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“I—no—I—” Mallory swallowed. “You're really serious.”

“Dead serious.”

“Why didn't Keith simply call the police?”

“He said Lucetti has a couple of cops on the payroll. He must have been afraid, not sure who was safe to talk to and who wasn't. Mrs. Christiani, Pete Lucetti heads one of the largest crime rings in Seattle. He's bad news—
real
bad news.”

Silence fell over them, such complete silence that Mallory could hear herself breathing. Her gaze dropped to the mustard stain on Mac Phearson's shirt. She hesitated. Christiani and Finn was one of the most prestigious law firms in Bellevue. Surely no one associated with the firm would be dressed so scruffily.

The man heaved another exasperated sigh. “I had a run-in with a kid toting a hot dog. I know I'm a mess, okay? My flight was late getting in. I went directly from the airport to coach baseball—changed into my sweats in the dugout. During break, I went up to the pay phone to call for my messages. After hearing that recording from Keith, I didn't take time for anything. My other clothes are in the car.”

“Do you have any identification? Something besides a business card? For twenty dollars, you can have one of those made up proclaiming that you're just about anything, a snake charmer, an underwater basket weaver, anything.”

An angry glint crept into his eyes and he reached for his wallet. When his hand skimmed the smooth hip of his sweatpants, he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Mrs. Christiani, if I were some nut case looking for an easy target, would I pick on a woman in a busy hospital? Didn't you hear what I said? An extremely dangerous man has threatened to kill you and your daughter. Do you think Keith would have left me that message if he hadn't believed you were in serious danger?”

“I've no proof that he even called you. Keith and I are very close. If he had been in trouble, he would have told me.”

Mac Phearson parted his lips to make a retort but was cut short by the sharp sound of footsteps as someone came up behind them. Both he and Mallory glanced at the direction of the sound to see a priest rounding the corner up the hall. The priest paused midstride, his gaze coming to rest on Mallory. With a thoughtful frown, he reached a hand under his jacket. Mac Phearson cursed under his breath, seized Mallory by the arm and pulled her between him and the wall. Leaning sideways, he punched the elevator button and then slid his hand under his windbreaker. When Mallory saw that he was pulling his gun, she shrank back.

The priest had drawn a square of paper from his pocket. He studied it a moment, then resumed his pace.

“I thought he'd recognized you and was going for his weapon,” Mac Phearson hissed. Hiding her from the other man's view, he whispered, “Don't scream. Please don't scream.”

Mallory wouldn't have dreamed of it. This man was clearly suffering from paranoia. He had his gun concealed between their bodies. If he accidentally pulled the trigger, the bullet would go straight through her right breast. She could feel the tension in him, his muscles coiled tightly, his breath coming in short, uneven rasps. She craned her neck toward the priest. The man looked completely harmless to her, just a priest making duty calls to sick parishioners. He had probably pulled the paper from his pocket to check a room number. Mallory watched him, willing him to look her way again. If only he would see what was happening and help her. To her dismay, he walked past, sparing her not a glance.

A heavy ache pooled in her lower abdomen, and she pressed her shaking knees together. Mac Phearson's features swam before her in a dark blur. Her brain kicked into low gear, registering everything in slow motion with superclarity: his breathing, the drumming of her own pulse, the beads of sweat popping out on her forehead. The chime signaled the elevator's arrival on their floor. The instant the doors slid open, Mac Phearson jerked her half off her feet into the cubicle, releasing her only long enough to holster his gun and hit the lobby button.

Mallory threw a panicked glance at the swiftly closing doors. There hadn't been time to run before Mac Phearson had grabbed her arm again. She stood there in frozen horror and tried desperately to think what to do. If she screamed, would she be heard? How well were elevators insulated? And suppose someone did hear her? Was she willing to jeopardize the lives of innocent people? This man couldn't be sane. He might open fire in the busy lobby.

He threw her a look that seemed to mirror her own feeling of terror. “Look, I'm sorry about this, but right now my first priority has to be getting you out of here in one piece. If that means I have to be a little heavy-handed, it's better than you getting killed.”

Hysteria closed her throat. She had read about this kind of thing occurring, but she had never dreamed it could happen to her.
Think. Don't give way to panic.
What was the best way to handle someone who had lost his grip on reality? Appearing calm was a must. Angering or frightening him could prove fatal, not just to her but to others.

She ran a cottony tongue over dry lips. Suddenly, insanely, she wanted a drink of water. Visions of her little girl's face swept through her mind.
Emily.
Mallory didn't want to die. Not yet. She had left too many things undone. She wanted to hug her daughter and tell her one last time how much she loved her. There were some dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. She hadn't finished weeding the violets yet, either. And who would take care of Keith?

Mac Phearson was watching the floor numbers flash on the panel above their heads. Without looking down at her, he gave her a perfunctory pat on the back, which she presumed was meant to comfort her. “With any luck, they're all upstairs, Mrs. Christiani. Maybe we'll make it out of here with no trouble.”

Mallory had no idea who
they
were. Pete Lucetti? The name sounded like something out of an old gangster movie; it had nothing to do with reality. Who was this man? And where was he taking her? She fixed her gaze on the left front panel of his jacket. Having the gun out of sight did little to comfort her.

“Where's your daughter?”

“Sh-she's staying with friends.”

“Do they live far from here?”

Mallory could only pray her face didn't betray her. “A long way.”

“How long has it been since you spoke with her? Since you knew for sure she was all right?”

“This morning.”

He threw her a sharp glance. “Did she attend school today?”

Surely he didn't know what school Emily attended. “Yes.”

“Your sitter takes her and picks her up, I take it?”

“She has kids who go there.”

“Does she keep a close eye on Emily?”

Mallory was startled. He knew her daughter's name? Of course, he could have learned it in a dozen different ways, not necessarily through an association with Keith. Indecision held her paralyzed. His gray eyes locked with hers, compelling her to answer him. “I—yes, she watches her closely.”

The floor panel light indicated that the elevator was approaching the lobby. Mac Phearson took a deep breath. When the elevator stopped and the doors opened, he looped an arm around her shoulders and propelled her forward into a short hall that opened into the lobby. The lean, hard ridges of his body pressed against her arm. She felt him grow tense, and her heartbeat accelerated.

What if he were telling the truth? As she watched his gaze dart suspiciously around the waiting area, she couldn't help wondering. He seemed as scared as she was, which meant he truly believed they were in terrible danger. Her thoughts flew to Emily again. Mac Phearson was either totally immersed in make-believe or on the level. Her skin prickled. Had someone really threatened to kill her and her daughter? Mac Phearson
had
reached for his wallet earlier, presumably to show her his ID. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that he
had
forgotten his wallet in his street pants, just as he had claimed. And there
had
been a priest in the ICU visiting Keith.

What if? She recalled the terror she'd seen in Keith's eyes, the feeling she'd had that he'd been trying desperately to tell her something.

They were halfway across the lobby. Time was ticking by, second by treacherous second. If she was going to scream and try to get away, it was now or never. The click of her shoes against the tile resounded inside her head as her captor led her through the milling people. She fastened her gaze on a toddler fleeing from his mother. If Mac Phearson was unbalanced, he might pull his weapon and fire indiscriminately. On the other hand, what if he was perfectly sane and telling the truth? What if there were killers in the hospital?
Now or never. Now or never
, her mind taunted. A few more feet and they would be out of the building.

Mallory couldn't be sure what it was that finally decided her. Perhaps it was the firm but somehow gentle pressure of Mac Phearson's grip on her arm. Or the way he walked, turned slightly toward her, as if he were trying to shield her. She only knew she couldn't risk being wrong. It was broad daylight, after all. There were bound to be people in the parking lot. If he was telling the truth, he had identification in the car. She would simply demand to see it before going anywhere with him.

A sea of parked automobiles stretched before them as they left the loading area. Mac Phearson never broke stride as they crossed the parking lot. His arm felt unnervingly strong vised around her shoulders. He was a tall man, heavily muscled and agile. If he wasn't who he claimed to be, she was in big trouble.
Just as far as the car.
If he didn't come up with identification then, she'd scream so loudly that people on the next block would hear.

He drew her closer to his side. “Lean into me and look down, Mrs. Christiani.”

“What for?”

“To hide your face.
Just do it.
”

Mallory almost refused, but the urgency in his voice compelled her. She dropped her chin to her chest and pressed her shoulder against his ribs.

He quickened his pace. “Be sure you don't look up.”

“Is there really someone out here?” Now that was a brilliant question. If he was lying, would he admit it?

“In a car to our left, two rows over. Three men. Listen to me and listen close. If I tell you to get down, I want you to drop right where you are. Understand? Don't try to run.”

Surely this wasn't an act. Fear inched up her spine.

“They may have a perfectly legitimate reason for sitting there. But it pays to be safe, and they look suspicious. If they have guns, I can't see them. My car's not far.” He fished in his jacket pocket for his keys. “Just a few more steps. You're doing great.”

He drew to a stop and reached across her to unlock the door of an old, blue Volvo. As he opened the door, he took hold of her elbow and shoved her forward, giving her no time to protest.

“Fasten your seat belt,” he ordered, as he slammed her door.

On the floorboard was an array of tools, including a hefty screwdriver and a tire iron. An investigator might use such things. On the other hand, so might a killer. Mallory reached for the door handle. She threw open the door, but before she could get out, Mac Phearson had climbed in on his side.

“What are you doing?” he snarled. “You don't seem to understand, lady. This isn't a game we're playing.”

He seized her arm, jerked her back into the automobile and leaned across her to slam the door. He glared at her as he fastened his own seat belt, then reached over to buckle hers. The clasp clicked with finality. Mallory dropped her head to avoid eye contact. What if she looked into his eyes and saw madness gleaming back at her? What if there weren't any hoodlums in the parking lot? What if the priest had been just that, a priest who had visited Keith by mistake?

The car engine leaped to life and Mallory leaped with it. Her head shot up and she fastened a terrified gaze on Mac Phearson's taut features. He threw an arm over the seat and craned his neck to see behind them as he backed the Volvo out of the parking space. Despite the mustard-stained sweat suit and tousled hair, he was an extremely attractive man. Were madmen good-looking? She remembered seeing the infamous Ted Bundy's photograph, remembered thinking how incredible it was that he'd murdered so many women. The police claimed he had convinced some of his victims that he was a police officer and coaxed them into his car. Like Mac Phearson had just coaxed her?

As the car surged forward, she turned to look back at the parking lot, not sure whether or not she wanted to see a carful of men pursuing them. Either way, she was in a mess. He was driving too fast and the slanting sun reflected off all the windshields. “May I see your ID now, Mr. Mac Phearson?” she asked as calmly as she could manage.

“Now?” He threw her an incredulous look. “It's there in the backseat, but I'd really rather you didn't undo your belt. As soon as we're someplace safe, I'll get it for you.”

Someplace safe? she thought. Safe for who? Him or her?

Chapter Two

For an endless moment, Mallory stared at Mac Phearson's profile, acutely aware that their car was picking up speed, heading west. Buildings flashed by. Air whished in around her door. She inched sideways in the seat to face him. He was too busy driving and checking his rearview mirror to notice her.

“I can't see anyone following us. Why should it hurt if I unfasten my seat belt?”

Distracted by the question, he glanced her way. “Give it a few minutes so I can be sure they aren't coming. Right now, ID is the
least
of our worries. Where's your daughter staying?”

Mallory gnawed the inside of her lip, a bad habit of hers when she was upset. His act was convincing, she had to admit, but there didn't appear to be any villain on the scene. “Mr. Mac Phearson, I want to see some ID.
Now.
”

He ignored her, his mouth pressed into a grim line.

Mallory unfastened her seat belt and turned as if to get out of the car. “Either you come up with some ID or I'm taking a quick exit.”

His hand shot out to grab the front of her jacket. “Damn, are you crazy? Don't you
dare
open that door.”

“Take your hand off me.”

“We're doing forty-five, in case you haven't noticed.” He checked his mirror again, then narrowed his eyes. With a curse, he released her and grabbed the wheel with both hands. “That's them. Hold on.”

He floored the gas pedal. She stared through the windshield at the heavy traffic, horrified, as he switched lanes and cut off the car behind them. Brakes squealed as he swung across an oncoming lane to reach the north 405 exit ramp.

“You're going to kill somebody!”

“I've got to make the exit.”

A blue Lincoln swerved into the guardrail to miss them. Mallory had a death grip on the dash. “We're going to crash!”

“They're on our tail.”

They? She couldn't tear her eyes from the brown Bronco that bore down on them. Its steel bumper and winch seemed as formidable as a tank. More brakes squealed. The Bronco skidded sideways and brought the exiting lane of traffic behind it to a quick halt, causing a chain reaction of fender benders. The Volvo careened onto the access road that merged with 405.

Once on the freeway, Mac Phearson darted the car in and out of lanes, driving far faster than was safe, to put several miles between them and Bellevue. “I've only gained us a couple of minutes' head start. They probably doubled back to the exit to follow us. We've got to switch over to southbound.”

“Across the divider?”

He flashed his blinker and forced his way over to the middle lane. “It's not a divider once we get down past the bridge, just a sloping ditch. Cops cut across there all the time.”

Mallory, unable to believe any of this was happening, saw the overhead bridge coming up fast. She didn't see how Mac Phearson could get over through all this traffic. They zoomed under the bridge and had to travel several more miles before he could manage to squeeze over.

She threw an arm up to shield her face when he finally gained the inside lane. The next second, she felt their tires lose traction on the gravel shoulder. The car bottomed out, bounced and was airborne. They landed with an ear-shattering clunk that jolted her so hard she bit her tongue. Pain exploded through the roof of her mouth. She clung desperately to the dash as the underbody of the Volvo grated its way up the incline to the southbound lanes.

When she felt smooth highway caressing the tires again, she noticed that the glove box had popped open. She reached to close it and froze. A manila envelope in the glove box had come open and spilled an array of glossy plastic squares. Washington drivers' licenses and ID cards, several of them, all with Mac Phearson's snapshot and other names.
Aliases?
She shut the glove box. She was in big trouble. This man didn't work for Christiani and Finn. He was either an undercover man or a crook, and right now, the latter seemed most likely. As yet, she hadn't seen anyone following them. And if no one was following them, everything he had told her was a lie.

Tiny beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. “I don't see them coming yet,” he said, “but even so, it'd be a good idea to get off this freeway. We'll be sitting ducks out here.”

Visualizing a lonely dirt road and a gun pressed to her temple, all she could think of was getting out of the car while there were still people around. Sudden inspiration hit her. “Pull over. I'm going to be sick. Oh, hurry. Pull over now.”

She clamped a hand to her mouth, gagged and bugged her eyes at him. He swerved into the parking lane and brought the car skidding to a stop. Throwing open the door, Mallory snatched up her purse and made her escape.

“Here they come!” he yelled just as she gained her feet.

Grabbing her arm, he spun her around and jerked her back into the car. She sprawled facedown on the seat as the car lurched forward again. She crooked an arm around his thigh to hold on, too shocked to scream. The door swung inward scraping her calves. When the car swerved back into traffic, all that kept her from spilling out was his hold on her.

“Get in!”

She didn't need to be told twice. With nothing but open air between her and the blur of road, sixty seemed much faster than usual. Scrambling for purchase, she clawed her way in.

“Shut the door.” He held her wrist in a steely grip. “I'll hold you.”

As she leaned out to reach for the door handle, she could only pray Mac Phearson didn't let go of her. Wind blasted her face and whipped her hair flat against her head. Her fingertips curled on the chrome.
Just one more inch.
She angled her body farther forward.

With the wind pushing against it, the door slammed shut so easily when she pulled that she was propelled backward against him. She felt his muscles tense under his jacket sleeve as he fought for control of the car.

“You okay?”

“No, I'm
not
okay.”

“Get that seat belt back on.”

She sat up and rammed the buckle together. “Where
are
they? You crazy idiot, you nearly got me killed.”

“They're coming up on our left.”

There
wasn't
any highway on their left, only a dividing strip. She looked back, not expecting to see anyone. Her heart skipped a beat. Sure enough, there came a cream-colored car, bouncing and swerving inside the ditch, gaining on them at an alarming rate. A man poked his head out the rear window. He held something black in his hands. She couldn't be seeing what she
thought
she was seeing. “They've got a gun!”

In grim silence, Mac Phearson inched up behind an old woman in an equally ancient Ford car.

“Step on it! Didn't you hear me? They've got a gun!”

“I can't step on it! We're bumper-to-bumper!”

“Then hit the ditch! You did it before. They're gaining.”

“It's too dangerous. I took it at an angle last time. Now I'd have to sidehill. We'd roll.”

The cream-colored car was within five car lengths. A rapid splat of bullets riddled the back of their car.

Mac Phearson checked his side mirror. “Hold on.”

Swerving to the left, he entered the emergency parking lane and floored the gas pedal. Twisting within the confines of her safety belt, she peered out the rear window. “They're shooting at us! They're actually
shooting
at us.”

His only response was a scowl. Mallory saw the pursuing car hit a chuckhole, do a nosedive and send up a spray of dirt. Their car gained several car lengths. Mac Phearson jerked the steering wheel hard to the right and smacked a green Honda vehicle broadside. The terrified driver slammed on his brakes, his tires grabbing pavement and spitting blue-black smoke. Mac Phearson took advantage of the open space and managed to move over two lanes. He swiped at his forehead with his sleeve and blinked trickles of sweat from his eyes. He looked as terrified as Mallory felt. “They're trying to follow us over.”

Hardly able to believe her own ears, Mallory heard herself say, “I—I could switch places and drive so you could shoot back.”

“That's an
Uzi
, lady, not a popgun.”

“Wh-what's an Uzi?”

“It puts out about a thousand rounds a minute,
that's
what.”

A thousand rounds a minute? Turning, she saw a flash of cream-colored paint in the whizzing traffic. “Who
are
they? Why are they doing this?”

“Lucetti's thugs is my guess. They haven't gotten close enough for me to get a make on any of them and I'd like to keep it that way.” He punctuated that statement with a screech of tires. “Scoot down.”

Mallory inched down just far enough to hide, but not so far she couldn't see as he took the exit. The Volvo rocked on two wheels around a corner. She saw a red light coming up fast and braced herself. She knew without asking that they were going to run it. As they hit the intersection, she opted for oblivion and closed her eyes. When nothing happened, she lifted her lashes.

He darted a glance her way. “What happened to your cheek?”

She touched her cheekbone and winced, remembering how she'd hit the edge of the seat. “Just a little bump. I'm fine.” Sliding up in the seat, she glanced through the back window. The cream-colored car was blocked in traffic. “Can we lose them?”

“We've got the advantage.”

“We do?”

His mouth quirked slightly at one corner. “It's called motivation.”

“I see your point.”

He turned left into a residential area and drove aimlessly for several minutes. Mallory couldn't take her eyes off the rear window even though she soon became convinced there was no longer a car following them. He reduced his speed to twenty-five.

“I think we've lost them,” he told her.

She sighed and swept her tangled mass of whiskey-colored hair back from her face. At the end of a cul-de-sac, he parked behind a center island of tall shrubs that would hide them from passersby on the intersecting street. To Mallory's right was a brown house with a lazy cocker spaniel sunning on the lawn. She wished they could go inside, lock all the doors and hide. “Why are we stopping? Is that wise? If my daughter's in danger, I want to go get her.”

“We have to stay out of sight for a while. Besides, I need to get my stomach back down where it belongs.” He leaned his head back against the rest and closed his eyes. His hands remained clenched on the steering wheel. “As for wise? If I were wise, lady, I wouldn't be here.”

Now that she knew he was telling the truth about Keith's message, Mallory was plagued with more questions. “Why, exactly,
are
you here then?”

“Keith's a good friend. He asked, I'm here.”

Bitterness laced the words. After several uncomfortably quiet minutes had dragged by, he released the catch on his seat belt and rose to his knees beside her. She turned to watch him sift through piles of assorted junk in the back of the car. She'd never seen such a collection. Boxes, baseball bats, rumpled clothes, a battered suitcase and various fast-food cartons. After a search that led him clear to the bottom of the pile, he lifted a white plastic case and a spray container.

“What's that?”

“First aid. For your scrapes.” He gestured to her legs.

She hadn't even noticed. “I'm fine. Please, can't we go get my daughter now?”

“I told you, we have to give them time to get off the scent. Might as well take advantage of it.” He crooked his right leg under himself and sat down, motioning her to turn sideways as he gave the can a shake. “Hand me a foot.”

Catching hold of her skirt to cinch it tight, she lifted her legs and swiveled on her bottom to put her feet on the seat. Her eyes widened when she saw she was minus a shoe. It must have fallen off when she was dangling from the car.

“No great loss. High heels spell nothing but trouble anyway. I'll get you something practical. No fashion shows where we're going.” He ripped a larger hole in her nylon and doused the back of her leg with cold spray. “Your ankle is pretty bruised.”

He made it sound as if he thought fashion was the be-all of her existence. Mallory shot him a glare, then leaned forward to assess the damage to her legs. “And just where are we going?”

“Eastern Washington. A cabin in the mountains. You and Emily will be safe there until I get to the bottom of this.”

Capping the spray can, he tossed it in a careless arc into the backseat junk pile. Her spine went ramrod straight when he pursed his lips and blew softly on her skin until the disinfectant dried. The play of muscle in his shoulders stretched the cloth of his jacket taut. His hands were gentle as he smoothed stick-on bandages over the worst of her scrapes. He'd obviously done this before. Perhaps he had children? He wasn't wearing a wedding ring, but that didn't always mean anything.

She watched his bent head, feeling suddenly ashamed of herself. Most men would have dumped her from the car and said good riddance when she'd faked being sick. “Mr. Mac Phearson, I—I didn't mean to call you names back there. I was just so scared, they popped out.”

“Names? Crazy idiot, you mean?” He raised his eyes to hers, his mouth twisting into a humorless grin. “I've been called worse, believe me.” He snapped the first-aid case shut and threw it over the seat. “You weren't really sick, were you?”

“When I saw those fake IDs, I thought—” Mallory broke off and licked her lips. “Well, I—”

His gaze flew to the glove box. A slight frown pleated his forehead. “I can't always go by my real name in my line of work.”

“Yes—well—investigators for Christiani and Finn don't usually go undercover. And if not undercover investigators, most people who use aliases are—”

“Crooks?” He grabbed his street pants from the pile of stuff on the back seat, fished for his wallet and tossed it in her lap. “Christiani and Finn isn't my only client, you know. In my line of work, I've even worn a chicken costume to catch a thieving employee at a fast-food joint. Believe it or not, if people know who I am, I don't always get the answers I need. I'm Bud Mac Phearson, just as I said. You almost got us both killed pulling that stunt back there.” When she didn't open the wallet, he snapped, “Go ahead and check me out. Blood type, political affiliations, licenses, permits. It's all in there.”