Hunted, A Romantic Suspence Novel (11 page)

Katie sipped her coffee, thinking back over the past several days. It seemed like months ago now. “As soon as you said the tire had been shot out, I knew I had to get the Marshals to retrieve me. I’d been through the drill numerous times while waiting to give my testimony against Strict.”

“How many times have they moved you?”

“At least ten. The pattern was always the same. A threat would come in, I had to be packed in less than ten minutes, and before anyone knew what was happening, they’d whisk me off to another safe house.”

The lines around his eyes deepened, and his jaw tensed once more. “And you’ve continued to live out of two backpacks.”

She sipped her coffee, ignoring the anger in his voice. “Once I had things packed, I abandoned my apartment and headed to a hotel room. That’s where I called the Marshals.”

“Who’s the person you’re supposed to contact in this situation?” He took out a notebook and started making notes.

“His name is Frank Castello.”

“How long have you known him?”

“He and his partner, Pete Halloran, have been assigned to my case since the beginning.” Setting her half-empty cup aside, she filled him in on the details of her arrangements for being extricated that night and how she’d spent her day huddled in the corner of her hotel room praying the hitman wouldn’t find her. Matt didn’t say much, just wrote down most of what she said, his body tensing when she described seeing her car explode.

“Then I called you to come get me.” She sat back in her chair. Rocky sat beside her, nudging her uninjured thigh with his nose. Tentatively she patted his head, all the time watching Matt study his notes. The other dogs lay at her feet.

“You didn’t speak with anyone but this Castello?”

“No one. I have a direct number to him.” Relaxing, she let her fingers inch into the warm, soft fur on the dog’s head. “What I can’t understand is how they knew I was with you. Someone, either the hitman or the Marshals, must’ve seen your license plate when we left the hospital.”

He rubbed his hand over his jaw. “I don’t think that’s how they found out.”

Something in his tone set the hairs on her arms on end. Ignoring the pain in her hip, she eased forward and leaned her elbows on the table, studying the tension around his lips. “Why do you say that?”

“That first night, when you wouldn’t answer any of my questions, I decided to find my own answers.” He pushed himself away from the table, stood and strode to the opposite side of the kitchen and back. “Once I figured out who you were, I decided I should let someone in authority know you were all right.”

“What did you do?” She dug her nails into the palms of her hands, anger surging through her.

He stopped pacing and set both hands on the table, leaning in and staring intently at her. “I sent the Marshals an e-mail letting them know you were with me.”

“And Strict’s hitman used that information to rig the shotgun ambush at your apartment.” She shoved her chair away with her good leg. The dogs scattered. She, too, leaned her hands on the table, her nose inches from his. She glared at him. “I told you we couldn’t trust anyone.”

“When a witness is in trouble, the first thing a lawman has to do is let the Marshals know. It’s the rules, Katie.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. Silence spread between them like a chasm. Anger and disappointment filled her heart.

“You and your rules are going to get us killed, Matt.”

* * * * *

Castello eased his SUV into four-wheel drive as he turned from the highway onto the snow- and ice-covered road leading to Pete Halloran’s cabin. Several times on his way north he’d nearly swerved off the highway.

Stopping outside the cabin, he sat in the car and studied the area, his gaze moving over the main building, garage, and the boat. Nothing moved. Snow lay in a pristine layer over the ground.  Not one track, human or vehicular. Nothing.

Something’s wrong.

Man, don’t let Pete be here.

Frank pulled his gun from the glove compartment and released the safety, then stepped out of his car. The thin layer of ice covering the snow crunched beneath his feet as he approached the front door. He stepped onto the porch. A board creaked beneath his feet, sounding like a gunshot in the woods’ eerie silence.

His pulse rate shot up over a hundred.
Take a deep breath.

The sinking feeling he got right before a stakeout or witness delivery went bad knotted his stomach.

He reached for the doorknob. It turned easily. Not good. Pete wouldn’t leave his home this vulnerable.

Pushing the door open, Castello looked inside, letting his eyes adjust to the room’s shadows in the dim evening light. The stale mustiness of a room that hadn’t been aired out in some time assailed him as he stepped into the main room.

“Pete?” he called, moving farther into the cabin and leaving the door open behind him. He prayed Pete had gone to Florida or anywhere else for the holidays, but the nagging sense of unease continued to beat the back of his neck.

Carefully checking the closet and the kitchen area, Frank found nothing. He paused in front of the fireplace studying it. A pile of ashes lay in the center. Pete always cleaned out the fireplace after each use. He was obsessive about it, ever since his younger brother died when smoldering ashes in their family fireplace re-ignited one winter.

With his gun arm extended for his own protection, Frank checked out every corner for any evidence as to where his old partner might be. At the bedroom door, he moved to the side and took a deep breath before pushing it open.

Empty.

No one in the bed or under it. The closet held only clothes.

Frank started to close the closet door when he noticed the box on the top shelf. He had one just like it at home—for his service weapon. Reaching for it, he prayed he’d find it empty. The box’s weight confirmed his fears. Wherever Pete was, he’d gone there unarmed.

Only one room left in the small cabin to check.

Pushing open the door to the bathroom, Frank used the same methodical caution he’d used upon entering the other rooms. Again, empty.

Slipping his weapon into the back of his belt, Frank returned to the cabin’s main room. Maybe he was overreacting. Pete retired three years ago. He didn’t have to report his comings and goings to his old partner or anyone else at the Marshals, for that matter.

Castello stepped out on the porch, deeply inhaling the cool crisp country air and relaxing for a moment. He hadn’t found Pete dead in the cabin like he’d been so sure he would. His old partner would’ve told him, don’t overthink a situation.

Read your surroundings, Rookie. Listen to your gut and act accordingly. If it feels wrong, it
is
wrong.

His gaze wandered over the landscape, moving from the entrance in the woods to his car. Then he scanned toward the rear of Pete’s property, past the tree line to the garage—and the boat sitting outside it.

Frank stared at the boat, his pulse quickening again.

That was what bothered him.

Pete always stored the boat inside during the winter.

Slipping his gun out of his belt, Frank started toward the garage. His pace quickened with each step until he was moving at a dead run.

The garage had turn-of-the-century doors which opened out, like a barn, instead of lifting up like modern garages. He paused for a moment, catching a steadying breath.

Then he reached for the door latch.
The stench through the wood doors assailed him immediately.

Decaying flesh mixed with blood wasn’t a scent a person ever forgot. He pulled off one glove and covered his mouth and nose.

God, he didn’t want to go in here.

Dragging the door as far open as he could, he closed his eyes for a moment. Then he forced himself to look.

Pain hit him square in the chest like a sledgehammer.

“Oh God, Pete.”

Frank sank to his knees.

Pete hung from the old garage’s rafters, his hands cuffed, a chain lashed over the beams, stretching his arms above his head. Naked, he’d been systematically sliced, his blood caked over his torso in the many paths it had taken to drain from him body.

Frank gulped in air.

His mentor, his friend, his partner had suffered greatly at the hands of his torturer.

Frank staggered to his feet. The bastard had made a grave error. He’d just called down the government’s powers on his head.

If it takes me the next twenty years, I’ll put whoever did this six feet under.

He fought the urge to lower Pete’s body. The crime scene needed to stay intact. He flipped his cell phone open and dialed the local sheriff’s department. His boss would get the second call, then the FBI.

Now it was imperative he find Sarah Strict, alias Katie Myers.

* * * * *

Matt opened the package from the overnight courier service. He dumped the contents onto the kitchen table. Jake not only sent the log, which consisted of a series of photocopied sheets from the actual log, but a bundle of pictures also. There was something else stuck in the package’s bottom. He turned it upside down and shook it hard. Into his hand fell a box of gauze and a tube of antibiotic ointment.

“Sami to the rescue.” Then he laughed.

But he knew his sister was right. Since they’d literally fled the hospital, the responsibility for Katie’s care rested squarely with him. Guilt washed over him. Hell, it was his fault she’d gotten hurt in the first place. Earlier in the morning she’d made that fact obvious.

When she strode from the room her back ramrod straight and a new limp to her stride, he’d never felt so angry or so low. He had wanted to go after her to make her see reason. She was in danger and if he’d known all the information he knew now, he never would’ve sent that message. Hell, he’d been so frustrated he didn’t know whether to shake her or kiss her.

He blew out a deep breath.

“She’s had plenty of time to cool off,” he said to Ali, the largest Boxer, sitting at his feet. “Time to get down to business.”

After picking up the visitor’s log, pictures and first-aid supplies, he went in search of Katie.

The sunroom was where he finally found her. He stood in the doorway, watching. Sitting on the floor, she had spread newspaper out in front of her. On it lay all the pieces to her Glock. She sat cross-legged, cleaning and oiling each piece, with methodical precision.

The woman and her ability to adapt amazed him. On either side of her lay a dog. A woman with as much reason to fear them as Katie did should be screaming at him for letting them anywhere near her. Yet there she sat nestled between them, accepting them for what they were—harmless, gentle companions. They’d proven they could be trusted.

A spark of frustration burst to life inside him. When would she realize she could trust him?

When you start showing her she can.

Where had that thought come from? From the truth. If he wanted her to trust him, he’d have to give her reasons to.

Matt fetched his coat from the hall closet and returned to the sunroom. Laying the papers and medical supplies on the sofa, he fished his own Glock out of his coat pocket.

“When you finish cleaning yours, how about doing mine, too?” He held the gun toward her, barrel end first.

She stared at the weapon. “When did you get this?”

“After the paramedics left with you for the hospital. It’s what I stopped by my apartment to get in the first place. I figure I need to stay armed until your hitman is captured.”

For a moment she hesitated, then nodded and took the gun, and laid it beside the pieces of her own.

Matt relaxed.

Chalk one up for the good guys.

“Is that the log you asked your brother-in-law for?” she asked, going back to her oiling and cleaning.

“Jake sent along what pictures he could find of the known members of Strict’s family and Sami sent this to you.” He held the gauze and ointment out to Katie.

“For me?”

The surprised look on her face both pleased and irritated him. He was glad his sister’s thoughtfulness would be appreciated. Yet he read in Katie’s eyes the idea that she didn’t deserve this simple act of human kindness.

If Strict weren’t dying in four days, he’d kill him himself.

“Yes. For your wounds.”

“Please tell her thank you.” A light blush filled her cheeks. She blinked hard against the tears that filled her eyes, and set the boxes by her side.

Matt coughed hard to clear the lump in his throat. “Why don’t I read off the names of Strict’s visitors while you work. If any of them sound familiar, you let me know. Okay?”

She nodded.

“Want to start first to last, or last to first?”

“Last to first.” She glanced at him, the corners of her lips turned up in a semi-smile. “Maybe we’ll find the person in the first name, and I won’t have to think about my stepfather too much.”

He winked at her. “Attagirl.” Flipping to the last page, he read off the latest entry. “December twelfth, Thomas Pike.”

“Strict’s lawyer. Pike was never a real believer of Strict’s plans, but my stepfather said a man should always have the best lawyer and the best doctor he can afford.” Concentrating on what she was doing, Katie pushed the barrel of her gun down into the frame from the rear, then replaced the captive recoil spring.

“Strict could’ve used him as a conduit to the hit man.” Matt wrote down Pike’s name and how Katie said he functioned for Strict. “December first, Hank Wooten.”

“Hank was the accountant. Most Family members believed my stepfather was simply a religious leader, but I knew better. He was out to make himself rich and famous. Hank was in charge of the rich part.”

“He could’ve arranged for a hit man’s payoff. An out-of-towner, perhaps?”

Katie shook her head, sitting straighter and pulling both her shoulders back for a moment. “He could’ve, but the Devil never paid for anything he could get for free. He would have used one of his own people.”

“I’ll put the accountant in the list, just in case Strict was desperate enough to hire outside help.”

“Why’re you asking me questions, if you’re not going to accept my answers?” Deftly she moved the slide backward onto the frame, squeezing the trigger and letting the striker find its proper position on the frame, locking it in position with the slide lock.