through the peek-a-boo window couldn't see us.

"Give me his phone," she said. "And anything else you stole of his." As I emptied my pockets onto the bed—Sam's wallet, phone, ID—she drew forth a messenger style bag strapped to her back and produced a set of scrubs. "Take all that shit off."

She reviewed his phone, while I pulled stripped down to bra and underwear. Everything was stained red, including my belly, chest, arms and thighs. The sight made me start shaking.

"Jee-zus." Bug-eyed, she stared at me, then the bloody clothes. "That's all his?" My nod only angered her. She thumbed toward the bathroom, "Go. Wash it off before we both puke."

When I started to turn, her jaw clenched.

"What the—" She grabbed my left wrist, twisting sharply despite my cry. My arm was on fire, my shoulder blistering with pain again. She stared into my eyes, a lioness ready to rip out my throat. "Take off that bracelet."

"No," I whispered. We fought for control of my arm, and I was losing. "He told me not to."

She dropped my wrist and pushed up her sleeve. A matching bracelet slid into view. The inscription read
faith
. I didn't understand why they'd both have a bracelet from Sam's niece.

"He'd better be alive," she said. "Or you and I are going to have a very different conversation. Without words."

She checked her watch. Bracing her phone between her chin and shoulder, she shoved my bloody clothes in a trash bag and glowered at me as she pulled the messenger bag's strap over her head. "Package secure. Husband unknown. Awaiting kill instructions."

***

We regrouped outside the Critical Care wing. Sam's partner handed me a security card with a picture of a chubby blond nurse who looked nothing like me. "This might be reported stolen by now. So keep your hair covered, your head down."

After a quick shower, I'd scrambled into the scrubs she'd provided, wishing I'd never phoned her. Now I clipped the ID to my collar. "So what do I call you?"

"You don't."

"Faith," I said, staring at her bracelet. At least that was easier than 'wife'.

She growled. I stared at the weapon inside her jacket, wishing I'd kept at least one of Sam's weapons. With Goliath members potentially on our trail, I didn't understand why she'd abandon me at this juncture.

"You're not sending me in there alone," I said.

"I need to pull security video before the cops do. We don't have this facility locked down yet, because my teams too busy cleaning up your mess." She glanced down the hall, the overhead fluorescents throwing the severe angles of her face into sharp relief. "And I need to know if he's alive. Whatever you do, don't fuck up. Then haul your ass back to the rendezvous point. You have exactly five minutes. Starting… now." She set her watch, then looked up. "Go already."

I strode through the Critical Care doors, pretending I had a mission. And a weapon of my own. I grabbed a chart off a door and kept my face hidden behind the pages. Again, rooms upon rooms lined the hall, none of them labeled. And then there was the long bank of curtains behind which multiple beds were hidden.
Shit
. Sam could be anywhere. For all I knew Sam was still in surgery. Or in the morgue.

Two women at the nurses' station chatted behind steaming mugs of coffee. A flimsy paper Thanksgiving turkey that looked two seasons too old propped against the computer, reminding me of the date. The nurses looked up with sleepy smiles, and I nodded, keeping my face in the pages of a chart I'd pulled from one of the unmarked doors. If I asked outright for Sam's location, I risked blowing my cover, whatever that was worth. Lord knew Faith was going to kill me anyway.

"Gunshot wounds, came in about a couple hours ago?" I said as I flipped pages.

"One's still in surgery. The other, Recovery Room 2." The thick woman shot out a finger.

Two patients with gunshot wounds? Maybe Burke had survived.

Don't flinch, I reminded myself. I couldn't waltz into surgery, so I doubled back and elbowed the door she indicated.

And there was Sam under a blizzard of wires and tubes, his mouth covered with an oxygen mask that flexed as his chest rose and fell. I read his chart, memorizing what little information I understood: exit wounds meant surgery had been a sew-up job; no major organs hit; transfusion O negative. I was B positive, not a match. Severe blood loss kept them from using a general anesthetic, but his blood pressure, pulse, and body temp had eventually stabilized. All good signs. Hope was a beautiful feeling.

Faith would have to drag me out kicking and screaming now. And because I knew she was exactly the type of barbarian who would enjoy that torture, I grabbed a pen off the table. Sam needed to know I hadn't abandoned him.

"You can do this, Sam." I marked his arm fast as I could. "You're a federal agent. You've been shot, drugged, beaten. You can survive one crazy woman who loves you."

As I crossed the last letter on the word TRUST, his eyelids flickered open.

"Hey, there," I said, squeezing his hand and leaning over his face. "You trying to ditch me?" I traced his brow with my fingers. "You should know by now you can't get rid of me that easily. You still owe me two thousand bucks."

His head barely nodded for all the equipment taped to his cheeks, but his eyes dilated as they caressed my face. Sam was the best Thanksgiving I'd ever had.

He groaned as he tried to lift his head. "What, what happened."

"Shhh." I brushed back his short, chestnut hair, cherished the softness of it through my fingers. "No one can hurt you now. I took care of everything. We're going to be free. Just you, me and Max. We stick together."

My words felt so petty, but I needed to give Sam enough information, enough peace of mind that he could sleep for a week and heal up good as new again. He'd remember the bloodbath soon enough. The rest, I'd never speak of. Forgetting was a blessing.

Yet my questions remained. "The audio file. You said the mayor was on that conference call."

Sam closed his eyes and nodded. So corruption's black stain ran deep, reaching even the offices of trusted men, elected officials sworn to uphold the law of the land. Yeah, Goliath's law.

"But Stone was never on that recording, was he?" When Sam's one shoulder lifted, I laughed till I cried. He'd put the fear of God in that bastard, and for that I'd forever be grateful.

Sam felt down my wrist. Smile lines creased at his eyes when he found the bracelet. At least he remembered that much.

"We're linked now," I said, to which he gave a wilted nod. I set my lips to his ear. "I finally found my one true shot."

With what little strength he had, Sam pressed his cheek into mine and I kissed his forehead again and again till my eyes boiled with tears. I couldn't lose this man. Ever again.

"Oh, please," said Faith, throwing the door wide. Three suits flanked her.

A narrow-built man with a hawk nose and a receding hairline slipped between the two huge men.

"We're clear for transport," said one of the suits to him. "We should load up."

"Not till we know he's stable." The hawkish man approached me with gray, penetrating eyes. His pale skin, manicured nails, and non-muscular frame indicated he was a desk jockey, not a steroid-pumping field agent like Faith and her two man-dogs. "Your time's up, Miss Larson."

My hand clutched Sam's arm. He squeezed my fingers and I looked down. I didn't understand why he was nodding.

"I can carry her out." Faith stepped to the opposite side of Sam's bed.

"That's not necessary, Agent Mallory," said the hawkish man.

She opened her coat to reveal her weapon, smiling at me. "Or I could just shoot her."

"Stand down, Agent," said the man.

Security guards approached the doorway, but the two hounds in suits flashed their badges and held the guards at bay behind a closed door.

Sam uttered something, but I didn't hear him. "I won't let them hurt you, Sam. I'm not going anywhere." I turned to the man in charge. "You don't touch him till I see some identification."

Mallory snorted.

"You too."

"Excuse us, Miss Larson." He pulled a wallet from his suit jacket, flashed the FBI identification card with badge. "I'm Special Agent Vilet. Agent Mallory." He nodded and she repeated the gesture, adding an eye-roll and a snarl. Now I saw why Sam hated me rolling my eyes at him. "I see you've met Special Agent Mallory, Sam's partner."

Sure, the fake wife, who slugged harder than most men.

"Faith's a misnomer," I said with a glance at her wrist. Mallory growled and my arm twitched as if she'd punched me, too.

"And here's my rogue agent." Vilet smiled from the corners of his mouth to his winged ears. "The best damn rogue I've ever recruited. Found yourself quite a witness, Fields. She's a brave woman to take you on, and talented enough to survive one hell of an operation. Maybe we should hire photographers instead of cops."

Sam's equipment jiggled with his laugh, and his eyes softened. He liked this man.

"I regret that we missed you at the drop point," said Vilet, looking at me. "The bar was Sam's idea. He'd planned quite a trap, but our comm lines were sabotaged, so we didn't get his message in time. If he hadn't broken protocol and reached out to Agent Mallory on a traceable phone, we wouldn't have located you. We flew there as fast as we could, but you were gone."

So I had heard a helicopter in the background when I'd called Mallory. Good, they could damn well fly us out of here now.

"You have my sincerest apologies, Miss Larson. You were never meant to be in harm's way. Sam made me promise to get you clear before Stone arrived."