Liam's Witness Protection (Man On A Mission 4) (5 page)

“He’s not going to kill you,” Liam asserted. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Warmth from out of nowhere filled Cate at Liam’s words. Not so much the words themselves as the tone of voice in which they were uttered. Coolly confident in his own abilities. Determined. And she knew he meant it. She was safe in his hands, as safe as it was humanly possible to be...which was a tremendously relieving feeling.

* * *

They arrived at the new safe house before midnight. As he’d done at the first safe house, Liam didn’t pull into the driveway, walk up to the front door and knock. He reconnoitered first, driving past the house and around the block slowly, then circling back again. It was a little thing, but it emphasized to Cate he wasn’t a novice at this. And that extra caution only added to her feeling of safety. Vishenko might still succeed in killing her—anything was possible—but Liam wouldn’t make it easy for him.

Just as before, Liam parked on the street a few houses away, and Cate knew he didn’t want to announce to anyone who might spot the SUV or who might have been following them which house they were actually in. Not that they’d been followed—Liam had made sure of that, too, long before they’d arrived at the safe house. Another little detail.

So many details,
Cate thought. Between the US Marshals who’d guarded her before and Liam now, she realized just how much she
hadn’t
done to safeguard herself those six years on the run. Vishenko’s men hadn’t found her, so she must have done
something
right.
But some of that must have been luck. Blind luck.

Liam handed Cate’s suitcase to her and grabbed his duffel bag with his left hand. He guided her down the sidewalk toward the safe house without actually touching her, his right hand tucked inside his jacket. And Cate knew why. He’d killed for her before. He would again, if necessary. And somehow, instead of making her afraid of that ruthless side of him the way she feared Vishenko, the thought helped her breathe easier.

* * *

It was after two in the morning, and Liam still couldn’t sleep. He was exhausted—more than exhausted after a long, adrenaline-packed day capped by a five-hour drive through what seemed an endless night. And he hadn’t been able to let Cate share the driving for two very good reasons. First, she had no ID at all on her, since she’d left her purse behind in the courthouse, so of course she wouldn’t have a driver’s license or other state-issued ID with her. And second—more importantly—she didn’t know how to drive.

He’d been dumbfounded when she’d admitted as much to him when they’d stopped for gas and he’d asked her if she wanted to take a turn behind the wheel while he rested. Except for a few anomalies, such as residents of New York City, what US citizen over the age of sixteen didn’t know how to drive? He’d held back the question with an effort, but then realized he should have known.
Duh,
he’d told himself when she’d flushed with shame at her deficiency.
Cate wasn’t born and raised here. And if she’s been living off the grid for much of the past seven years, what chance would she have to learn to drive? To practice?

Now as he laid in bed, moonlight streaming through the window across the room, he wondered what else Cate had missed out on besides the teenage rite of passage of obtaining a driver’s license.
Don’t go there,
he warned himself. But it was already too late. His thoughts winged to the scars on her wrists he’d noticed at dinner, and what they meant. What they
had
to mean. He gritted his teeth as he heard Alec saying,
“You really
don’t
want to know. I wish I didn’t.”

But he did want to know. He wanted to know everything. And he wanted Cate to be the one to tell him. He wanted her to trust him as much as she trusted Alec, and he wanted her to confide in him the way she’d confided in Alec.

Jealousy reared its ugly head again. It made no sense. Cate didn’t belong to him and he had no right to feel possessive of her. No rights at all where she was concerned. Especially when it came to his brother. His married brother. But that didn’t stop Liam feeling as if he did. As if somehow...someway...as if saving Cate’s life gave him the right to care about her. Not just her future, but her past, too.

Liam’s older brothers Shane and Niall used to tease Liam when he was little, saying Liam had been born in the wrong time. That Liam should have been a knight-errant in the twelfth century, roaming the world saving damsels in distress. He’d hated that designation as a boy—hated being teased—but as a man Liam had to admit there was more than a little truth to it.

Wasn’t that why he’d been so upset when it seemed as if Trace McKinnon was taking advantage of Princess Mara back when the three of them—McKinnon, Alec and Liam—were guarding her? Wasn’t that why he’d wanted to confront McKinnon about how obviously in love with him the princess was, even though he’d let Alec talk him out of that confrontation?

And wasn’t that why—when he and Alec had drawn straws to see which one of them got to tell McKinnon what the princess had left behind for him when she’d unexpectedly returned to Zakhar—he’d almost decked Alec when Alec had won the draw? Because he’d wanted to be the one defending the princess. Because he’d wanted to be the one making McKinnon pay for hurting her so grievously.

Liam sighed and turned over restlessly, the sheets rustling softly around him. “You can’t escape who you are, Jones,” he muttered, punching up his pillow. And on that note he finally fell asleep. But his sleep was rocked by dreams. Dreams of Cate. Dreams of saving her from a fire-breathing dragon...a dungeon...the black knight, who bore a strong resemblance to Aleksandrov Vishenko in armor. Dreams of riding off with Cate on horseback, her slender body cradled protectively in his arms. Even in his dreams he knew it was ridiculous—he didn’t know how to ride. But that detail wasn’t germane, because in his dreams he was invincible—he could damn near do anything he wanted to...in his dreams. And what he wanted to do more than anything was keep Cate safe. No matter what he had to do.

Chapter 5

A
leksandrov Vishenko jerked awake, his heart pounding, shreds of a nightmare still lingering in his mind. He sat up and reached for the ever-present water bottle he kept beside his bed and drank deeply.

A body stirred beside him. “What is it?” the young woman asked drowsily.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep,” he answered in harsh tones.

She obeyed, resettling her blond head on her pillow—
they always obey
—he told himself contemptuously.
Whores always obey.
Only one woman had defied him. One woman had fought him for more than a year, as if she was still the virgin she’d been the first time he’d taken her. Her desperate struggles had added immeasurably to his excitement, and he’d relished conquering her. Each time. Every time.

Caterina hadn’t cried after the first night. Hadn’t begged him to let her go. Hadn’t begged him for
anything.
But her eyes...her eyes had betrayed her. He’d still been virile enough then to lust after her at least every day. Overpowering her futile struggles—laughing even, when she fought him—his ultimate victory ramping up his sexual prowess in a way he hadn’t achieved since his teenage years. Every time he forced her to admit defeat he walked away feeling like a king. Like a god.

Then she’d surrendered—or seemed to—and that conquest had been even sweeter. Infinitely sweeter. Knowing she acknowledged him as her master. Knowing, too, she hated his touch despite her surface acquiescence—ahhh, that had kept his excitement flowing. He’d known she tried to escape him in her mind, but he hadn’t cared...so long as her body belonged to him.

Then she’d escaped in truth, taking all the evidence of his crimes she could lay her hands on. And his life had never been the same. At first he’d tried to find her because he was afraid she’d take her evidence to the authorities. But when the arrest he’d expected almost hourly failed to materialize, his motive for finding her changed. Then he’d thought it was because she’d dared to run, diminishing him in his men’s eyes. In the first year after her departure he’d been forced to put down two attempted takeovers of his empire by men within his organization who’d thought he was losing his touch...just because Caterina had made him look foolish by escaping.

But after his empire was secure again, after he’d killed a few men to prove himself still the most powerful, the most ruthless of men in the
Bratva
, he realized the real truth. He wanted to bring her back to him—to
force
her back into his bed where she belonged—because sex without Caterina had lost its zest.

Even though he had his pick of the young women brought into the US by the human trafficking ring, even though his men singled out the prettiest, youngest, most virginal-looking blondes for him to deflower before putting them to work as prostitutes, it still hadn’t been enough. The tears of the women he raped did nothing for him—he’d craved the hate in Caterina’s eyes. The hate...and the immensely powerful feeling it gave him to know she couldn’t stop him taking her...despite her hatred.

But eventually...after all these years without her...he’d adjusted. The fire to possess her, control her, conquer her, had dimmed. Then he’d merely wanted her dead. Not just to ensure the evidence she’d stolen never fell into the wrong hands—though that had been a concern—but to have his revenge on her for depriving him of the sexual pleasure she’d given him. Pleasure he’d never been able to recapture with another woman no matter how hard he tried.

What was money, after all?
he’d reasoned when he raised the price on her head. A means to an end. A million dollars was worth it. Oh yes, Caterina Mateja had been worth a million dollars to him...dead.

She still was. That hadn’t changed. With Caterina dead, the case against him would fall apart like a house of cards with one card removed from the bottom of the stack.
So close!
he raged suddenly. His men had been so close.

Vishenko no more believed in miracles than he believed in God. But if he
did
believe in them, then Caterina’s escape had been one. He’d used nearly every tool in his arsenal, had called in markers from a half dozen of his fellow crime bosses within the
Bratva
, had bought the best law enforcement officials his money could buy—the plan should have been foolproof.

But at least her near-death experience would make her reconsider testifying. Wouldn’t it? Changing her mind about that wouldn’t save her life—she still needed to die—but it would buy him a little time.

* * *

Cate woke late. She knew it by the angle of the sun’s rays coming through her bedroom window. She laid there for a moment, trying to remember where she was.
Fayetteville,
her brain finally supplied.
Safe house. With Liam.

Liam. She turned over and tucked her hand beneath her cheek as she thought about him. He reminded her so much of Alec in the way he looked, the way he talked, even his mannerisms. But—and it seemed almost sacrilegious to admit after Alec had rescued her from a life on the run and convinced her she had a purpose in life far greater than just continuing to live—she
liked
Liam even more than she liked Alec...and that was saying a lot. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Alec had eyes only for her cousin, Angelina...but she didn’t think so. Not entirely.

There was just something special about Liam—his heart-stopping smile, the way his eyes smiled even before his lips did, the flashes of self-deprecating humor that told her even though he was a serious man in many respects he didn’t take himself
too
seriously. She liked that about him. And then there was the way he so carefully
didn’t
touch her if he could help it, as if he knew—
well, perhaps he does,
she admitted with a little pang of pain.
Perhaps Alec told him. Or perhaps I told him when I flinched away from his hand yesterday. He’s a very perceptive man. It wouldn’t take much for him to figure out I can’t... I don’t...

She hadn’t wanted him to know. Silly, she realized now. She couldn’t keep who and what she was a secret from him—he already knew, at least in part. And eventually the whole world would know everything...when she testified. Hadn’t she already had this discussion with herself, when Alec had convinced her to testify? “‘I am only one,’” she whispered, reminding herself why she was here. Why she was putting herself through this. “‘But I am one.’”

It was cold comfort. Especially with thoughts of Liam fresh in her mind. What wouldn’t she give to be able to come to him—whole, clean—and see where their attraction took them? If nine years ago had never happened. But that was stupid. If nine years ago hadn’t happened, Liam would never have entered her life. She wouldn’t have been in that courthouse yesterday morning. No one would have attempted to kill her. And Liam wouldn’t have been forced to come to her rescue. To save her life.

She rose eventually and made her way quietly, cautiously, to the upstairs bathroom, taking along the plastic bag with the toothbrush and other essentials the Morgans had given her at the other safe house—the one in Fairfax. No one else seemed to be around, so either they were still asleep—not very likely—or they’d all awakened far earlier than she had and were already downstairs.

Finished in the bathroom, Cate returned to her bedroom, dressed quickly in one of the three changes of clothes the Morgans had supplied her with, then made her way downstairs. She followed her ears to the kitchen, where she could hear faint deep voices, though she couldn’t make out the words. She crept silently nearer, then checked abruptly in the doorway when she spotted a stranger sitting at the kitchen table with Liam drinking coffee.

When the two men saw her, they both put down their coffee cups and stood. The tall black stranger reached her first, his hand outstretched. “Good morning, Ms. Mateja,” he said in his booming voice. “You don’t know me, but I’ve been following your case very closely. I’m Nick D’Arcy.”

She shook his hand. “Are you Liam’s boss?”

“No, ma’am. I’m the head of the agency. But we’ve been involved in this case from the beginning. One of my agents put this case together with Liam’s brother,” he said, indicating Liam standing on the other side of her in his shirtsleeves, his gun in its shoulder holster clearly visible. “And I’m the one who arranged this safe house for you.” He smiled gently. “I hope my people have made you comfortable here, Ms. Mateja.”

“Oh yes. I—”
wasn’t expecting a lot,
she almost said, but then realized that might come across wrong.
I’m used to making do,
didn’t sound right, either. She smiled perfunctorily and settled for saying, “Very comfortable, thank you. But please call me Cate.”

Liam took a step closer to her, his hand outstretched as if to touch her...but he didn’t. “Cate, D’Arcy was just telling me he has another plan for us—if you agree.”

She looked from one man to the other. “Another plan?”

“Why don’t you sit down,” Nick D’Arcy said, “and we can discuss it.” He moved to the coffeemaker on the counter. “Want some coffee?”

“No thank you.” Cate didn’t drink coffee. She’d been too young to acquire the coffee habit before she’d first come to this country, and for six of the past seven years coffee had been a luxury she couldn’t afford, even if she’d wanted to...which she didn’t.

Liam opened the refrigerator and took out a carton of orange juice, offering it to her. “Juice?”

“Yes, please.”

He grabbed a tumbler from the cabinet and filled it before handing it to her. She accepted it with a simple, “Thank you.”

D’Arcy had refilled Liam’s coffee cup and his own, and they settled around the table. “Here’s the situation, Ms.—Cate,” he corrected himself smoothly. “I don’t know how much Liam told you about this case, but—”

“Very little.” She glanced apologetically at Liam. She didn’t want to seem critical, but he really hadn’t said all that much.
Need to know,
she reminded herself now. He’d told her only what she needed to know...no more, no less. “I know another witness is dead,” she admitted, glancing down at her hands. “I knew her,” she added, almost to herself. Then her eyes met D’Arcy’s. “Not friends, you understand. But I met her when we were first brought to this country nine years ago. She was a year older than me.” She could have said a lot more, but anything she revealed about the other woman would be far too revealing...about herself. About what had happened to them both.

“I’m going to tell you a little story,” D’Arcy said. “And afterward I think you’ll understand why I’m not willing to take chances this time around. Did you want some breakfast before I start?” he asked, shifting gears. “This could take a while.” When she shook her head, sipping at her orange juice, he took a deep swallow of coffee. He placed the cup back on the table, arranging it just so, as if he was mentally arranging exactly what to tell her in the few seconds it took him. Then he looked at her, all softness gone from his face.

“Aleksandrov Vishenko’s branch of the
Bratva
was collaterally associated years ago with a domestic terrorist organization called the New World Militia, founded and run by a man named David Pennington. Ever heard of him?” Cate shook her head. “Pennington was briefly married to Vishenko’s sister, Mariella. They had one child, who they named Michael...born with a birth defect that left one leg shorter than the other. Not crippled. Just not perfect. And Pennington was a perfectionist.”

His brows twitched together. “Mariella subsequently divorced Pennington, resumed her maiden name—Vishenko—and changed her son’s last name at the same time. Then tried her best to forget she’d ever been married to Pennington. But apparently her brother didn’t share her aversion to her ex-husband. Either that, or Vishenko didn’t care about the personal aspect so long as his relationship with his ex-brother-in-law remained profitable. Which it did. Very profitable, for both men. Arms dealing, including the theft of military grade weapons. And drugs, of course—Vishenko was an up-and-coming member of one of the most powerful drug cartels in the country. He was young, but completely amoral even then.”

Amoral.
A word Cate knew firsthand in relation to Vishenko. She managed to suppress a shiver at the memories, but she couldn’t do anything about her eyes. Couldn’t hide the sudden flash of revulsion the memories evoked.

D’Arcy had seen her reaction, she knew—his eyes betrayed him—but thankfully he didn’t comment on it. He went on with his story. “The
Bratva
bought themselves an FBI agent, the best their money could buy—a man who eventually became the special agent in charge of the FBI’s New York Field Office Criminal Division. At roughly the same time, the New World Militia infiltrated the US Marshals Service when I was still working there.”

He smiled grimly. “That brings us to where I come in. Five years earlier the FBI had approached a New York City cop named Ryan Callahan, recruiting him to go undercover with the New World Militia. To gather evidence against Pennington and bring down his organization. Callahan did that, all right. Then testified against Pennington and a host of others in the New World Militia. I was assigned to guard him. Not just until the trials, but afterward, to give him a new identity through the Witness Security Program.”

“Some people refer to it as the Witness Protection Program, Cate,” Liam threw in. “That’s one of the things US Marshals do—protect witnesses who need protection, like they were protecting you. And in some cases provide them with new identities, new lives.”

“Like me,” Cate said, remembering all at once what Alec had promised her—that after she testified against Vishenko and the other members of the conspiracy, a new life would be created for her in some little backwater town in some out-of-the-way place. Where she would be safe from reprisals. Where she could live without always looking over her shoulder. Even if she chose to return to Zakhar, the plan was for her to disappear.

“Right,” D’Arcy agreed. “I created a new identity for Callahan—Reilly O’Neill. I stashed him in a little town in the middle of nowhere—Black Rock, Wyoming—for reasons you don’t need to know. To make a long story short, three people died when the New World Militia tried to torture Callahan’s whereabouts out of his partner, something Josh Thurman—the partner—couldn’t tell them because he didn’t know. But when he and his family were murdered we knew the militia was getting close, so we faked Callahan’s death as Reilly O’Neill, and I moved him to another location.”