Love Inspired Suspense October 2015 #1 (45 page)

“Dylan?” Her voice wavered.

“We're fine, Angelina. It's just a precaution. Do as Brad says.”

Dylan's muscles tensed as he slowed their car even more.

The biker not only slowed but pulled within inches of the driver's side window. His black helmet and face shield prevented Dylan from seeing the driver's face but he didn't miss the gun in the man's right hand.

“Hang on!” He smashed the accelerator to the floor and the car jolted forward.

Dylan weaved in and out of traffic in a desperate attempt not to hit another car as the speedometer climbed. Eighty miles per hour. Ninety miles per hour. One hundred miles per hour.

The biker stayed on their tail with ease. Occasionally the driver was able to position himself beside them. That's what worried Dylan the most. He couldn't afford to allow the driver to position his bike for an easy shot.

“He's got a gun!” Dylan warned the other marshals.

Donna removed her seat belt, bent her knees and anchored herself sideways in the seat. She raised her hands and pointed her gun at the cyclist.

“Don't shoot!” Dylan warned. “Not yet. There are too many other drivers. We might hit someone.”

Donna agreed but remained ready.

Dylan heard Angelina whimper in the back. “Don't get hurt. Please don't let anybody get hurt.”

“Don't worry about us,” Dylan commanded. “Just stay down.”

“I've got her. Don't worry.” Brad released his seat belt and blocked her body with his own.

Faster and faster they flew down the road, the cyclist matching their speed and moves. The speedometer crept to 110 miles per hour. The biker never fired his weapon, never even lifted his hand. It was almost as though he was playing a game of cat and mouse with them, enjoying the chase.

Dylan's worst nightmare loomed ahead. A tractor trailer doing about seventy miles per hour appeared straight ahead. The passing lane held a slow-moving four-door sedan. The white-haired senior citizen at the wheel, who had no business being in the passing lane anyway, putt-putted at about fifty-five miles per hour. Two other cars in both the regular and passing lanes who didn't want anything to do with the racing vehicles they saw in their rearview mirrors quickly pulled over to the shoulder of the road to let them pass. Dylan understood them wanting to get out of the way but now what? They had blocked the shoulder, which was his only avenue of escape, and he had nowhere to go.

The back of that tractor trailer grew with each passing second and Dylan knew if he didn't do something creative and fast, the truck would soon be sitting in their front seat.

Dylan hit the horn again and again never stopping. Then he did the only thing he could do. He straddled the white line and tried to squeeze between the tractor trailer and the senior citizen.

Their car scraped the side of the semi. The screeching sound of metal on metal, horns blasting and brakes squealing filled the air with a cacophony of impending doom. Their sedan bounced off the side of the semi into the passing lane, fishtailed and forced the senior citizen off the road. A quick glance in the mirror showed the car disappearing into the trees and Dylan offered a silent prayer that he hadn't been hurt.

Dylan fought to regain control of their vehicle as they swerved and swayed across the lane. Once he cleared the rig, he pulled in front and gunned it for the nearest exit. Hoping he was in the clear, his stomach tightened when the Screaming Eagle pulled up between the semi and his rear bumper.

“Keep down,” Dylan shouted. “He might shoot out the rear window.” He swayed in and out of traffic, praying he'd find the opening he needed and that none of the other drivers on the road would be harmed. The bike and its helmeted rider stayed right on his tail.

Just when he thought there could be no other outcome than disaster, he saw that the exit for a wooded rest area was less than a dozen yards ahead. He yanked the wheel a hard right and flew onto the exit. At such a high speed, his back wheels fishtailed back and forth across the road. Sand and gravel shot up, pinging against the metal, the windows, and the front windshield as he tried to bring his vehicle to a halt without hitting anyone or anything.

Dylan didn't need to look in any of his mirrors. The ear-splitting roar of the motorcycle told him it was attached to him like glue. Adrenaline raced through his veins. He slammed on his brakes, almost pushing the pedal into the floorboards and skidded within inches of a tall pine before their car came to a stop.

The motorcyclist roared past them and disappeared onto the highway.

For several seconds, no one moved. No one spoke. Not one word. They simply sat and breathed.

Donna pulled out her cell phone. Her hands visibly shaking, she pressed the numbers on her keypad and called the incident in. Brad holstered his weapon and helped Angelina from the floor to the seat.

It wasn't long before the welcome sound of sirens grew louder with each passing second. The strobe lights from several state trooper cars flashed behind them as they pulled into the rest area.

They were safe. For now.

But that had been close.

Too close.

EIGHT

I
t was dark when they arrived back in their own neighborhood. Probably eight or later. The street was quiet. The bare limbs on several of the trees looked like skeletal sentinels as their car drove past.

They'd been detained at the site by the troopers for what seemed like hours. Dylan and Brad had fielded most of the troopers' questions. They'd shown their badges but were more tight-lipped with their information than the troopers were happy about and absolutely refused to go anywhere with the men. Calls flew back and forth between the troopers' headquarters and the marshals' office while Angelina and Donna sat in the back of a patrol car and waited for the power struggle between law enforcement to play out.

The final decision was to list Angelina on the reports as a not-to-be-named-or-physically-described witness in an upcoming trial. She was allowed to answer the pertinent questions involving the traffic incident—which was very little since she spent most of her time huddled on the floor of the car with Brad practically sitting on top of her.

She was grateful she hadn't seen much. Between the day with the DA and now the troopers, she'd had all the questions she could handle.

Although unnecessary, Dylan had also insisted that she be checked out by the EMTs from one of the ambulances called to the scene.

She was fine.

Shaken. Scared. Terrified was more like it. But fine.

No, she couldn't identify the biker.

No, she hadn't seen any of his license plate numbers.

Yes, to the one question no one dared ask. Angelina was certain now that her father knew where she was, who she was with, and was on a mission to stop her. But, of course, she couldn't tell the troopers that nugget of information.

Angelina welcomed the sound of the crunch of tires as they pulled up the gravel driveway. She was exhausted, hungry, spent and grateful to be home if she could call the place that.

She climbed out of the backseat and hadn't taken more than a couple of steps before she sensed Dylan walking directly behind her. She could hear Brad and Donna engaged in a low-volume conversation with each other bringing up the rear.

The porch light came on and the door swung wide. Both Bear and Selma stepped onto the porch.

“Glad to see that everyone is in one piece,” Selma said.

Angelina arched an eyebrow.
Selma being concerned?
Wow
,
this really has been a long day.
Then she chided herself for the sarcastic thought. Of course, the woman would be concerned about her colleagues. She'd have to learn to be more charitable.

“We're all right,” Dylan answered, moving up to Angelina's side, cupping her elbow and leading her into the house. “Nothing that a little food and a hot shower can't fix.”

Bear stepped aside and let them pass. “You don't want me to see that retirement dinner, do you? Trying to give me a heart attack. That's what you're doing.”

Dylan chuckled and kept on moving toward the kitchen.

Donna and Brad stepped inside just long enough to gather their things and say goodbye. They were both well past the end of their shift and had to return at 6:00 a.m.

Selma set out plates on the kitchen table. “When I heard what happened and knew you'd be late, I thought you might be hungry when you arrived. I took the liberty to fix something.” Donning two oven mitts, she carried a roasting pan to the table and placed it on two heat-insulated pads. Raising the lid, the aroma of pot roast, potatoes, carrots and onions wafted through the room. “But there are plenty of cold cuts and even a few steaks in the freezer if you'd like to fix yourselves something else.”

Bear plunked down in the nearest seat and dug right in. “No way. I've been smelling this delight for the past two hours.” He spooned a sizable portion onto his plate. “This looks delicious. Didn't know you had it in you, Washington.”

Selma hit him with one of her oven mitts. “Why's that, Bear? Just because I am a much more accomplished marksman than you—”

“More accomplished marksman? That'll be the day!”

“—you think I can't find my way around a kitchen? I can multitask, my friend. I didn't see you thinking about pulling anything together for dinner except bologna and cheese sandwiches.”

“
More accomplished
and the word
friend
in the same conversation. You do have a leaning toward exaggeration, Washington, don't you?”

“Play nice, people.” Dylan held out a chair for Angelina and then moved to the one on her right. Once seated, he leaned forward and cupped her hands in his. “You hanging in there?”

She smiled and nodded.

He straightened, threw an arm over the back of her chair and grinned that bad-boy grin she liked. “It's been quite a day.”

Angelina's smile widened into a grin. “That's one word for it.” She ladled meat and potatoes onto her plate. “Thanks for this, Selma. It smells wonderful and I am starved.”

Could that be a blush tingeing the stern woman's cheeks as she accepted the compliment with a nod?

“So.” Angelina caught all the marshals' eyes. “What are we doing for fun, tomorrow?”

Laughter broke out around the table and the rest of the meal passed in a comfortable camaraderie.

* * *

Later that night Selma and Angelina retired to bed and Bear and Dylan remained downstairs. Bear leaned against the kitchen counter and looked intently at Dylan. “Want to talk about it?”

Dylan adjusted the brightness on the monitor, studied the vacant backyard for another second, and then looked up and met Bear's gaze.

“Nothing to talk about. Another day at the office.”

“Really? That's the way you're gonna play this? With me? How long we been partners, man?” Bear leaned back, crossed his hands across his gut and waited. “Might as well start spilling. I can wait all night if I have to.”

Dylan squirmed beneath Bear's scrutiny. He'd partnered with him long enough to know the man wouldn't let the subject go.

He released a heavy sigh. Maybe it would be good to talk. Venting his feelings might help him understand them a little more. He really wasn't sure he wanted to scrutinize all the muddled thoughts running through his mind and, worse, the messed-up feelings trampling through his heart. But he trusted Bear, always had, always would.

“It was close today, Bear.” Dylan turned his head away so his partner couldn't see the flash of emotions on his face.

“Uh-huh.” The baritone voice sounded calm and soothing to Dylan's ears. “We've been in close situations before.”

“Not ones where I've seen the etchings on our gravestones flash before my eyes.”

Bear let out a low whistle. “That bad, huh?”

Dylan pushed back from the monitor and crossed the room to grab a cup of coffee. When he fixed it the way he wanted, he took a sip and turned to face Bear.

Both of them noticed the mug trembled slightly in Dylan's hand. Dylan steadied the mug with both hands and locked his gaze with Bear's. “I almost lost her today. It came down to seconds. A split-second decision this way. A split-second move that way. No time to think. No time to plan. Just survivor mode.” Tears burned the back of his eyes and his throat tightened. “It was so close, Bear.”

The older man thumped one of his huge hands on Dylan's shoulder. “But you didn't lose her. You kept your head. You got everyone home safe and sound.”

“Only by the grace of God.”

Bear's teeth shone in a big grin. “Thank God, for the grace of God.”

Dylan smiled back and took another mouthful of coffee.

“How did they find you?”

Dylan raised an eyebrow at Bear's question.

“The biker. How did he know where to find you? Did he follow you from the US Attorney's office? And why didn't he finish the job? What made him turn tail and run?”

Dylan shrugged. “You and I both know it's protocol for a witness to be prepared for their courtroom testimony before trial, especially for a trial this big. They've probably been staking out that office all week. We blew it. We should have anticipated the ambush and picked another location or some other means of preparation.”

“I hear you on that one. You're right. We dropped the ball.” Bear frowned. “What happened to the biker?”

“Don't know. He created a mess, cars everywhere on the Garden State, I suppose he knew the state troopers weren't far behind and took off.”

“You said earlier that he had a gun.”

Dylan nodded.

“Why didn't he just drive up beside you and shoot you in the head? The resulting crash would have taken all of you out.”

“I don't know. I was wondering the same thing myself. He certainly had the opportunity. When I saw the gun in his hand, he was positioned right beside me. It would have only taken a second for him to raise his hand and shoot. But he didn't and I made sure he didn't get a second opportunity.”

“That's what I mean, man. It doesn't feel right.”

Dylan frowned. “You're thinking that it wasn't a hit.”

“You and I have seen mob contracts enforced. They're organized and professional. They do the job quickly, then disappear back into the slime they crawled out from. They don't play tag down a busy freeway and then drive off.”

Dylan pondered the information. It made sense. “I'm listening.”

“This sounds personal, almost amateurish to me. Playing chicken down the Garden State? If he was trying to take you out, he could have and didn't. So what was he trying to prove? And who was he?”

“You don't think Baroni was behind this, do you?”

“Nope. If he hired a hit man to take you out, I wouldn't be standing here talking to you. You'd be dead and so would everybody else in that car.”

“So who? And why?”

“Frankie?”

“Why?” Dylan put his empty mug in the sink, crossed his ankles and his arms, and leaned back against the counter. “If his goal was to kill Maria for breaking up with him, then he achieved it. There's no way he could believe Angelina can identify him. He shot from a position of darkness under the pier. She had her back turned from him and was running away. Even on the off chance he thought she might be able to identify him, this kind of punk runs for the hills. He isn't running. He's showing off like he has something to prove.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Bear slapped the table with his hand. “This feels like a young punk showing off, like a new rooster in a hen yard strutting around and trying to bring attention to himself, maybe prove a point to someone older.”

Dylan's eyes widened. “You think Frankie is trying to prove something to Baroni?”

“That's how it's adding up in my book.”

“A power play? Frankie couldn't be that stupid, could he? He's targeting Baroni's daughter? On his own? Without Baroni's order or permission? That's a death sentence!”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Hear me out. The trial starts in four days. Angelina has been missing in action for the past three years but not anymore. She's front and center and ready to testify. What if this young pup decides to kill her before she can testify? Then he plans to go to the big boss and brag about how his actions kept Baroni off death row. He'll be expecting a reward. He'll be expecting to be a ‘made man.' He's probably too young, too inexperienced and too low on the totem pole to realize if he pulls a stunt like this, then the capo will have his head. He won't be thanked. He'll be executed for acting on his own without Baroni's permission...and man, to do it to Baroni's
daughter
. This kid is dumber than dirt.”

“So you're thinking all the trouble we've been having so far hasn't been coming from Baroni at all?”

Bear shrugged. “Yep. That's exactly what I'm thinking.”

Dylan could feel the blood drain from his face. Deep in his gut he knew Bear was right. The shoot-out in the hospital. The car-bike chase down the Garden State Parkway. Sloppy. Unprofessional. And much too visible. The last thing Baroni would want to do days before his trial would be to draw unnecessary attention to his situation or get any additional law enforcement officials involved.

So they were dealing with a young, rogue, out-of-control hothead. Great!

How were they supposed to stay one step ahead of someone with no logic or self-control?

“If Baroni wasn't behind the last two incidents, he has certainly heard about them by now. With the trial less than four days away, he'll come for her quietly like a thief in the night.”

Bear nodded. “Yes, he will.”

“How are we supposed to keep her safe, Bear? We have a maverick hothead who is totally unpredictable trying to do the job and then a quiet, professional hit looming around any corner?” Dylan met Bear's eyes and he knew Bear could see the pain and frustration in his expression. “I can't lose her, Bear. Not again.”

“I guess this is where I'm supposed to give you the lecture about how we're not supposed to get personally involved with our witnesses.”

Anger and embarrassment flooded red in Dylan's face but he couldn't rebuke the truth of Bear's statement.

“Since I'm pretty sure it's too late to do anything about that,” Bear continued, “then I suppose we better put our heads together and try to anticipate every possibility and every vulnerable point we may have over the next few days.”

“Agreed.”

“I suggest we contact the U. S. Attorney's Office first thing tomorrow morning and refuse to take her into his office.” Bear gestured to his laptop computer. “We can set up Skype. They can do the remainder of their trial preparation face-to-face right from here.”

Dylan nodded. “Good idea. We need to minimize any public exposure.”

“Are you sure you weren't followed here?”

“I'm sure. The biker disappeared long before the troopers came and I was diligent on the drive home. No one followed us.”