Covert Evidence (9 page)

The air in her lungs whooshed out of her. She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t move. A paralytic nightmare come true.

I’m going to die. Here. Now.

Her body quaked. She couldn’t breathe. She was deaf to all sound but the pounding of her heart.

The man shook as if he chuckled. His mouth moved. As the hand with the knife swept out, she dropped, throwing herself into the jagged gravel. Sound resumed. She could breathe again. But terror still held her in a fierce grip.

She rolled to escape her assailant. The sharp rocks sliced her shirt and cut her arms. She swept out her leg, catching her attacker in the shins, and he stumbled forward, knife arcing toward her.

From nowhere, a man crashed into her assailant, knocking him to the ground and dislodging the knife, which landed inches from Cressida’s eye.

The man who’d tackled the thug moved fast—a blur of violence. Her attacker hit the hard gravel just feet away, and her rescuer pounced, pounding the downed man’s face with several rapid punches.

In shock—and amazement—she realized her savior was John.

How had he…?

Her attacker’s head fell back, the man unconscious. John’s gaze darted around. Feral eyes met hers, and she scooted back, pulling herself into a ball at the base of the train. Who was this man who’d just beaten the crap out of a knife-wielding thug? How did John find her? Why was he even here?

John Baker now terrified her as much as the knife had.

His gaze turned to search the spit, where her original mugger had fled. He released the unconscious man and stood. Another man ran to his side and asked John a question in Turkish. John’s gaze flitted from Cressida to the direction the mugger had gone. He answered in rapid Turkish of his own, and then the newcomer ran off in that direction.

“Sabal is going to see if he can get your purse back,” John said, reaching out a hand to pull her to her feet.

Cressida ignored the hand and didn’t say a word. She just wrapped herself in a tighter ball.

He crouched down in front of her. “Are you hurt?”

She was too numb or maybe too terrified to know if she’d been injured. She squeezed her knees to her chest and gave a short jerk of her head in answer.

“Crista, I’m here to help you.” His voice was soft, cajoling.

She met his gaze. Clear gray eyes stared into hers with a degree of concern that touched her vulnerable, terrified core.

She wanted to believe him, but he didn’t add up. He’d spent the entire flight trying to learn her travel plans, then pumped her for information about her research at dinner, only to dump her in her hotel room with nary a good-night kiss after seeming to want nothing more than a tryst with her. Now, slightly more than a half hour after he’d claimed to be exhausted and jet-lagged, he was here, just in time to save her.

She squelched a gut-level needy response to his worried gaze and glared at him. “Go away.”

The compelling concern disappeared as his eyes flattened. “Um, why not try ‘thank you for saving my ass’?”

She wasn’t taking any of his bullshit. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you, I’m in private security. Some of the VIPs who are coming to Van for the high-level meeting will be arriving by train. I came here to check the security of the facility. Clearly, it sucks.”

“This time of night?”

“Yes.”

“After you gave me the brush-off because you need to sleep.”

He sighed. “I had no plans to come here tonight. I told you the truth. When I got to my hotel room, I received a message from my client expressing security concerns about the inbound train. I decided to check it tonight so that tomorrow night—if I could convince you to have dinner with me again—I wouldn’t have to cut our evening short because I need to work.”

His claim that he’d planned to ask her out again caused an annoying girlish flutter. Could she
be
more pathetic? She wouldn’t even be in Van tomorrow night. “Who’s your client?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Who’s the guy who just ran after my mugger?”

“Sabal. He works for me.”

“I saw him. Earlier. When I was waiting for Berzan. But I didn’t see
you
.” The implications of that stole her breath.
John had me followed by someone I wouldn’t recognize.

The man on the ground next to her groaned. John kicked him in the head, and the groans stopped.

The violent act was so casual. So chilling. And yet it was directed at the man who’d pulled a knife on her, so she could hardly condemn John for it.

He took her hand and pulled her to her feet, then tugged her toward him as though he might hug her. She resisted.

“I’m not the bad guy, Crista. I called Sabal—he’s one of our local contractors—to meet me here. He arrived first. I walked up just as the train arrived. I saw you, but given how I screwed up tonight, I was afraid to let you know I was here, so I hung back. When I heard the ruckus on the platform and saw you were being mugged, I was shocked and tried to get to you, but couldn’t. I’m sorry I didn’t stop the attack.” He looked down. “If I hadn’t screwed up earlier, this never would’ve happened. We’d be in bed right now. Together.”

Don’t give in.

“I’m sorry. I was stupid and never should have left you like that.” He touched her cheek, tracing downward along the column of her throat, lightly touching her raw skin, which had been abraded by the strap of her purse. His jaw tightened as he studied what she imagined must be an ugly welt across her neck.

His gaze and touch said he cared.

She glanced away, ashamed of the suspicion she’d felt. What was wrong with her? Like there was some vast conspiracy in Van that involved
her
? Narcissistic much?

John had beaten the crap out of an armed man to save her. It was as simple as that. She glanced at her attacker and shuddered when she again saw the eight-inch knife. She shook her head to clear it. “Thank you. I think you saved my life.”

He placed a finger under her chin and raised her face. She met his gaze. His eyes were clear and earnest and warm. “You’re welcome.” His fingers caressed her cheek. “I do this for a living, you know—assess threats, provide personal security. The first rule—never fight or chase down a mugger.”

She wanted to look down, but his hand prevented it. “I guess that was pretty stupid. But he got my money. My passport.” Panic shot through her as she mentally inventoried her purse. “My phone. Christ, John, what am I going to do?”

He pulled her against him, wrapping her in a warm hug. One hand cradled the back of her head and pressed her to his chest; the other stroked her back. “I can help you.”

“The nearest US Consulate is in Adana. I can’t afford to go all the way to Adana.”

“Where are you headed from here? Back to your underwater dig, or back to the US?”

“Back to the dig in Antalya.”

“With a police report, you should be able to fly back on your return ticket. You can deal with the passport in Antalya.”

“But my research—it will take me close to the border with Syria. There are so many checkpoints…”

“I work security. I know people. I’ll see what I can do.”

His words and the embrace were exactly what she needed, offering strength, courage, and hope. She absorbed what he offered, grateful beyond words for this man’s skill and incredible timing.

Footsteps approached, and he gently released her. Sabal, the man who’d pursued her mugger, stood before them. John spoke to him in Turkish. Sabal responded and shook his head in a sharp negative. She supposed it was too much to hope he’d be able to recover her purse so quickly.

They exchanged more words she couldn’t understand, then Sabal approached her attacker. He lifted the man’s head by the hair and turned his face side to side, as though inspecting him.

With an arm around her shoulder, John led her away from the train. “Wait. Shouldn’t we stay and talk to the police?”

“Sabal will handle it.”

“Don’t I need to make a statement?”

“Sabal will tell them everything. We’ll go to your hotel room, get you cleaned up, then go to the police station.”

She glanced down at her clothes. Her top was filthy and her slacks torn—a big slice ran down her hip. The situation felt surreal. The mugging. The knife. John coming to her rescue. She was freaked out by everything, but the loss of her passport and cash was her first concern. Trina could probably wire money to get her through the next few days, but she hated the fact that she’d have to hit up a friend for financial help.

Trina wasn’t going to believe this story.

Cressida stopped short. “Wait. Sabal is going to talk to the police?” She sounded dense, she knew, but it had taken her that long to put the implications together. A violent mugging could do that to a person, apparently. “He’s going to tell them what happened?”

“Yes.”

She looked down. Damn. Time to fess up. “He needs to know—my name isn’t Crista. It’s Cressida. Cressida Porter.”

John raised a sardonic eyebrow and flashed a teasing smile. “Fake name? I guess I really
did
come on strong on the flight.”

She grimaced. “All my friends have hounded me about being careful on this trip. It seemed like the right thing at the time, but I regretted the lie at dinner.”

He shrugged. “I understand. Security is my business. But you should know a fake name isn’t much protection, not unless you have fake ID to back it up.” He paused. “Cressida.” His low tone made it sound as if he were tasting the syllables, and the heat in his eyes said he liked the flavor. “Shakespeare?
Troilus and Cressida
?”

She experienced a slight frisson. The man could speak and read Turkish, and he knew the title of one of Shakespeare’s lesser-known tragicomedies. She was impressed. “I’m actually named for the car—Toyota Cressida—you know, conception story and all that.”

“Is it okay if I make a joke here, or is it a sensitive subject?”

“Have at it.”

“Good thing it wasn’t a Unimog.”

She laughed. “Good one. Usually people say Gremlin.” She leaned into him, shocked to feel so comfortable, when just minutes ago she’d been full of distrust. Even terror.

He glanced around the long spit, which had gradually emptied as people transferred from ferry to train and train to ferry. “You used a fake name, and yet you went out alone after sunset?”

“I figured Berzan wouldn’t have said to meet him here if it wasn’t safe.” She glanced around. “Wait. Berzan. He was supposed to be coming in on the ferry.”

John nodded toward the dock. “The ferry has already unloaded.”

But there was no young Kurdish man looking for her. Unease slid through her. “Where is he?”

“Berzan is your translator’s brother?”

“Yes.”

“I hate to say it, but it appears Berzan lured you out here and mugged you.”

His words stunned her to the core. “You think Berzan was my
mugger
?”

John shrugged. “Or the guy with the knife.”

She came to a dead stop. “I lied to you about my name to stay
safe
, then made plans to meet with an armed mugger?” But it was worse than that.
Hejan
. “What does this mean about my translator? He was
helping
me. I trusted him.” Had he really done the translations she’d paid for? Were the phrases on the digital recorder to be trusted?

Sonofabitch
. The digital recorder! It was inside her purse.

Had Hejan set her up? Why would he do such a thing?

Chapter Nine

I
an had fucked up his mission. His one job was to go after the mugger. Stupid, foolish, fatal mistake to have taken on the man with the knife.

Primary objective: Don’t lose the fucking microchip. And he’d failed. Cressida—no matter how sexy or innocent—became expendable the moment the chip left her possession.

He knew that. Better than anyone.

But he’d been blind to the mugger’s escape at the sight of her struggling against an armed assailant. Something in him snapped, and he’d FUBARed the mission.

They walked silently back to the hotel. She battled panic at the loss of her purse, but from his perspective, it was better that she’d lost everything instead of just the microchip. Without her money, phone, and passport, she needed him, and he was ready to be her knight in shining fucking armor. Which was necessary, thanks to his massive lapse in protocol.

He’d stopped to save a woman who could well be complicit, and in so doing had lost a chip a terrorist organization had killed for once already.

Worse, Sabal hadn’t been able to raise Zack on the phone, nor had Ian. He had no clue what they’d find when they got to the hotel. All he knew was he couldn’t let Cressida out of his sight.

What did it mean that Hejan had told her the guide—
his brother
—was named Berzan? The name was a signal intended for Ian. He needed to know everything she knew about her supposed guide. It was his only hope of picking up the trail to the chip.

He’d already sent Cressida’s cell phone number to Stan. If the mugger still had the phone on him—and if he was a complete fool—they might find him when the phone pinged cell towers. He’d receive a text if they got a lock on “Berzan’s” location.