Читать книгу Two Souls Hollow - Пола Грейвс - Страница 11
Оглавление“Someone is what?”
Next to Ginny, Danny stirred in his sleep, making a low, groaning noise as the movement apparently pulled at the stitches in his side. She got up and moved toward the door, straining to hear Anson’s whispered response.
“Someone’s breaking into your house. I’m in your bedroom and I don’t think I can make it to the back door without drawing their attention.”
“Get off the phone with me and call 9-1-1.”
“I’m holding at least five ounces of what is almost certainly an illegal drug. The cops will want to know why.”
She glanced back at Danny, scowling. Damn it. “There’s no great place to hide there. It’s not a big house.”
“I’m aware of that,” he muttered. “No attic? Maybe there’s a trapdoor in the top of your closet?”
“There’s an attic, but it’s little more than a crawl space. And the trapdoor is out in the hall.”
“Yeah, that won’t work.”
“The windows in my room are painted shut, but there’s a window that opens in the bathroom. It’s the next room down across from my bedroom. Do you think you can get there?”
“Not sure,” he admitted. “Give me a sec.” She heard the muffled sound of breathing, the rustle of fabric against the microphone. He must have the phone pressed against his shirt, she guessed, frustrated by trying to figure out what was going on with nothing but her ears to work with.
A moment later, he whispered into the phone again. “I’m in the bathroom. I’ve closed and locked the door, but I’m not sure if they heard me. I may not have a lot of time.”
“They?” she asked softly, her heart in her throat.
“At least two. I heard them talking when I crossed the hall.”
Damn it. The window in the bathroom might open, but it wasn’t quiet about it. “Anson, the bathroom window creaks when you open it. Kind of loudly. They’ll hear you.”
He muttered a soft profanity. “Okay, any other ideas?”
She pressed her forehead against the hospital room door, feeling like an idiot. She should have thought about the noise before she ran him into the bathroom with no way to escape. “Flush the drugs and call 9-1-1,” she said. “Then get in the tub and back up closest to the faucets. There’s not a good angle to that part of the tub through the door, so even if they start shooting, they’re not going to hit you.”
“That lock isn’t going to withstand a couple of good kicks.”
“I don’t know!” Her voice rose, and once again Danny stirred in the hospital bed. “I don’t know,” she repeated in a hushed tone. “I don’t know what you should do.”
“Yes, you do,” he said a second later, his voice a low growl. “Call Quinn.”
“At this hour?”
“Yes, at this hour. You have anything to write with?”
She looked around stupidly for a moment, her mind reeling. Then she saw her purse and rushed over to it, digging in one of the pockets for a notepad she kept there. “Okay.”
He rattled off a phone number. “That’s Quinn’s personal cell. Tell him where I am. Tell him there’s trouble and I need assistance immediately. And don’t worry if he snarls at you. He always snarls when you call at this time of night.”
That was reassuring. “Okay, got it. Give me five minutes, then call me back.”
“Might be a little busy.”
“Call me back if you can,” she insisted, her pulse thudding heavily in her throat. “Please.”
“Call Quinn,” he said quickly and hung up.
She punched in the number he’d given her, her hands shaking. Lifting the phone to her ear, she slumped in the recliner beside Danny’s bed and waited for someone to answer.
It took four rings before a slow, drawling voice answered. “Marbury Motors twenty-four-hour hotline.”
Had she dialed the wrong number? “Um, is Mr. Quinn there?”
For a second, there was nothing but silence. Then she heard the familiar rumble of Alexander Quinn’s voice. “Where did you get this number, Ms. Coltrane?”
“Anson Daughtry,” she answered, nearly fainting with relief. “He’s in trouble.”
* * *
THE WHITE POWDER spread across the toilet water and began to dissolve more quickly than Anson had expected. He’d figured if it were cocaine, as he suspected, it might be cut with something that would make it harder for the powder to dissolve, but what he was looking at was apparently high-grade coke. Only a small amount of residue remained in the bottom of the toilet bowl after he emptied the bag into the bowl.
On the chance that the men he could hear moving around outside the bathroom door decided to kick down the door before Quinn could send reinforcements, Anson climbed into the built-in tub as Ginny had suggested.
He’d barely flattened himself to the wall under the shower faucet when he heard the doorknob rattle.
“Locked,” he heard a male voice mutter. A second voice answered with a vulgar epithet.
“We’ll come back to it,” the first voice said, and Anson heard footsteps moving away from the bathroom door.
He closed his eyes and released a long, quiet breath as he pulled the phone from his pocket and checked the time. Five minutes had come and gone. He hadn’t actually promised Ginny he’d call, but the thought of her sitting there worrying about him on top of all the stress already pressing down on her was more than he could stand.
He dialed her number. She answered on the first ring. “Anson?”
“Did you get Quinn?” he whispered.
“Yes. He said to tell you he was on the way with reinforcements.”
Anson laid his head back against the tub wall. “Thank you. Did he give you any trouble?”
“You forgot to tell me there was some sort of code involved. I thought he was going to hang up on me.”
“Sorry.” He’d forgotten about the code himself. “How’s Danny? Still hanging in there okay?”
She was silent for a long moment before she finally spoke. “You’re worrying about Danny at a time like this?”
“Just trying to distract myself from the men wandering around outside the bathroom, biding their time before they decide to bust down the door and shoot my trouble-prone ass.”
“Danny’s fine,” she answered tightly. “Please don’t let anybody shoot you, okay?”
“Worried about me?”
“Thinking about how hard it is to get blood out of tile grout,” she answered bluntly.
He bit back surprised laughter. “You’re a hard-hearted woman.”
“It’s hard keeping a nice house, working as many hours as I do.” Her voice softened. “And I’m worried about you.”
“They’re leaving the bathroom for later,” he told her. “I don’t think they suspect yet that anyone is here.”
“What if they see your car?”
“Maybe they’ll think it’s Danny’s.”
“Danny doesn’t have a car. His license got suspended last year for a DUI. He’s not allowed to drive. Everybody who knows him knows that. He sold his car to pay the fines.”
Good God, Anson thought. Ginny was either a saint or a fool to put up with a brother like that. “If they start to get serious about coming in here, I’m going out the window,” he told her. “I think I’ll have enough of a head start to beat them outside, but I’m not sure I can get to my car.”
“The woods are deep. Head east and you’ll hit the main highway back to Purgatory.”
A moment later, he heard the doorknob rattle again. His cue, he thought. “I’m going out the window.”
“Be careful!” Her voice rang with worry.
He hung up, shoved his phone into his pocket and climbed out of the tub, not bothering with stealth. He flipped the lock and gave the window a hard upward shove. It slid open with a loud creak, making him wince.
Climbing onto the toilet seat, he pushed himself out the window headfirst, twisting as he went. He hit hard on the ground below, landing on his knees. A sharp rock dug into the flesh of his right shin, eliciting a soft curse. Then he was up and running, ignoring the pains shooting through his battered body like bolts of lightning racing across a stormy sky.
As he neared the corner of the house, he heard the back door opening, the screen door creaking.
Reversing direction, he bolted toward the woods, hoping he was heading east. He heard a bark of gunfire behind him, but the bullet thudded into a tree several feet away. Still, he zigzagged as he ran, not wanting to present an easy target.
Suddenly, he heard the unmistakable click of a rifle bolt being shoved into position. He froze in place, his heart rattling wildly in his chest.
“Daughtry.”
He turned slowly and found himself looking at a tall, black-clad figure holding a large, terrifying-looking rifle. It took him a moment to look beyond the rifle barrel to see familiar eyes glittering in the waning moonlight.
“Brand,” he breathed, his knees shaky as he recognized one of Quinn’s top agents.
“What’s the situation?” Adam Brand asked, sounding like the FBI agent he used to be.
“I was getting some clothes for Ginny Coltrane—long story,” he added at the sight of Brand’s quirked eyebrows. “While I was there, I heard someone break into the house through the front windows. I was on the phone with Ginny and had her call Quinn.”
Brand nodded, his eyes narrowing. “Why Quinn and not the police?”
Yeah, Anson thought, suddenly feeling stupid. Why Quinn and not the police, again? Oh, yeah, because you dumped several ounces of illegal coke down the toilet and didn’t want the cops to find out.
“I didn’t want the local yokels to mistake me for one of the intruders,” he answered, hoping that would be answer enough.
“My wife is one of the local yokels,” Brand said bluntly.
Well, hell. So she is. “Not her jurisdiction, though.”
“I wouldn’t use that excuse with Dennison,” Brand warned, motioning for Anson to follow him deeper into the woods. “This is his fiancée’s jurisdiction.”
“Right.” What was it about The Gates agents and their fetish for women in uniform, anyway? “Is there a team going into the house?”
“Not my assignment,” Brand said, starting to pull ahead. Grimacing against the lingering ache in his battered limbs, Anson hurried to catch up.
* * *
“YOU’LL HAVE TO take stock to tell us if anything is missing.” Alexander Quinn’s voice was a reassuring rumble on the other end of the call. “The intruders were gone when the team I sent entered the house. I guess Daughtry spooked them and they left.”
Ginny leaned her head back against the recliner, the adrenaline that had kept her going for the past few hours starting to drain, leaving only bone-deep weariness in its wake. “And Anson’s okay?”
“He says he’s fine.” Quinn’s voice dipped lower. “He looks like hell, though. I understand he took a beating tonight?”
She closed her eyes, remembering the sight of Anson’s battered face. “He took a beating for my brother and me.”
“He also tried to hide evidence for you,” Quinn said flatly.
“It was my idea,” she said. “I asked him to do it.”
“I’m not judging,” Quinn said in a tone that suggested otherwise. “I didn’t realize you and Daughtry were close.”
Whoa, she thought. Quinn made it sound like— “We’re not really close. He was just kind enough to help me out tonight.”
“Took a beating, hid evidence, dodged bullets—”
She sat up straight. “Bullets? He dodged bullets?”
“Did you think you were dealing with jaywalkers?”
“I don’t know who I’m dealing with,” she admitted, feeling sick. “Or why I’m dealing with them.”
“You’re a smart woman. Hazard a guess.” Quinn hung up before she could respond.
She hung up the phone and turned to look at Danny sleeping soundly in the hospital bed beside her. She’d thought things were bad enough when all she was dealing with was alcohol. At least alcohol was legal.
But drugs, too?
There was a light knock on the door. She looked up, expecting the night nurse. Instead, it was Anson who entered the room, carrying Danny’s gym bag.
“What are you doing back here?” she asked. “You should be home in bed.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” He picked up the extra chair and set it down next to the recliner. Dropping into the seat, he turned to look at her. “Brought y’all a change of clothes. And I figured while I was here, I’d spell you so you could get some rest.”
“Like I could sleep.”
“You should try. The next three days are going to be long.”
She knew he was right, but Quinn’s call had reignited her adrenaline flow. “Quinn said the intruders shot at you.”
“They missed me,” he said lightly, but he couldn’t hide the tense set of his broad shoulders or the knotting muscles in his jaw.
“You should never have been a target. Not for Danny and me.” She shook her head, guilt swamping her. “Go home. This isn’t your problem.”
“They beat me up and shot at me. It’s my problem now.”
“Not if you go home and forget about it. You have enough to worry about, with the suspension and trying to clear your name.”
Anson’s facial expression shifted a little, though she couldn’t quite make out what emotion passed across his features before he lifted his calm gaze to meet hers. His dark eyes were mirrors, reflecting back only her own taut expression of worry. “I’ve just about exhausted all the ideas I had for proving I’m not leaking agency secrets. I could use the distraction.”
“Dodging bullets isn’t a distraction.”
“Dodging is overstating things. The guy was a lousy shot.”
“Don’t joke about it! Do you know how horrible I would feel if something happened to you because you were trying to help me?”
He covered her hand with his, his fingers warm and strong. “It didn’t. I’m fine.”
She couldn’t stop herself from turning her palm up to clasp his hand. “Quinn knows you were trying to destroy the drugs.”
“Yeah. I didn’t get a chance to flush before he and the others got to the house.” He looked down at their clasped hands, his expression softening. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t apologize. I should never have put you in that position.”
“It got flushed, in the end. And Quinn took the bag with him. I think he’s planning to have the lab at The Gates test it so you’ll know what you’re dealing with.”
She let go of his hand, wrapping her arms around her aching stomach. “There’s no way he’s going to want me to come back to The Gates after this.”
“Of course he will.”
He sounded awfully confident for someone who was on administrative leave himself, she thought. “I don’t even know how to deal with Danny’s drinking. If he’s doing drugs now, too—”
“Yeah, about that.” Anson leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked down at the hospital room’s drab tile floor, his jaw muscles working for a few seconds before he spoke again. “I talked to our drug-interdiction expert at The Gates, Caleb Cooper.”
She tried to match the name to a face. Cooper was a relatively new hire, wasn’t he? Rusty-haired, freckled, laughed a lot. “I didn’t realize we had a drug-interdiction expert.”
“Quinn thought it would be prudent to have someone on staff who had some experience with the drug trade. Cooper worked at the Birmingham Police Department on their drug-interdiction task force before he hired on with The Gates. Anyway, he said that the amount of drugs I flushed wasn’t likely to be someone’s personal stash. There was too much.”
“How much was there?”
“Over a hundred grams. Probably more.”
She closed her eyes. She certainly wasn’t an expert on illegal drugs, but that many grams sounded like something a whole lot worse than a drug problem. “Cooper thinks Danny is dealing?”
“Maybe dealing. Maybe transporting. Someone could be using him as their mule.”
“He doesn’t even have a car. How’s he supposed to be any sort of drug transporter?”
“I think that’s a question we need to ask Danny when he’s sober and awake enough to answer.” Anson turned his head to look at her. “Do you think he’ll tell you the truth?”
She honestly didn’t know. She and Danny had always been close, had built a relationship of mutual support thanks to an absent father—or fathers—and an irresponsible, undependable mother. But their mother’s death had hit them both hard, and in some ways, Danny had grown away from her afterward. He’d hid his drinking habit for months. And she hadn’t had any inkling that he was mixed up in drugs.
“We can worry about that tomorrow.” Anson’s tone was so gentle it brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them away, angry at herself for the sign of weakness. She couldn’t afford to be soft anymore. She couldn’t afford vulnerability, not if she was going to have to fight for Danny’s life.
“You should go home,” she said, lifting her chin and making herself meet the concern in his dark eyes. “I’m fine.”
“I know you’re fine. And I’m not going home, but if you want me to make myself scarce, I can go down the hall to wait.” He started to get up.
She caught his hand. “Stay.”
He sat again, holding on to her hand. “It’s okay to need a little help.”
She tugged her hand away, softening the retreat with a smile. “Well, if you’re sticking around, don’t suppose you have a deck of cards on you?”
“As a matter of fact—” He reached into the duffel bag and pulled out a familiar-looking box. “I found it in your bedroom when I finished packing clothes for you. It looked well-worn, so I figured you might like to have something to pass the time.” He grinned at her as he handed over the cards. The expression carved deep, sexy lines into his lean face and she had to drag her gaze away before she started swooning like a groupie at a rock concert.
She closed her hands around the box of cards. “Thank you.”
“We could play strip poker.”
She slanted a look at him. The wicked gleam in his eyes sent a little earthquake through her insides. “I sent you to bring me more clothes, not strip me of the ones I’m wearing.”
“As exciting as that sounds, I’m a terrible cardplayer. I’d be down to my skivvies in no time.”
“As exciting as that sounds,” she countered with a reluctant grin, “my game is Solitaire.”
He made a face, clapping his hand to his heart. “Ouch.”
“Although—ever played Slapjack?”
He arched an eyebrow at her. “You have a violent streak, do you?”
“Purgatory Elementary School Slapjack champion, five years running.” She opened the box of cards and pulled out the deck. Shuffling the cards with the ease that came from years of practice, she watched Anson’s face for his reaction.
He watched her fingers fly, a hint of surprised admiration in his expression. “You sure you’re not a cardsharp? ’Cause I’m not ashamed of my body if you want to rethink the strip poker—”
Before she could come up with a suitably smart-ass reply, her cell phone rang. She pulled it from her jeans pocket and looked at the display. The caller’s identity was blocked, just as it had been when Quinn had called her earlier.
“Quinn?” Anson asked.
“Probably.” She answered. “Hello?”
The voice on the other line was unfamiliar and as hard as mountain granite. “When your brother sobers up, give him a message for me.”
“Who is this?” Her voice came out low and strangled. Anson’s eyes snapped up to meet hers, his expression instantly alert.
“Tell your brother he’s a dead man.”
“Wait—”
But the line had gone dead.
