Edge of Surrender (9 page)

ELEVEN

R
yan sat on the edge of the bed, bristling with energy and watching the clock. He hated waiting almost as much as he hated hospitals. Footsteps in the hallway had him turning around.

“Good morning.” Special Agent Mays stepped into the room and glanced at her watch. “Or should I say afternoon?” She smiled tiredly. Her clothes looked tired, too, as though she'd spent the night at her office. “How's the gunshot wound?”

“Fine.”

“And the concussion?”

“Fine.”

“Really? You look worse than yesterday.” She stepped closer and examined the purple bump on his head that had prompted the ER doc to make him stay overnight. The bullet he'd taken during the car chase was little more than a flesh wound, fortunately.

After interviewing him for hours in his cramped hospital room, the FBI agents had cleared out, and Emma had appeared at the door. She'd fretted over his injuries and then slipped into bed with him, where she'd stayed up late watching CNN and resisting his attempts to get to second base. Finally, they'd drifted off to sleep, only to be prodded awake by nurses. Emma was at the FBI office now for another round of interviews, and she'd promised to be back by lunchtime, but maybe she was having second thoughts.

“So,” Mays said, looking him over, “I thought you might be gone by now.”

“I did, too.” Ryan glanced at the door again. “Just waiting for discharge papers.”

“Well, I'll keep it brief. I wanted to update you on what happened since our last interview. We arrested Ricky Avedo.”

Ryan arched his eyebrows.

“One of the gunmen we apprehended yesterday—the one in the black Escalade? He flipped. He has a really long rap sheet, so we used that as leverage. He basically gave up Avedo, said he was hired along with five others to pull off the hit on Emma.”

Hearing the words
hit
and
Emma
in the same sentence made Ryan's stomach clench.

“And that's not all. We picked up Conner at LAX. He was getting on a plane to Rio after purchasing a one-way ticket last night.”

“Rio?”

“Think he got word that everything was falling apart, then panicked and decided to make a break for it. We're not sure what exactly his plan was, but it probably involved some plastic surgery and going into hiding. When we confronted him with all the evidence we have about his ties to the Avedo family, he crumpled and gave a full confession, much to the dismay of his lawyer.”

“What happens now?”

“He'll get some leniency in exchange for his cooperation against the Avedo family. Ricky Avedo's the head of a vast criminal enterprise we've been after for years. He's the big fish here.” She smiled slightly. “And now we have him cold.”

“What about Emma?” Ryan glanced at the door again.

“What about her?”

“Have you offered her any kind of witness protection?”

A nurse bustled in with a stack of papers. Ryan stood up.

“Here we go.” She handed him the paperwork. “Signed, sealed, and delivered. You feeling okay, hon?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“We'll see you in two weeks for a follow-up.”

No, she wouldn't, but Ryan kept his mouth shut.

“Anything else we can do for you, sailor?” she asked.

“I'm all set, thanks.”

“Don't be stopping any more bullets, now.”

“I won't.” When she was gone, he folded the paperwork and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans, then turned to Mays. “You were saying? About witness protection?”

“She doesn't need it. She's not a witness.”

“How's that?”

“We have Conner. And he's backed up his confession with a paper trail. We have plenty to take down Avedo without involving Emma, at this point.”

“You're sure? I'm concerned about her safety.”

She smiled.

“What?”

“Nothing, just—” She shrugged. “That's a little ironic coming from someone in your line of work. Didn't your team just get called out?”

“Where'd you hear that?”

“Around. I take it you managed to get cleared for duty?”

“Yep.”

Emma stepped through the doorway, and Ryan felt a jolt of relief. She had a phony smile on her face, and she exchanged greetings with Mays before settling her gaze on Ryan.

“Ready to go?” she asked, a little too cheerfully.

Mays politely ducked out, leaving them alone in the little room, with CNN droning in the background. Ryan tugged Emma against him and kissed her forehead. Damn, she smelled good.

“You showered,” he said.

“I swung by my hotel in San Diego and checked out.” Her gaze went to the bandage on his upper arm. “How are the stitches?”

“Fine.”

“How's the bump?”

“Can't even feel it.”

He took her hand, and they walked down a hallway crowded with nurses and orderlies. She didn't say anything as they rode the elevator downstairs and exited the hospital into the blazing afternoon sun.

Emma tipped her head back and looked up. Then she looked at Ryan.

“So you mind giving me a ride home?” he asked.

Another phony smile. “That's why I'm here.”

He pulled her closer. “You mind telling me what's wrong first?”

“Nothing.”

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her in place as people walked around them on the sidewalk. Her eyes were brown and beautiful and loaded with worry. “Talk to me.”

She huffed out a sigh. “Nothing's wrong. If you want to ignore a gunshot wound and a concussion and go rushing back to work before you're ready, it's none of my business.”

He tugged her out of the traffic flow and onto a patch of grass. “I'm not ignoring anything.”

“No?”

“No.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. She tensed at first. But then she relaxed against him and let him taste her. She was sweet and soft and warm, and it only took a second for his entire body to lock in on one objective. He needed her.
Needed
, not wanted. It wasn't a choice. No matter how much he got of her, he still needed more.

She pulled back and gazed up at him, her eyes swimming with tears. Damn it, this sucked.

“I have to leave tomorrow,” he said.

“I know.” Her voice hitched. “When?”

“I report at 0600.” He kissed her again. He wanted to memorize her taste and her mouth, and the feel of her soft, perfect body pressed against him. He wanted to memorize all of her to keep him going through the days ahead.

She pulled back. “Ryan—”

He cut her off with a kiss. “Come home with me.”

His chest felt tight as he held his breath and waited.

“I need you, Emma.” He kissed her again. “Come home with me.”

———

Jake's patience paid off when Alexa stepped out of the elevator. She looked tired and more than a little bit wary as she approached her boxy gray Taurus. She stopped in front of him.

“You make a habit of lurking around hospital parking garages?”

“I came by to see Ryan and spotted your car.” He smiled. “Where you headed?”

“Home.”

“How about dinner?”

“It's four o'clock.”

“How about a drink, then?”

Her eyebrows tipped up. “It's four o'clock.”

“Come on, loosen up.” He pushed off the car and stepped closer. “Besides, I'm on leave.”

“I'm not.”

He eased closer, gazing down into those pretty blue eyes. “You should be. You look tired.”

“I haven't slept in two days.”

“Good time for a break, then.”

She sighed heavily and looked around, as if someone might see her standing around wasting time on a workday. She glanced up.

“What did you have in mind?”

He smiled. “I know a place on the beach. Best fish tacos in town. Half-price pitchers on Thursdays.”

“Ernie's. I know it.”

“That's the one.”

“I have about ten hours of paperwork waiting for me back in LA.”

“Let it wait.”

“I haven't showered since Tuesday.”

“Do I look like I care?”

She sighed. “You're leaving soon. Wouldn't you rather be at some bar with your buddies, picking up girls?”

“No.”

She stared at him, and he could see her weakening. When her gaze drifted to his chest, he knew he had her.

He took her hand, pushing his luck. “Come on, Alexa. Live a little.”

———

The dawn was soft and purple, and Emma rubbed her arms against the cold as she crossed the sidewalk to her rental car.

“So . . .” She tried, but her words got stuck in her throat.

Ryan's arms came around her. He pulled her back against his chest and kissed the top of her head.

“So when do you get back?” She turned to face him, caught off guard by the intensity in his green eyes.

“I don't know,” he said, watching her reaction.

She felt a flutter of panic. “You really don't know, or you don't want to say?”

“I don't know.” He tucked a curl behind her ear.

Her stomach clenched tightly, but she ignored it. She'd been ignoring it for the past twelve hours.

“Hey.” He reached up and wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. She ducked her head against his chest.

“I knew this would happen.”

He pulled her against him, and she drank in the wonderful smell of him. Her heart was racing. She had so much she wanted to tell him, and now she regretted putting it off. They'd spent their last hours lost in the physical, desperately trying to prove something with their mouths and hands and bodies. Emma didn't know what, just that it hadn't worked, and she felt hollow now.

He pulled back and gently took her face between his hands.

“I'll come see you.”

Her heart skittered.

“The second I get back, I'll come.” He brushed her hair from her face. “If you tell me that's what you want.”

She stared up at him, her pulse racing.

“Is it?”

She nodded. “What I said on the bridge, I meant it. I love you. I know maybe it's rushed—”

“I love you, too.”

He kissed her, hard. With so much passion and urgency it filled her and emptied her at the same time. And when he pulled away, she felt like her heart was tearing in half.

“It's going to be hard,” he said. “I'm going to miss you like hell. And you're going to miss me.”

She laughed at the cockiness of it.

“But don't you dare doubt me. Not for a minute. I don't give up on things, and I know we can do this.”

She believed him. When he said it like that, with so much love in his eyes, she trusted him. And the steely grip of doubt and fear that had held her heart for so long loosened.

And the thing was . . . it still hurt. Loving him hurt. Letting him leave hurt. Missing him was going to hurt even more, and if he broke her trust, well, that would hurt deeply, for a very long time.

But she knew all the hurt was worth it, because when she looked into his eyes, she felt loved and cherished and alive.

He kissed her, long and deep, until she felt it to the bottom of her soul. He pulled away, and the determination in his eyes took her breath away.

“We can do this, Emma. You just have to trust me.”

She went up on tiptoes and kissed him. “I do.”

Turn the page for a sneak peek of Laura Griffin's next heart-pounding Tracers novel,

DEEP DARK

Coming spring 2016 from Pocket Books

LANEY KNOX BLINKED
into the darkness and listened. Something . . . no.

She closed her eyes and slid deeper into the warm sheets, dismissing the sound. Probably her neighbor's cat on the patio again.

Her eyes flew open. It wasn't the sound but the light that had her attention now. Or
lack
of light. She gazed at the bedroom window, but didn't see a band of white seeping through the gap between the shade and the wall.

She stared into the void, trying to shake off her grogginess. The outdoor lightbulb was new—her landlord had changed it yesterday. Had he botched the job? She should have done it herself, but her shoestring budget didn't cover LED lights. It barely covered ramen noodles and Red Bull.

Laney looked around the pitch-black room. She wasn't afraid of the dark, never had been. Roaches terrified her. And block parties. But darkness had always been no big deal.

Except this darkness was all wrong.

How many software developers does it take to change a lightbulb? None, it's a hardware problem.

She strained her ears and listened for whatever sound had awakened her, but she heard nothing. She saw nothing. All her senses could discern was a slight chill against her skin and the lingering scent of the kung pao chicken she'd had for dinner. But something seemed off. As the seconds ticked by, a feeling of dread settled over her.

Creak.

She bolted upright. The noise was soft but unmistakable. Someone was
inside
her house.

Her heart skittered. Her thoughts zinged in a thousand directions. She lived in an old bungalow, more dilapidated than charming, and her bedroom was at the back, a virtual dead end. She glanced at her windows. She'd reinforced the original latches with screw locks to deter burglars—which had seemed like a good idea at the time. But now she felt trapped. She reached over and groped around on the nightstand for her phone.

Crap.

Crap crap crap. It was charging in the kitchen.

Her blood turned icy as stark reality sank in. She had no phone, no weapon, no exit route. And someone was
inside
.

Should she hide in the closet? Or try to slip past him somehow, maybe if he stepped into her room? It would never work, but—

Creak
.

A burst of panic made the decision for her and she was across the room in a flash. She scurried behind the door and flattened herself against the wall. Her breath came in shallow gasps. Her heart pounded wildly as she
felt
more than heard him creeping closer.

That's what he was doing.
Creeping.
He was easing down the hallway with quiet, deliberate steps while she cowered behind the door, quivering and naked except for her oversized Florence and the Machine T-shirt. Sweat sprang up on the back of her neck and her chest tightened.

Who the hell was he? What did he want? She had no cash, no jewelry, just a few thousand dollars' worth of hardware sitting on her desk. Maybe she could slip out while he stole it.

Yeah, right. Her ancient hatchback in the driveway was a neon sign announcing that whoever lived here was not only dead broke but obviously home. This intruder was no burglar—he was here for
her.

Laney's pulse sprinted. Her hands formed useless little fists at her sides, and she was overwhelmed with the absurd notion that she should have followed through on that kickboxing class.

She forced a breath into her lungs and tried to think.

She had to think her way out of this because she was five-three, one-hundred-ten pounds, and weaponless. She didn't stand much chance against even an average-size man, and if he was armed, forget it.

The air moved. Laney's throat went dry. She stayed perfectly still and felt a faint shifting of molecules on the other side of the door. Then a soft sound, barely a whisper, as the door drifted open.

She held her breath. Her heart hammered. Everything was black, but gradually there was a hole in the blackness—a tall, man-shaped hole—and she stood paralyzed with disbelief as the shape eased into her bedroom and crept toward her bed. She watched it, rooted in place, waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting.

She bolted.

Her feet slapped against the wood floor as she raced down the hallway. Air
swooshed
behind her. A scream tore from her throat, then became a shrill yelp as he grabbed her hair and slammed her against the wall.

A stunning blow knocked her to the floor. Stars burst behind her eyes as her cheek hit wood. She scrambled to her feet. She made a frantic dash and tripped over the coffee table, sending glasses and dishes flying as she crashed to her knees.

He flipped her onto her back, and then he was on her, pinning her with his massive weight as something sharp cut into her shoulder blade.

She clawed at his face, his eyes. He wore a ski mask, and all she could see were three round holes and a sinister flash of teeth amid the blackness. She shrieked, but an elbow against her throat cut off all sound, all breath, as she fought and bucked beneath him.

He was strong, immovable. And terrifyingly calm as he pinned her arms one by one under his knees and reached for something in the pocket of his jacket. She expected a weapon—a knife or a gun—and she tried to heave him off. Panic seized her as his shadow shifted in the dimness. Above her frantic grunts she heard the tear of duct tape. And suddenly the idea of being silenced that way was more horrifying than even a blade.

With a fresh burst of adrenaline she wriggled her arm out from under his knee and flailed for any kind of weapon. She groped around the floor until her fingers closed around something smooth and slender—a pen, a chopstick, she didn't know. She gripped it in her hand and jabbed at his face with all her might. He reared back with a howl.

Laney bucked hard and rolled out from under him as he clutched his face.

A scream erupted from deep inside her. She tripped to her feet and rocketed for the door.

THIS CASE WAS
going to throw him. Reed Novak knew it the second he saw the volleyball court.

Taut net, sugary white sand. Beside the court was a swimming pool that sparkled like a sapphire under the blazing August sun.

“Hell, if I had a pool like that, I'd use it.”

Reed looked at his partner in the passenger seat. Jay Wallace had his window rolled down and his hefty arm resting on the door.

“Otherwise, what's the point?”

Reed didn't answer. The point was probably to slap a photo on a Web site to justify the astronomical rent Bellaterra charged for one- and two-bedroom units five minutes from downtown.

Reed pulled in beside the white ME's van and climbed out, glancing around. Even with a few emergency vehicles, the parking lot was quiet. Bellaterra's young and athletically inclined tenants were either at jobs or classes, or maybe home with their parents for the summer, letting their luxury apartments sit empty.

Reed stood for a moment, getting a feel. Heat radiated up from the blacktop, and the drone of cicadas drowned out the traffic noise on Lake Austin Boulevard. He glanced across the parking lot to the ground-floor unit, where a female patrol officer stood guard.

“First responder, Lena Gutierrez.”

Reed looked at Jay. “You know her?”

“Think she's new.”

They crossed the lot and exchanged introductions. Gutierrez looked nervous in her wilted uniform. Her gaze darted to the detective shield clipped to Reed's belt.

“I secured the perimeter, sir.”

“Good. Tell us what you got.”

She cleared her throat. “Apartment's rented to April Abrams, twenty-five. Didn't show up for work today, didn't answer her phone. One of her coworkers dropped by. The door was reportedly unlocked, so she went inside to check . . .”

Her voice trailed off as though they should fill in the blank.

Reed stepped around her and examined the door, which stood ajar. No visible scratches on the locking mechanism. No gouges on the door frame.

Jay was already covering his shiny black wing tips with paper booties. Reed did the same. Austin was casual, but they always wore business attire—suit pants and button-down shirts—because of days like today. Reed never wanted to do a death knock dressed like he was on his way to a keg party.

He stepped into the cool foyer and let his eyes adjust. To his right was a living area. White sectional sofa, bleached wood coffee table, white shag rug over beige carpet. The pristine room was a contrast to the hallway, where yellow evidence markers littered the tile floor. A picture on the wall had been knocked askew, and a pair of ME's assistants bent over a body.

A bare foot jutted out from the huddle. Pale skin, polished red toenails.

Reed walked into the hall, sidestepping numbered pieces of plastic that flagged evidence he couldn't see. A slender guy with premature gray hair glanced up. Reed knew the man, and his expression was even grimmer than usual.

April Abrams was young.

Reed knelt down for a closer look. She lay on her side, her head resting in a pool of coagulated blood. Long auburn hair partially obscured her face, and her arm was bent behind her at an impossible angle. A strip of silver duct tape covered her mouth.

“Jesus,” Jay muttered behind him.

Her bare legs scissored out to the side. A pink T-shirt was bunched up under her armpits, and Reed noted extensive scratches on both breasts.

“What do you have?” Reed asked.

“Twelve to eighteen hours, ballpark,” the ME's assistant said. “The pathologist should be able to pin that down better.”

Reed studied her face again. No visible abrasions. No ligature marks on her neck. The right side of her skull was smashed in, and her hair was matted with dried blood.

“Murder weapon?” Reed asked.

“Not that we've seen. You might ask the photog, though. She's in the kitchen.”

Reed stood up, looking again at the tape covering April's mouth. A lock of her hair was stuck under it, which for some reason pissed him off.

He moved into the kitchen and paused beside a sliding glass door that opened onto a fenced patio. Outside on the concrete sat a pair of plastic bowls, both empty.

“I haven't seen a weapon,” the crime-scene photographer said over her shoulder. “You'll be the first to know.”

Reed glanced around her to see what had her attention. On the granite countertop was an ID badge attached to one of those plastic clips with a retractable cord. The badge showed April's mug shot with her name above the words
ChatWare Solutions
. April had light blue eyes, pale skin. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she smiled tentatively for the camera.

The photographer finished with the badge and shifted to get a shot of the door.

“Come across a phone?” Reed asked, looking around. No dirty dishes on the counters. Empty sink.

“Not so far.” She glanced up from her camera as Jay stepped into the kitchen and silently handed Reed a pair of latex gloves. “I haven't done the bedroom yet, though, so don't you guys move anything.”

Reed pulled on the gloves and opened the fridge. It took him a moment to identify the unfamiliar contents: spinach, beets, bean sprouts. Something green and frilly that might or might not be kale. The dietary train wreck continued in the pantry, where he found three boxes of Kashi, six bottles of vitamins, and a bag of flaxseed.

Opening the cabinet under the sink, Reed found a bag of cat food and a plastic trash can. The can was empty, not even a plastic bag inside it despite the box of them right there in the cabinet. He'd check out Bellaterra's Dumpsters. Reed opened several drawers and found the usual assortment of utensils.

“That's an eight-hundred-dollar juicer.” Jay nodded at the silver appliance near the sink.

“That thing?”

“At least. Maybe a thousand. My sister got one last Christmas.”

Gutierrez was standing in the foyer now, watching them with interest.

“Did you come across a phone?” Reed asked her. “A purse? A wallet?”

“No on all three, sir. I did a full walk-through, didn't see anything.”

Reed exchanged a look with Jay before moving back into the hallway. The ME's people were now taping paper bags over the victim's hands.

Reed stepped into the bedroom. A ceiling fan moved on low speed, stirring the air. The queen-size bed was heaped with plump white pillows like in a fancy hotel. The pillows were piled to the side and the bedspread was thrown back, suggesting April had gone to bed and then gotten up.

“Think she heard him?” Jay asked.

“Maybe.”

The bedside lamp was off, and the only light in the room came from sunlight streaming through vertical blinds. Reed ducked into the bathroom. Makeup was scattered across the counter. A gold watch with a diamond bezel sat beside the sink. Reed opened the medicine cabinet.

“Sleeping pills, nasal spray, laxatives, OxyContin,” he said.

Reed examined the latch on the window above the toilet. Then he moved into the bedroom. Peering under the bed, he found a pair of white sandals and a folded shopping bag. On the nightstand was a stack of magazines:
Entertainment Weekly, People, Wired
. He opened the nightstand drawer and stared down.

“Huh.”

Jay glanced over. “Vibrator?”

“Chocolate.” Four bars of Godiva, seventy-two percent cocoa. One of the bars had the wrapper partially removed and a hunk bitten off.

Reed was more or less numb to going through people's stuff, but the chocolate bar struck him as both sad and infinitely personal. He closed the drawer.

“We ID'd her vehicle,” Gutierrez said, stepping into the room, “in case you guys want to have a look.”

Reed and Jay followed her back through the apartment, catching annoyed looks from the ME's people as they squeezed past again.

“So, what's our game plan?” Jay asked as they exited the home and stripped off their shoe covers.