Raw Edges (11 page)

“And brilliant and courageous and the strongest damn person I’ve ever met. Besides, you should know a few things about me.”

His eyes were like twinkling stars, and she couldn’t resist. “Oh, yeah? What’s hiding in that deep, dark past of yours, Micah Chase?”

“I’m a slob. I don’t put the toilet seat down. I like to argue and can see three sides to every debate, and I’ll take them all at the same time. I live inside my head and lose track of time and am always late. And I’m selfish.” He kissed her forehead tenderly. “Extremely selfish. And stubborn. Once I find something worth hanging on to, I’ll never ever let go.”

He pulled her against his chest, his lips brushing the top of her head as she listened to his heartbeat. Faster than hers but steady and strong.

“We’re a pair, aren’t we?” she whispered.

Before he could answer, the door behind Morgan opened and a man hopped in, brandishing a pistol. “Don’t move, or Prince Charming here is dead.”

THE EXPLOSION IN
Clint’s vault hadn’t injured Jenna, but it had frightened her. More than she cared to admit. Oshiro had decided it wasn’t even a blasting cap, rather just a few M-80 firecrackers tied to a clever sparking tool with short fuses. Given the narrow confines of the bank box, the force of the explosion had been contained, creating far more sound than fury or damage.

Tell that to her pounding heart or the fuzzy way her hearing kept getting way too loud and then would cut out, the world silenced by white noise. Or the trembles that didn’t shake her body but instead radiated below her skin like an itch that couldn’t be scratched but made her flesh crawl.

At least after experiencing Clint’s treachery firsthand, Samra had been willing to sacrifice client confidentiality. She’d given them access to all of Clint’s accounts—which now added up to less than a thousand dollars in total, not including whatever cash he’d stashed in his deposit box.

From the records, it seemed someone had drained the online accounts while Clint was in custody. Jenna had a damn good idea who that was but said nothing to Oshiro. He was more interested in Clint’s last visit to the bank in person—two days ago. Their security records had footage of Clint coming and going—there were no cameras inside the vault, although after Clint’s stunt, Jenna guessed that would soon change—as well as video of his vehicle, a silver Camry.

Most interesting, he hadn’t been alone. Two people had accompanied him. One was a fellow escapee, Paul Kroft, the younger of the two convict brothers who’d escaped with Clint. And a teenaged kid. Jenna didn’t recognize him, but after talking with Andre and learning what he and Jenna had found at the Radcliffe residence, she texted him a photo. He confirmed her hunch.

Gibson Radcliffe. Playing chauffeur to two escaped killers.

“Whatever Clint’s planning, it can’t be anything good,” she told Oshiro after she collected her weapons and they returned to the Tahoe. This time she let Oshiro drive, pretended it was because she needed to stay on her phone to follow up with Andre, but she was pretty sure he saw through her deception.

While they drove, she updated Oshiro on Gibson Radcliffe and the evidence of his involvement with Clint’s escape.

“So Clint grooms Gibson, coerces him to help facilitate the escape?” Oshiro said.

“From what Andre says about the kid’s journal entries, doesn’t sound like it took a whole lot of convincing.”

“Clint uses the funds he has access to and covers the supplies, transpo, probably a place for them to lay low…”

“Them? You think he’s still with the others?”

“Why else would one of the brothers accompany Clint to the bank? My guess is the brothers were the muscle behind the escape, and they didn’t do it out of the goodness of their hearts. They were expecting to be paid. Also explains why Clint chose them to partner with. Paul has experience with IEDs, and Pete worked in the prison’s infirmary.”

“Where he stole the drugs they used on the guards.” Clint and the others had escaped while en route to the courthouse. Always the weakest link in any incarceration: prisoner transport to outside facilities.

“Yes. We’re still looking into the attorneys involved—but my bet’s on someone in the courthouse. Whoever scheduled all of their court appearances for the same day. Not my team’s brief, so I don’t have details. But Clint has absolutely no history of using explosives—certainly nothing along the lines of the plans your partner found at Gibson’s.” Oshiro tapped the steering wheel in thought.

“I’ll bet it was the younger brother, Paul, who taught him how to rig that little surprise package back in the bank.”

“A few firecrackers is nothing compared to what they could build with the supplies Gibson ordered. Which takes us to a whole other level. We’re not just talking bombs to be used to defend their hidey-hole or as a diversion.”

“I think you might need to get the ATF guys taking a real close look at what a guy with Paul Kroft’s background could build with the stuff Gibson obtained.”

“On it.” He steered with one hand as he grabbed his phone. A few minutes later he hung up after a conversation that was extremely one-sided with Oshiro doing the listening. “It’s not good. We’re talking some major damage and multiple devices.”

“What kind of damage? As much as the Boston Marathon?”

“More like Oklahoma City. If they use all of their supplies.” He blew his breath out. “I don’t get it. None of these guys have any indications of terroristic inclinations. They aren’t radicals. The Kroft brothers are hyper-violent meth heads always looking and failing to find a big score. And your guy, Caine, he’s a psycho-sexual sadist. What the hell are they doing playing with bombs? They should be out there running for the nearest sunny beach in a country without extradition. Or holing up in a nice, quiet farmhouse, waiting for things to die down.”

“Seems like they don’t want things to die down. They want to make some noise. A lot of it.”

“But why? And when and where?”

“Not to mention: how many people are going to die?” she finished for him.

“None. Not on my watch.”

“There’s only one place to start. The kid.”

He jerked his chin in agreement. “We need to put this Gibson kid and everything he’s touched under a microscope.” He dialed his phone once more. “I want to know where and who this kid’s been in contract with for every second of every day since he first reached out to Caine,” he ordered.

Oshiro listened, tensed, then said, “On our way.”

“What?”

“Someone just phoned in a bomb threat to the kid’s school.”

She glanced at the clock on the dash. “It’s real.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“No one calls in a fake threat at two-thirty on a Friday. School’s just getting ready to let out for the weekend. Defeats the purpose.”

He gave a small grunt that told her he’d already figured that out for himself. “That’s what worries me. We have no clue what’s really behind anything these guys are doing.”

MORGAN WHIRLED TO
face the threat but then stopped. She knew the man—boy, really. Gibson Radcliffe. How the hell? She slid her hand toward her knife. Gibson aimed the gun at Micah, but his dead-eyed stare and goofy grin were solely for Morgan.

“Think I don’t know what you’re thinking, sis?” He arched an eyebrow in disapproval. “Hands on the dash.”

Micah tensed, preparing to make a move. Morgan shook her head no, keeping his gaze as she raised her hands and planted them on the dash. Resentment flashed through Micah’s eyes, but he nodded and followed her lead. Probably because he remembered how she’d saved them before when they first met and were in trouble. Mostly because he trusted her. Trusting. Micah’s weakness. She hoped this time it wouldn’t get him killed.

“What do you want?” Micah asked. His voice didn’t sound like him, carried a touch of the wolf.

Gibson’s smile grew wider and weirder if that was possible. “Car parked at the edge of the lot, windows all steamed—did I interrupt something?”

This usually would have been when Morgan slit someone’s throat, but that was off the table, not when she had to protect Micah. She wasn’t used to that, having someone to protect. Cramped her style. Except that Micah wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for her. That thought brought with it an uncertain and unfamiliar twinge of something deep in her gut…guilt? Was this what guilt felt like?

Her self-analysis was cut short when Gibson fished a loop of cable wire from his pocket and handed it to Micah. “Put this around your neck.”

Before Morgan could stop him, Micah obeyed. The wire was a quarter inch thick, run through a loop to create a noose. Gibson yanked the cable tight—it made a zipping noise as it hummed through the loop—and pulled Micah back into his seat until his body was arched up and he was struggling to loosen the cable, now a garrote, from around his throat.

“Stop,” Morgan ordered. “I know who you are, and I know what you want.” Gibson stared at her, yanking the cable tighter, Micah made a small strangling noise as his face turned red and he fought to breathe. “Let him go, and I’ll give you what you want.”

Gibson pursed his lips in exaggerated thought then released the garrote enough for Micah to breathe. “He’s handy to have around. I think I’ll keep him. Make sure you behave yourself. Does he have a name?”

Every fiber of Morgan’s being wanted to slice that twisted grin from Gibson’s face then carve out a new smile for him, one that wrapped all the way around his neck. But she restrained herself—if she couldn’t control herself, no way would she be able to control the situation. She pulled in a breath. “Micah. His name is Micah.”

“Micah.” Gibson ran his fingers through Micah’s hair and patted his head as if he were a dog. Despite the garrote, Micah tensed, his hands tightening into fists. Morgan risked Gibson’s wrath, lowering one of her hands over Micah’s, trying to reassure him.

“We’re going to have some fun today.” Gibson’s voice turned sing-song as if he’d been rehearsing for this moment all his life. Maybe he actually was one of Clint’s sons, because he sounded eerily like Clint right now.

“First, a pretty necklace for the lady.” He handed Morgan her own wire noose. “Go on, put it on.”

As he spoke, he wrenched Micah’s tighter. Morgan complied. Gibson took the long ends of the cables in one hand, like reins, effectively controlling them in tandem. But in doing so, he released Micah, so Morgan was happy with that small gain.

“Now some nice bracelets.” He rummaged in a small backpack and brought out a handful of zip ties. “Morgan, wrists together, behind you. Micah, will you do the honors?”

She leaned forward and held her wrists up. Micah slid the plastic fastener over them and pulled gently, taking his time, his fingers caressing hers as if trying to impart some secret message.

“Tighter,” Gibson ordered.

Micah inched the ties the slightest bit tighter. He couldn’t know it, but it would actually be easier for Morgan to break free of them if they had no slack. As it was, they were just tight enough to restrain her and not tight enough for her to easily escape. She’d need to find a way to reach one of her barrettes—their steel fasteners could be used as shims on handcuffs or zip ties. But she couldn’t act until she had a few minutes away from Gibson’s scrutiny.

“Now, Micah, your turn. Tie your left wrist to the steering wheel, please.”

Morgan slumped back in her seat and watched as Micah obeyed, his movements jerky, uncertain. Despite three people breathing inside it, the car was growing clammy with chill, and her coat had slid off her lap when she moved to allow Micah to restrain her.

“Where’s Clint?” she asked, hoping to distract Gibson, keep his focus on her, not Micah.

“You think I’m going to deliver you straight to him? Is that what you want?” He searched her expression. “No. It’s not what you want, is it? But it’s what Clint wants.” He seemed puzzled by her reluctance to rejoin Clint. “Tell you what. I think we’re going to have some fun first. Show Clint what his little girl has become. Weak and pathetic. Not worthy.”

“But you are?” she guessed.

“More than you,” he snapped. He turned to search through his backpack, appearing to absentmindedly heave his weight against both garrotes, tightening them. Except there was nothing absentminded about it.

“Now…where is it?” He hummed a little tune, his hand jerking the wire cables in time with the music, Morgan and Micah were reduced to mere marionettes fighting for their next breath. Then he emerged with a small glass vial filled with cloudy colorless liquid. “Ah…here we go.”

He relaxed the wire cables. Morgan twisted her body to face Micah. She hated that he was here, going through this because of her. She needed him to know that she’d find a way out of this…but not right away. Not if that vial contained what she thought it did.

As she tried to force all of her feelings into an expression he could understand, Micah surprised her by giving her the most beautiful smile she’d ever seen. His lips barely moved at all, but his eyes—those gorgeous eyes that had first enchanted her—his eyes said it all. Vowed to fight, vowed to save her, vowed to die, if need be.

“No,” she uttered the word despite herself. “Micah, do as he says. Exactly as he says. Everything will be all right.”

Gibson popped his head between the two back seats, rolling his eyes first at Micah, then at Morgan, then back to Micah. “You two love birds up to something?”

“Micah has nothing to do with this.” One last attempt, futile as she knew it would be. Gibson may or may not have been Clint’s biological son, but he definitely had Clint’s nose for finding weakness in his victims. “Let him go, and I’ll do anything you want.”

“But if I keep him, you’ll do it anyway. Besides, I have a friend waiting, and he’s so very lonely. Been locked up without companionship for a long, long time. Might run into his brother as well, we’ll see.”

The other escaped convicts. She’d assumed Clint had either killed them or sent them on their own paths, fodder for the cops. If they were alive, and Clint wasn’t with them…there must be some leverage in there somewhere. All she needed was to find a bargaining chip to save Micah’s life.