Stop at Nothing (16 page)

“Unfortunately, it has nothing to do with the move,” he explained. “The key witness in a case I was working has gone AWOL. My former partner is searching for him and has talked to the witness's attorney, but the attorney says he has no idea what happened to the guy.”

“And you have your doubts,” Abby finished for him.

He nodded. “It's not adding up. And there's more. I got a call from Tom on the drive here. He discovered that Curtis might've been in New Orleans around the time Emma was kidnapped. I'm going to check it out while I'm down there to see what I can find out about the picture you received.”

Abby gave a terse nod. “I'm going with you.”

Kyle shook his head. “No way.”

She sent a glance over her shoulder toward the cabin, making sure her sister and nephew were still inside and out of earshot. “He's my sister's husband. She might not love him anymore, but he's the father of her child. I owe it to her to bring his body home.”

Kyle sighed. “You're assuming that the body's still somewhere to be found, Abby. These people aren't amateurs.”

“Still,” she argued, “I want to be there. With you.”

His expression softened, and he leaned down to press a lingering kiss to her lips. “I'll be here tonight,” he reminded her, his lips brushing against hers as he spoke. “And I'd suggest we claim a bedroom on the opposite end of the house from your family.”

Abby shuddered with anticipation, her heart pounding as his lips claimed hers in a deep kiss. Her arms drifted up around his neck, her fingers spearing into his hair. “I want you right now,” she panted when the kiss ended. “My
God
, I want you.”

He chuckled, the sound deep and sultry. “Want to sneak away to the woods?”

She giggled. “God, yes!” But then she sighed and forced herself to take a step back and put a little distance between them. “But we should probably get the groceries inside before dark. Give me a hand?”

She started to turn away, but he grasped her hand and jerked her back to him with a laugh. The next thing she knew, he was pressing her back against the side of the SUV and slipping his hand inside her waistband.

She gasped when his fingertip made contact with the nub of her sex, but the gasp died on a moan. “That's not what I meant by ‘give me a hand,'” she said, sighing. But then coming to her senses, she cast a frantic glance behind her toward the cabin. “Kyle, what if they see?”

He slid his hand down a little further, slipping a finger inside her. Her hands reflexively came up to grip his biceps, squeezing as he caressed her. “They can't,” he assured her, his own voice breathless. “The car's hiding us.”

Abby let her head fall back a little, wanting desperately to give in to the pleasure he elicited with every slow, sensual thrust of his finger. But her fear of being seen made her come to her senses and grasp his wrist. “Not here.”

He withdrew his hand, then bent and kissed the side of her throat, nipping at the juncture between her neck and shoulder. “Where?”

Abby thought frantically.
Where, where, where…
“The boathouse.”

“Lead the way,” he said with a sweep of his arm.

Abby gave him an arch look. “Groceries first,” she insisted. “Then I'll give you the grand tour of the property.”

After unloading the groceries in record time, Abby let Emma know she was taking Kyle on a tour of the property and might be gone for a little while. The look Emma gave her told Abby her sister knew there was more to the little walk than just a check of the perimeter, which she confirmed by making Tyler stay at the cabin.

Abby had to force herself to stroll hand in hand with Kyle toward the path that led away from the house and down to the boathouse near the private lake a couple dozen yards away. Feeling like a guilty teenager whose elder sister might be watching disapprovingly from the window, Abby giggled.

“My God,” she said, laughing. “What's wrong with us? Are we really sneaking off to make out? We're adults, for crying out loud.”

Kyle draped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close, and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Sorry. I've always had a hard time keeping my hands to myself where you're concerned.”

She sent a flirty sidelong glance his way. “Hey, I didn't say I minded that. I just… I don't know. I guess I feel guilty with Emma back at the house, wondering what the hell has happened to her husband, having just come through being kidnapped and facing…God knows what next.” She halted and turned toward him, grateful that his arms came around her and pulled her close. “I just feel guilty about being happy.”

Kyle pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Don't ever feel guilty about that. Your sister wouldn't want you to, would she?”

Abby hardly knew. Some days she felt like she barely knew Emma anymore. Their lives had taken such different paths, and Abby had resented what she'd perceived as Emma's life of ease and luxury while she'd been left to deal with the hard stuff—like their mother's drama. She'd never stopped to think that Emma was dealing with so much drama of her own.

“I should've been there for her more,” Abby confessed. “I didn't make an effort to understand what she was going through with Curtis. I just thought she was being flighty and selfish all these years and ignoring Tyler. I think she'd just shut down emotionally. I should've recognized that. I should've helped her through it instead of just getting pissed. I should've—”

Kyle cut her off with a brief kiss. When she blinked up at him, he grinned. “Now that I have your attention, mind if I weigh in on this?”

She shrugged. “Guess not.”

“I don't think there's any point in regretting what you
didn't
do,” he told her. “There's nothing that you can do about that. But you can help your sister
now
. You can be there for her
now
. You're a good woman, Abby. You have one of the most generous, loving hearts of anyone I've ever known.”

She warmed at the compliment and could feel her cheeks flushing. But she couldn't help wondering if he'd feel the same when she finally answered his question about why she'd pushed him away. “Kyle,” she began, “there's something I need to tell you.”

He sighed. “There's something I need to tell you too.”

She studied his expression, not liking the sudden frown that creased his brow. Her stomach sank. “You want to go first?”

He took her hand and started down the path again. “I'd rather not talk about it at all, honestly.”

She squeezed his hand. “If you're not ready to talk about whatever it is, Kyle, that's okay. It can wait. I'm not going anywhere.”

He sent a grateful smile her way. “You know, you say something like that and it just makes me want to kiss you again. And it really doesn't help me keep my hands off you.”

She laughed. “Well then, I guess it's a good thing we're almost to the boathouse.”

Fielding's phone buzzed, alerting him that a call was coming in. He didn't bother trying to suppress his smug grin when he saw it was from his former employer. He glanced around the crowded truck stop where he'd decided to grab some dinner on his way to his next job. Assured that no one was taking any notice of him, he took a sip of his water and swallowed the chicken potpie in his mouth before picking up the phone.

“You son of a bitch,” Mr. Smith hissed without preamble. “What the hell do you think you're doing sending me a picture of a goddamn corpse? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I think I'm the guy who has you by the balls,” Fielding said, smirking.

“I hired you for a very specific job,” Smith snapped. “I didn't tell you to take out another of my
employees
.”

Fielding stabbed a huge chunk of chicken with his fork. “Consider this one a freebie.”

“You listen to me, you motherfu—”

“I think you're probably forgetting a few things,” Fielding interrupted around a mouthful of chicken. “The first one being that you don't call the shots here, you self-righteous prick. I could put a bullet between your eyes while you're taking your morning shit, and you'd never know what hit you. So don't push me.”

There was a slight pause before Mr. Smith said in a slightly less confrontational tone, “I've paid your fee. Your association with Deputy Morrow is at an end.”

“Not when you send assassins to do your dirty work like the spineless coward that you are,” Fielding told him, leisurely taking another bite of his potpie. As far as truck-stop cuisine went, it was really quite good. “It's not very sporting of you.”

“
Sporting?
” Smith sputtered. “What the fuck do you care?”

“It's a waste,” Fielding said with a shrug. “A waste of a lovely woman, of a great deal of talent. I did my homework on her before I took this job. You're an asshole for wanting to take her out.”

“She knows things,” Smith pointed out, clearly speaking through clenched teeth. “I can't have her spilling her guts about what she knows.”

Fielding almost laughed. This guy was such a moron. Mr. Smith might've had people taken out in the past, but he obviously didn't know shit about how to keep information from leaking. If the idiot had wanted to ensure the data didn't get out, he should've paid Fielding another two million to take Abby out, not just steal the data. It would've been more efficient, and Mr. Smith wouldn't have had to contract with the inept idiot Fielding had eliminated.

“You really think she hasn't already told people what she knows?” Fielding asked, not caring that he sounded like a condescending dick. “She's a cop. She probably has both the locals
and
the feds on your ass as we speak.”

There was another pause and this time he could hear the trepidation in Mr. Smith's voice. “But she has no proof.”

Jesus. Do I seriously have to explain everything to this dickwad?

“Not at the moment, but do you really think you've covered your tracks completely?
Really
?” When the guy didn't respond, Fielding added, “The kind of shit you're doing leaves a trail. If it's not Deputy Morrow—or her boyfriend—who brings you down, it'll be someone else.”

“Boyfriend?” Smith echoed, totally missing the point. “What boyfriend?”

“I'm sure you'll meet him soon enough,” Fielding taunted.

“I want them taken out, Fielding,” Smith barked. “All of them—Emma Maxwell, Abigail Morrow,
and
whoever she's fucking. And if there's anyone else who knows anything, kill them too.”

“What about the kid?” Fielding asked. “He's glued to his mom's hip right now.”

“Whatever's necessary.”

Fielding had thrown out the kid for consideration hoping the cold-hearted bastard would realize what he was asking, but apparently the guy wasn't above killing a child. Yeah, Fielding had read Deputy Morrow's reports on the flash drive, having run the encryption key she'd sent him. He'd gotten curious… What could he say? Considering what Mr. Smith was up to, the kind of heinous shit he was into, Fielding shouldn't have been surprised by what he was asking now. His eyes narrowed as if the son of a bitch was sitting across from him. “That kind of a job isn't cheap.”

“Name your price.”

Fielding did what he did for money. It was that simple. He didn't give a shit about any of the reasons he was hired by spineless asshats who were too afraid of getting their own hands bloody. But there were days when he would rather take one of
them
out instead and thin the herd by ridding the world of a worthless piece of shit. This was one of those days.

“Fifteen million,” he said, throwing out a number he didn't figure Mr. Smith would be willing to pay. He'd balked at Fielding's million-dollar fee for kidnapping Emma Maxwell and extorting data from her sister.

“Done.” There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. “I want it taken care of without delay.”

“I have another job,” Fielding replied, shocked that the guy was willing to pay what he'd asked. “I'm headed there now.”

“I don't give a shit!” Smith spat. “I'm paying you fifteen million dollars. You can cancel the other job.”

Fielding put another bite of his dinner in his mouth, considering the offer before him, but the food suddenly tasted like ashes. He pushed his plate back, no longer interested in eating. Fifteen million was nothing to sneeze at. He could live off that for quite a while, not have to take another job for years.

“And if I say no?” Fielding prompted.

“Then someone else will benefit from the substantial amount of money on the table.”

Shit.

Fielding wasn't crazy about either of the options before him. He could take the job—and the money—but he'd have to murder several innocent people, including a freaking
kid
who had nothing to do with any of this. Or he could walk away and allow someone else to take the cash, and Deputy Morrow and her family would be just as dead.

But that wasn't his only option. There was another one…

“Fine,” Fielding said. “But I want the money up front.”

Mr. Smith laughed. “Are you insane? Why in the hell would I agree to that? I'm no idiot.”

Fielding grunted. “Yeah, well, neither am I. You balked when I asked for the cash for the first job. And you mean to tell me that fifteen million is doable?”

“I'm motivated.”

“Motivation doesn't have a cash value,” Fielding reminded him. “You give me the money up front or I walk. And I give Deputy Morrow a call to let her know what you're up to.”

There was a mumbled string of curses on the other end. Fielding waited patiently, absently drumming his fingertips on the orange Formica tabletop as his employer considered the proposal.

Finally, he heard a heavy sigh. “Fine. I'll pay you up front. But I want them dead within forty-eight hours. Is that clear? I want them all dead. Not one person who knows about this is to be left living. Do you understand?”

Fielding would've loved to reach through the phone and wring the guy's goddamn neck. “Yeah. I'll text you the account information where you can deposit the funds.”

“But…I'm not making a drop like before?”

“Not for an amount this high,” Fielding explained. “This is the kind of sum that makes guys like you do something stupid—like double-cross me. Or try to kill me at the drop-off.”

Fielding could hear the guy gulp on the other end and knew he'd guessed pretty accurately.

“I want the money deposited tomorrow or the deal's off.”

He hung up before Mr. Smith could respond and immediately texted him the information for one of his foreign bank accounts that was registered under a dummy corporation and layers and layers of fake identities.

With that taken care of, Fielding brought up the photo of the dead assassin that he'd sent to his employer and attached it to another text message.

He hit Send and dropped the phone into the pocket of his jacket. Then he dropped a hundred-dollar bill on the table to cover his dinner, along with a hefty tip for the bleached-blond waitress who reeked of cigarette smoke. It was a risk—she might actually remember him for a tip like that. But it was one he was willing to take. Soon it wouldn't matter. He'd be taking an extended vacation in the Caymans by the end of the week.