Cold in the Shadows 5 (11 page)

He pressed his lips to her temple; she was still searing hot while his teeth were starting to hammer. She let out a little moan and started to twist in his arms. He held her tighter.

“Come on, Aud. Fight this. Stay alive and if you’re innocent I swear to God I’ll do everything in my power to get you out of this mess.”

After another five minutes, his arms were shaking so badly he was worried he wouldn’t be able to lift her out if he waited any longer. He pulled the plug with his right foot and clambered awkwardly to his feet using his elbows for purchase.

He found a big fluffy towel and wrapped it carefully around the woman in his arms. Barely five-two and yet she was hanging in there valiantly, fighting for life with everything she possessed. She reminded him of his grandmother—diminutive, but feisty, just like he’d told her when he’d had her bound on her kitchen floor and she’d still gone for his balls.

He laid her on the bed and grabbed another towel, using it to squeeze the water out of her hair, then patted her dry, doing his damnedest not to think about the fact she was a living breathing woman. He removed the plastic covering her injury and examined the jagged wound closely. It was healing nicely. There was nothing weird or sexual about his actions—he was trying to keep her alive. Even so, as soon as she was dry he grabbed a baggy T-shirt that belonged to the owner of the house and eased it over Audrey’s head and arms—no easy feat—and adjusted the sheet to make her decent.

He’d never been offended by anyone who wanted to walk around naked, but that was a choice, and right now Audrey didn’t have a choice about anything that was happening to her.

He dried himself off and pulled on boxers from his duffel bag. A rattling noise startled him, and he realized Audrey was shivering so badly her teeth chattered. Shit, had he cooled her down too much too fast or was this a natural progression of the fever? He had no clue. He stood there stupidly wondering what the hell to do. Then he crawled into the big ass bed, wrapped his body around her much smaller one, warming her as best he could. She burrowed back against him, a perfect fit.

“Come on, Aud. You can do this, baby.”

She trembled in his arms, and he found his eyes slowly drifting shut, his brain finally dis-engaging from the craziness of the last three days. Sleep came, surrounded by soft white sheets and the pure clean scent of a woman. It didn’t even matter that she might be a cold-hearted killer; he just wanted her to live.

*     *     *

T
RACEY
W
ILLIAMS HAD
traveled back to the States, heading for Patrick Killion’s last known address though she wasn’t stupid enough to break into the place. A man like Killion would be prepared for intruders and probably wouldn’t leave anything useful around anyway. As far as she could discover the guy had no family. He’d just been spawned one day for the sole purpose of ruining her life.

She sat in her hotel and had been scouring the news coming out of South and Central America, looking for clues as to where Killion and Lockhart might be. She stared again at one news report that made her senses tingle. A large oil tanker approaching the Panama Canal from the Caribbean had reportedly been hijacked a couple of days prior and the hijackers had threatened to ram into the gates of the canal unless the Panamanians paid a fifty-million dollar ransom. Peanuts compared to the cost of shutting down that shipping channel for even a few days. Panama had apparently worked with Colombia to retake the vessel and—so sad, too bad—all the hijackers had been killed during the liberation.

Wouldn’t want any would-be terrorists thinking this was a smart idea.

But the thing was, Panama wasn’t usually that chummy with the Colombians and the situation rang alarm bells. She picked up the phone and called a contact, Peter. They made small talk and arranged to meet for a drink while she was in town, then got down to business. “Can you get me details on the company used in the rescue of that oil tanker near Panama?”

Her questions wouldn’t seem too outlandish. The company she worked for shipped billions of dollars of goods around the world annually. Piracy was a big deal.

There was a long pause as Peter accessed information. “It was an outfit called ‘Penny Fan Solutions.’”

She felt like she was missing something. “I don’t suppose you know who owns it?”

She heard tapping. “There’s a shell company, but,” more tapping, “As far as I can tell it’s registered to some guy called Logan Masters.”

She leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling with a smile on her face. She should have known. Killion had turned to his old SAS pals to get him out of Colombia. She rolled her eyes at herself for taking this long to figure it out. Had he taken Lockhart with him? Of course he had. If she weren’t with him he wouldn’t need covert ops.

“Anything else you need?” Peter asked.

“Yes, actually.” She leaned forward in her chair again. “Do you know if they flew straight from Colombia to the tanker?” This was a bit of a weird question, but she’d make it worth his while.

A moment of silence before he said, “No. They approached the tanker from a US naval frigate based in the Caribbean. Hmmm.”

She waited, nerves plucking like guitar strings. Would Killion have boarded a naval ship with a wanted fugitive? Possibly, if he knew the captain. That would make Lockhart virtually untouchable.

“I’m looking at some satellite data we had on aircraft in the region. We focused extra resources on it after the ship was jacked. Looks like the helicopter made a detour north before heading to the frigate. Maybe refueling or picking someone up?”

Or dropping someone off.

“Can you tell me where it went?”

“Tiny island also owned by a private security company but this one based in DC—Cramer, Parker and Gray. Security Consultants—sounds more like a law firm. I’m obviously in the wrong business.”

She laughed. “No kidding. I owe you.”

Peter sent her the coordinates of the island. “See you soon.”

“Looking forward to it.” She thanked him and put down the phone and punched the air. The guy wasn’t great in bed, but he gave good information and he’d always been kind to her, unlike certain other people she could mention. She usually had to get him drunk because he was squeamish about his wife, but she never put pressure on him and always made it about old times and a bit of harmless fun. She needed to keep him on her side. Sure she could blackmail him, but dinner and blowjobs were a lot less effort.

By keeping a broad perspective she’d narrowed down Killion’s exact location even though he thought he was so clever. He was predictable in the fact he used his friends and connections rather than striking out on his own. She looked up the island on Google Earth. Completely isolated and vulnerable. She wished she could be the one to do this job, but it was logistically impossible. And who knew what a Colombian drug lord would do to an active CIA operative? She winced. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be pretty.
C’est la vie
.

She picked up the phone and passed on the information to her partner who was in boss mode and obviously worried by the level of incompetence being shown by his Colombian friends.

He didn’t ask when she’d be home.

Pissed, she tossed down her pen and picked up her purse. She was about to go shopping and buy something nice as a treat for herself, and he was going to pay the bill. Diamonds, she decided, for all the men she had to screw and assholes she had to kill. She deserved something pretty, something eternal, something that reflected her true value, even when the rest of the world was determined to take her for granted.

Chapter Eight

A
UDREY’S FEVER HAD
broken a few hours ago, and now she slept peacefully as Killion watched from a nearby chair. Her skin was pale and she looked about fifteen as she lay there with her dark hair spread over the snow-white pillow, dark lashes draping the heavy circles under her eyes. He’d barely left her side over the last two days except to scope out supplies, make sure there wasn’t any indication of where they were or whom this place belonged to. He didn’t want any blowback from this operation if Audrey Lockhart turned out to be the assassin he’d initially suspected.

It was nighttime with the moon silvery bright in the navy sky. He stared through a picture window where the orb was reflected in the calm Caribbean ocean.

The place was paradise. Perfection. Tranquil, indolent, and rich. The house was built into a hillside on the leeward side of an island about a mile wide by two miles long. It had its own beach, its own helipad and according to all sources of information he’d located and removed, belonged to someone called Haley Cramer, one of Alex Parker’s partners in his exclusive security business.

The house had running water, electricity from solar panels, and an emergency back-up generator. The pantry was full and the freezers well stocked with everything from milk to steak. The main deck had a fantastic sunset view Killion hadn’t yet been able to enjoy.

It was
Nim’s Island
on steroids.

He went and grabbed a fresh T-shirt from his duffel. His gear was here in the same room because that had been the easiest way to nurse her and also get some rest. Thinking about it, she was the first woman he’d slept with in over a decade. It had felt surprisingly good to hold someone in his arms. Of course, she’d been comatose.

His usual encounters with the opposite sex—outside work—were more of the hit and run variety. It was for their own good. He was upfront about what he wanted, some fun, a little downtime, and no expectations beyond some naked tangoing of whatever variety the woman preferred. He didn’t have a normal job. He didn’t have a normal life. Nor could he advertise his trade to excuse his bad behavior. His life was a series of secrets stacked upon secrets like a thousand cobwebs, each layer intricate and discrete. Build enough lies and eventually even you forgot where you came from—and it was better that way. It protected the few people in the world he cared about.

He yawned widely. Logan and Noah had helped him carry Audrey and their gear up a series of steep steps from the helipad. Killion and Audrey were stranded on the island until someone arrived in a chopper or they flagged down a passing boat. Great for privacy, not so great in an emergency, as he’d discovered about a day too late.

Still, he was pretty sure she was over the worst. She looked like she’d probably survive. Not that it mattered. She was just a suspect. A “detainee” until he said otherwise. His hands clenched into fists. He eyed the sweet bow of her lips and reminded himself not to get played, else he might find himself drinking arsenic with his next cup of joe.

Exhausted, he rested his eyes for a moment.

When his body jolted awake in the leather recliner hours later, the room was bathed in weak golden sunlight. He didn’t know what had woken him until he glanced at the bed and found a pair of violet-blue eyes staring straight at him. He’d never seen eyes that color before, like some sort of exotic flower.

“Hey. You’re awake.” Relief flooded his veins.

“Patrick.” Audrey’s voice was scratchy, her smile pale and tired. She touched her forehead. “I feel like I went ten rounds in a UFC cage.”

His lips kicked into a grin. “Me, too.”

A line cut between her brows. “You’ve been looking after me?”

Killion nodded.

“Just you?” She glanced around in confusion and then down at the clothes she was wearing. Her eyes widened as they cut back to his.

“Just me. And, yep, I’ve seen you naked—thank you. I did not close my eyes, but I did behave as a perfect gentleman even though there were no witnesses.” He crossed a finger over his heart. If errant thoughts had entered his mind it wasn’t his fault. It was biology. If anyone understood that it would be Audrey. “Hey, we even slept together, but you managed to control yourself.”

She nodded, looking more resigned than unhappy, then glanced around the huge bedroom with the flowing net drapes that opened out onto a wide deck.

“Where are we?” She blinked as if trying to focus. He’d forgotten she usually wore reading glasses. He knew from his research she was a little long-sighted—just enough to look cute when she squinted.

“Somewhere safe.” He leaned over and put his hand on her forehead as he’d done countless times over the last few days. This time she pulled away and her eyes dilated—definitely back in control of her faculties.

He felt a pang of unexpected loss.
Idiot
.

Now the hard stuff began.

The key to a successful interrogation was to understand the emotional needs of the subject and to relieve the fear they felt when being questioned—not to increase it. He had to establish a rapport and figure out the motivation of the person he was questioning. A good interrogator made the subject want to tell him what he wanted to know.

So how did he get Audrey to want to tell him what he needed to know?

And what if she didn’t know anything?

She shifted uncomfortably. He’d been staring at her stupidly, trying to figure out a way to dig inside that brain of hers.

“Do you want to sit up?” he asked, stalling for time.

She nodded and he reached over, grabbed the pillow he’d been using and slipped it behind her upper back. Her hair brushed his hand—soft and tangled. He already knew he was going to miss the satiny texture of it as it sifted through his fingers, and he was going to have to compartmentalize those thoughts to get his job done.

“How’s your side feeling?” The stab wound had healed nicely, forming a thick scab over her skin. The two stitches had held up well and he’d kept it clean and dry.

“It’s a lot better than it was. Sore,” she admitted. “But not painful.”

“It healed okay, but you came down with a fever. You seem a lot better now.”

She nodded.

“So why did Hector Sanchez try to kill you?”

She shook her head. He passed her some water, suddenly aware of the sound of the air conditioner kicking on, and her small hands wrapping around the cup. Her nails were short, and she wore a gold signet ring on the pinkie of her right hand. Her cheeks hollowed out as she drank through the straw. She’d lost weight during her battle with the infection and there hadn’t been much of her to start with. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like the idea of her suffering, didn’t like how frail she looked. Even sitting up seemed to tire her.