Code Name: Baby (6 page)

“You still haven't told me what you're doing here.”

“I told you, Trace asked me to—”

“You never could lie to me, Wolfe.” Kit jerked down her nightshirt as she walked to the side door. “The fuses are out here, by the way.”

“I'll take care of it.” Wolfe cut in front of her and checked the darkness. “Looks quiet enough.” When he glanced down, the dogs were right beside him, their noses pressed against the glass door. “Back, you guys.”

“Down,” Kit said quietly.

Instantly, all four dogs were on the floor, motionless.

“Stay.”

Wolfe raised an eyebrow. “I'm impressed. You and the dogs had better stay inside just the same.” As he held up the penlight, his other hand edged to the pistol hidden at the small of his back. “How far to that fuse box?”

“About six feet. It's just above the power meter on your right.”

Wolfe opened the door and listened. Nothing moved. He felt no hint of Cruz or any other intruders. Silently, he followed the wall to the fuse box. “Circuits have been reset. Hold on,” he called.

A moment later, light flooded from the windows. He closed the box and turned to find Kit staring at him. “Something wrong?”

“You look…different.”

As a welcome, it could have been worse, Wolfe thought. And it was true, he did look different—bigger, faster and harder. Now there was a coldness in his eyes that made people step out of his way.

Inside the door, he turned to face her, ready for more arguments. But she surprised him again, gripping his chin and turning his head up toward the light.

“You're bleeding, you idiot. I'm going to kill Trace for not telling me you were coming.” Kit leaned closer, frowning. “What was that noise from the kitchen?”

“Someone broke in. He was alone, and I handled it.” Wolfe tried to pull free, uncomfortably aware of the heat triggered by contact with her body. “Forget about my face.” His cheek was swelling from the one blow Emmett had managed to land. “It's nothing.”

But Kit moved closer, pressing him against the refrigerator door. “I'll clean it better than you would.” She dodged under his arm, her long legs flashing in a way that left Wolfe's throat dry. “Why didn't you say something about it before?” she called.

“There wasn't a lot of time for conversation. It's just a scratch anyway.” Distracted by what felt like blood dripping into his eye, he let her shove him down into a chair beside the sink. “Kit, you don't have to—”

“Shut up, Wolfe.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said meekly. He was trying not to notice the warm brush of her fingers, the pressure of her breast against his shoulder. He especially didn't want to watch how her nightshirt rose over her thighs as she reached into cabinets and opened drawers. The sight of her was making his body respond in all the right ways, which happened to be the
wrong
ways.

“What are you staring at?”

Wolfe cleared his throat. “The cabinets. Ah…you painted them blue,” he said gruffly.

“I got tired of all that white.” Kit looked across the kitchen at the shattered glass. “He did a nice job on my window.” Her voice tightened. “Who was it?”

“Big guy, built like a fire hydrant. Ugly as the backside of a bull.”

“That's Emmett. He's convinced there's treasure hidden here somewhere. He came back just like he said he would. I wish I could have seen his face when you stopped him.” She frowned at Wolfe. “Always being a hero. I see you've gotten your leg hurt as well as your face.”

“I'm fine.”

But she vanished into the bathroom and returned with a handful of boxes and bottles. “Take off your pants.”

“Kit, I don't think—”

“Strip, Wolfe. Otherwise, I'll cut them off you.”

“I'll pass.”

“You think the sight of your naked butt is going to make me faint dead away?”

Wolfe felt his body tighten as she stared at the blood on his dark pants. “There's no need to get upset.”

“Who's upset? I'm just being practical, but you're being the same as you always were. Mr. Tall, Dark and Silent, always in control.” He tried turning to look at her, but she held his face still. “That was your nickname in high school, didn't you know?”

Somehow it didn't surprise him. High school had been a blur of anger and confusion. The Russians could have invaded, for all he would have noticed. “Can't say as I did.”

Kit finished cleaning the cut at his jaw, and then her gaze cut down to his leg. “Are you going to take your pants off or not?”

“Definitely not.”

Her eyes glinted as she went for his belt. They circled one another for a moment and Wolfe realized she wasn't giving up. With a sigh he grabbed alcohol and cotton from the tray beside her on the counter, then removed a blood-soaked pad covering the wound just visible beneath his torn pants. He cleaned the area thoroughly, threaded a surgical needle, and went to work.

She stood watching, her hands locked at her sides.

Wolfe put in two precise stitches. As wounds went, this was only a scratch, so the sewing was no problem. He'd already shot himself up with antibiotics and covered the area with a gauze bandage, but he should have closed the wound sooner.

No time like the present.

With steady fingers he held the torn skin in place and shoved the needle home.

“You should take something for the pain.”

“Not necessary.” Wolfe put in another neat stitch.

Kit swallowed and looked away. “You've done this before, haven't you?”

“Basic field medicine.” He shrugged. “No big deal.”

“I can see you don't need me.” She pushed away from the counter, her body stiff. “I'll get Trace's bed ready.”

“Don't go to any trouble. I can sleep down here on the couch.” Not that he'd do much actual sleeping.

“You're sleeping in a bed, understood?” Her voice was tight. “It's the least I can do.”

Turning, she collected the leftover bottles and bandages. When her gaze fell on the dogs, who were watching the byplay quietly, she frowned. “Do you hear that?”

“I don't hear anything.”

“That's my point. The dogs didn't bark at you. What's going on here?”

Baby's tail thumped on the floor, and Diesel gave a happy little yelp.

Kit glared at both of them. “What kind of guard work is that, you two?”

Baby's tail thumped harder.

“Something's wrong.” Kit rounded on Wolfe. “Have you been here before? Is that why my dogs know you? There's no way they would let a stranger in here without a fuss.”

Wolfe cut a new piece of gauze and covered the wound loosely. The easiest thing to do now would be to brush away her memories, painting out all the unwanted details that would make her ask difficult questions. But he couldn't make her forget. He needed to stay inside the house. That would be the best way to keep her safe while he took a closer look at her dogs.

“What's going on?” she demanded, standing stubbornly in front of him.

“Just a friendly visit, like I told you. When I came in the dogs growled a little. Then they smelled my hands for a long time, but they didn't seem upset. Maybe they could sense that I'm not hostile.”

“Mind reading isn't one of their skills, Wolfe. I don't buy any of this.”

“You must be sleepy. I'll finish up down here and take care of the window,” he said quietly. “Go on to bed.”

Kit shook her head. “Not until you explain.”

“We'll talk about it tomorrow.”

“You bet we will. If I weren't exhausted, I'd make you talk now.” She winced a little, rubbing her hip. “The dogs don't sleep in the house.” She yawned. “They need to go outside to the kennel.”

“I'll take care of it.”

She didn't move.

“Go on. Get some sleep, Kit.”

“I always hated it when you gave me orders. I see you're still doing it.” She looked away. “You're not going to tell me why you're really here, are you?”

“I already told you. Trace asked me to—”

“Skip it.” She took an irritated breath. “You know the bad part? Part of me really wants to believe you. But that's my problem, not yours.” Her back stiffened. “The bed will be ready for you upstairs.”

Wolfe could see the muscles tighten in her neck. “Thank you.”

“Don't thank me yet. Tomorrow you'd better go. It will be easier that way.” She turned away, the dogs close behind her.

He felt as if she'd pulled all the warmth from the room when she left.

H
E DIDN
'
T DO WINDOWS
.

He knew how all right, but it wasn't in the job description.

Wolfe glared down at the mess at his feet and shook his head. Apparently there was a time and a place for everything. If he didn't clean up the glass all over the kitchen floor and replace the pane, one of the dogs could get hurt.

He rubbed his neck, remembering that Kit's frugal father always kept panels of uncut glass for repairs. Unless she'd changed things, they would be neatly stacked, separated by particleboard, out in the shed near the kennels.

Ten minutes later, glass crunched beneath his feet. Baby whined, watching him from across the room while he worked.

The dogs sniffed the broken glass, but didn't come closer. Was that normal, Wolfe wondered? He didn't have a clue, so he'd list it in his report, along with everything else.

After he dug the remaining fragments out of the window frame, Wolfe ran his fingers over the inside pocket of his shirt, where the map was now carefully stowed until he could get it analyzed. Why had Emmett been carrying a diagram of the ranch, especially one that looked new?

The simple answer was that the map stemmed from the old local belief that a treasure was buried somewhere on the O'Halloran ranch. Every few months Kit's father used to catch someone prowling around, digging in the deserted washes near the house.

But why a
new
map?

He stopped as Kit's phone echoed somewhere down the hall. After two rings, her answering machine clicked in, and Wolfe went back to work lining the clean window frame with putty. The dogs watched him, absorbing every move, while the moon's silver eye rose above the mesa.

Carefully he lifted a six-foot pane of glass over the frame and checked the placement. As a teenager he'd worked as a handyman for extra money, and one summer he'd learned the glazier's trade. Now the techniques came back to him, putty moving smoothly under his knife. It felt good to watch something take shape beneath his hands for a change.

Not like running surveillance out of a filthy shack in the jungles of Paraguay while you tried to track a money trail that led to Mexico or Burma or downtown Chicago.

As he laid down the last line of putty, Wolfe saw his reflection, cool and silver against the new glass. There were deep shadows at his cheeks, and his eyes were the color of bitter coffee. He looked tough and aloof, as if he'd seen too much too fast—and he had. Those memories were carved into his face, leaving a distance that could not be crossed.

But Kit had crossed it. He didn't frighten her in the slightest. He thought about how she had nearly decked him, then threatened him with her rifle, and a faint half smile crept over his face. No, she wasn't the kind of woman who ran from hard problems.

He feathered his knife along the frame, sealing the glass with long, deft strokes. When he was finally done, he faced his own reflection once again.

He was a hard man, trained to have the hands and mind of a killer, but there in the moon's cool light, Wolfe was reminded that he could also be surprisingly gentle.

T
HE WAITRESS AT
the Blue Coyote Truck Stop looked as if her feet hurt and she needed a smoke.

But there was no mistaking the interest in her eyes or the way she bent over the counter to expose the front of her low-cut uniform. “Want anything else with your coffee, honey?” She put one hand on her hip. As if she learned it in the movies, Cruz thought. “Anything at all, you just tell me right out.”

“More coffee will be fine, thanks.” The soup had been hot and filling, all he really needed. The coffee was an unthinkable luxury.

It was a Wednesday night, almost 2:00 a.m. She'd have cash from tips in her pockets and credit cards, too. But he wouldn't touch the cards. Too dangerous.

“The praline pie is pretty good tonight. Lemon meringue's fair. You look like you could use a couple slices.” The waitress topped off his coffee and pushed the worn metal canister of sugar toward him.

“No thanks. I don't eat sugar.” He had to keep his body clean. Strength came first. With his strength restored, he could concentrate on revenge.

His eyes flickered through the quiet restaurant. There was no one else around except for a short-order cook bustling somewhere in the kitchen.

When the waitress leaned in closer, he focused and made her forget everything but that she was tired and ready for a smoke. Her eyes went blank and she stood behind the counter, motionless.

He cleaned out both of her pockets and moved around the counter, fishing through the purse she kept pushed to the back of the low shelf.

Ninety-seven dollars. Car keys, too. He'd risk driving for an hour, no more. He knew exactly where his brother would be waiting.

Wind howled across the floodlit courtyard. The rain that had been threatening all night finally broke loose, pelting the windows with small bits of gravel.

Time to go.

The cook yelled. Cruz released the waitress from the images he'd just constructed.

“No dessert.” The waitress looked dizzy for a second. Then she turned, frowning, her eyes predatory. “Hell, just what
do
you do for fun, honey?”

Cruz watched a layer of oil gleam on the surface of his coffee. Once he had trained for the sheer joy of being the best. He had laughed at danger.

But three years ago, something had changed. At first it was little details like reflexes off by mere seconds. After that had come the memory blips and subtle mood shifts. His handlers had told him not to worry, that the changes were to be expected. Stress, they said. The result of constant training.

Like a fool he'd swallowed their lies, one after another. He had never questioned what he was told, not even when the mood shifts became severe.

That's when they'd increased his medicine, and the new surgeries had begun. He'd believed every lie they'd told him, despite the continued deterioration of his mind and body.

Cruz drank his coffee slowly, savoring its heat even though he knew it was a poor mix of bad beans and sloppy preparation. After months in captivity, fed from an IV with only enough nourishment to keep his heart and vital systems functioning, even bad coffee was ambrosia.

“Looks like you could use a little fun.” The waitress was very close now, her fingers on top of his. Cruz had a clear line of sight down the front of her dress, and there was no bra anywhere. The woman couldn't have made her invitation any plainer.

He couldn't have been any less interested.

“I'll take my bill now.” His face held no emotion as he pushed away the empty cup and stood up. He'd taken a chance to come inside only because he'd needed food, cash, and little time to warm up. He'd already dismantled the single surveillance camera at the front door, and he'd handle the waitress in a moment.

“You're leaving already? Honey, there's no bus for another three hours, and I know you don't have a car.”

His fingers shot around her wrist. “How do you know that?”

“I saw you walk in from the woods, that's all. Kinda odd, I thought, but hey, it's a free country. You ain't one of those damned tree huggers, are you?”

“What else did you see?”

“You looked around everywhere and you didn't go near any cars, so I figure you walked from one of those parks up north. We get hikers in here now and again. They look thin, the same way you do.”

He released her wrist. She'd made a lucky guess, nothing more.

He put a five-dollar bill on the counter—one of hers—and smoothed it with his fingers. He had forgotten what it felt like to have money of his own.

For too many years he'd let other people control him. He'd been an empty-headed killing machine pumped up with the certainty that he was some new, advanced kind of hero.

Now he knew better.

“Keep the change.” Cruz picked up the backpack that was never far from his reach, scanning the parking lot outside.

“Hell, honey, why not tell me to go suck exhaust and die? And where are you going at two in the morning anyway? If you ask me, you don't look so good.”

“I'm fine.”

“Maybe you are, but the nearest town is fifty miles away, and that's a damn long hike.”

He could walk twice that distance. He could run it easily, in fact, despite his long confinement.
Good genes,
Cruz thought wryly.

He studied the waitress's face, sifting through the fairly boring mind beneath her straw-colored hair. “I'm catching a ride to El Paso. I've got friends waiting for me there,” he said calmly, pleased that all the old training was in place.

Never tell the truth when a lie will do. Never trust anyone outside the team.

She rubbed her wrist slowly as if it hurt. “You one of those G-Men working over at the New Mexico base?”

Nothing changed on Cruz's face. “What makes you ask?”

“Don't know. Your eyes, maybe. You don't say much, but you don't miss much either. And you sure don't like the idea of anyone watching you.”

So she wasn't as stupid as he'd first thought. “I'm FBI,” he said quietly. “And I've never been here, understand? If I hear you told anyone different, I'll be back and that won't be good for you.” As he spoke, he shaped the warning, driving it like a knife into her brain until she nodded, looking disoriented.

“FBI.” She rubbed her forehead as if it hurt. “Sure—never seen you,” she repeated.

He sensed that she was afraid of him now. Pleased, he tightened his knapsack over one shoulder. After reinforcing his warning and wiping her memory of him, he headed out into the night, but it was hard to focus. His head ached and the coffee left him a little dizzy.

He heard the rumble of distant tires and the blast of a truck horn. He needed to make contact with his brother as soon as possible.

Maybe he'd chance taking the waitress's car and driving to Albuquerque. He had her keys now, and he'd picked up the model and color of her car. Cruz hesitated, considering the idea. He'd made a deep wipe of her mind, but he wasn't sure how long it would last. In recent weeks his skills had become unreliable. Sometimes he could pull the faintest thought from a crowded room. Other times he could barely remember his own name.

And if the waitress reported the theft, the police would be watching for her car.

The truck horn blasted again and he swung open the restaurant's grimy front door, smiling up at the nonfunctioning surveillance camera as he left.

The truck didn't seem to be slowing down, and a second rig was straining up the hill maybe a hundred yards back. Cruz took in the Illinois plates and the muddy windshield. Long-haul trucker with no reason to stop at a crummy little diner three hours from anywhere.

He flipped up the collar of his stolen jacket. He liked the feel of the sheepskin lining and the soft suede body. He couldn't remember the last time he'd worn a coat this nice.

Turning away from the well-lit parking lot, he melted into the trees while an owl called somewhere in the night.

An unmarked white sedan pulled into the parking lot from the other direction. Drawing back into the shadows, Cruz studied the two men who got out.

Hard faces. Concealed carry holsters.

If they hadn't been sent by Ryker, they were sent by someone close enough that it didn't matter.

The restaurant door opened. The waitress walked out, looking confused. She stared at the parking lot as if she didn't know where she was, and the men from the white car started walking toward her—the last thing Cruz needed.

Somewhere the owl cried its two-note dirge and Cruz followed the sound, his eyes cold and focused.

The owl's dark shape cut through the darkness, headed back toward the bright lights and the woman who was turning slowly, studying the parking lot. Like a sleepwalker, she crossed beneath the big mercury lamps, one hand shading her eyes.

“Ma'am, is something wrong?” The two men were walking faster now.

Cruz watched the owl with renewed intensity. He
wasn't
going back into a cage.

Not ever again.

The owl circled, dropped. The second truck was up the hill now, motor racing as it picked up speed. Cruz focused, feeling pain behind his eyes, down his neck. But the pain brought power.

The owl folded its wings and plummeted, talons extended, striking the waitress, who covered her head vainly. Cruz focused on the attack as the owl surged upward and plunged again.

The men from the sedan were shouting now as they ran toward her.

The waitress stumbled and then ran out into the path of the oncoming lights….

And screamed.

 

M
OONLIGHT CREPT SLOWLY
across the old adobe walls. The kennels were quiet. A hawk cried somewhere in the night, and the long wings of a hunting owl hissed over the juniper trees.

Baby awoke suddenly, shooting to her feet and waking Diesel, who was curled up beside her. She sniffed the air, her body tense.

In the shimmering glow her fur looked like dark water beneath new ice. Only her eyes held the snap of heat and restless energy. Though she didn't move, all the other dogs awoke.

Soon they were standing together, noses to the wind, painted in cold moonlight.