Читать книгу Guarding Grace - Rebecca York - Страница 11

Mosley went rigid. Brady yanked him off of Grace, tucked the gun into the waistband of his own slacks and rolled the man to his back. A bullet hole marred the upper arm of his gray sports jacket. When Brady pulled aside the guy’s coat, he saw that a bloodstain had spread across the fabric of his dress shirt. But it was seeping, not pumping from an artery.

Grace pushed herself up off the floor, saw the blood and gasped. “The gun … We.” She gulped. “I didn’t mean to hit him! I was just trying to keep him from shooting me.”

“It’s just a flesh wound,” Brady answered, wondering if it was true.

Grace’s eyes had taken on a glazed look. “I hit him.”

The security guy stared at her. “You bitch.”

Working methodically, Brady reached for the handcuffs clipped to the back of the man’s slacks and cuffed his wrists through the wooden bed frame.

Then he dashed back down the hall. Kessler looked dazed, but he was sitting up and fumbling for the weapon that he’d dropped when he went down.

“No, you don’t.” Brady grabbed his gun arm and twisted. The man yelped.

“I have your gun. Just don’t do anything stupid, and we’ll all be okay,” he ordered. Raising his voice, he called to Grace, “Get in here.”

When she didn’t appear, he called her again—more sharply.

She came around the corner of the hall, walking like a drunken sailor, and he knew she was still reacting to the scene with Mosley. And reacting to the knowledge that the whole situation was spinning out of control very quickly.

Did that mean she really was innocent? Regardless, he had to keep her functioning so they could get out of here—because now he was in this as deeply as she.

“His getting shot wasn’t your fault,” he bit out. “You were fighting for the gun, and it went off.”

“In court, that will sound like resisting arrest,” she answered, then made a strangled sound when she saw the blood dripping from the other man’s head onto the floor.

“Yeah, me too,” he muttered. “And they’re not cops.”

“But they can get us both for assault.”

“Maybe they won’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“Depends on who they really are.” He looked at the man on the floor. “Head wounds bleed like a son of a bitch, so it looks worse than it is. Cover him while I make sure he’s not going anywhere.”

She held the gun in a two-handed grip while he got the guy’s cuffs, then helped Kessler to his feet and led him down the hall, where he secured him to the radiator pipe in his office The security guy glared at him. “You’re doing something pretty stupid here. She’s in this up to her eyeballs.” “How do you know?” “She was there.”

“But that doesn’t make her guilty of anything. She could have been at the wrong place at the wrong time.” “You her lawyer?”

“Something like that. I’ll worry about legalities later,” he tossed off as he began grabbing items from his desk.

When he was finished, he turned back toward Kessler. “Did Wickers send you?”

Kessler pressed his lips together.

“For what it’s worth, I know Wickers is trying to cover up what really happened.” Turning to Grace, he said, “Wait for me in the living room.”

She nodded, and he hurried back down the hall. The bloodstain on Mosley’s sleeve wasn’t much worse, but Brady stopped to grab a tie and make a tourniquet.

The man winced but said nothing.

Returning to Grace, Brady saw she still looked dazed and sounded alarmed when she asked, “What are we going to do?”

“Get out of here.”

When she didn’t move, he grabbed her arm and hustled her out of the apartment.

She seemed to come back to herself as they hurried down the hall. “Sorry you got caught in the middle of something nasty,” she murmured.

“We’ll figure it out,” he answered, determined to find out what was really going on.

IAN WICKERS SCRUBBED a hand over his face. It felt as if he’d been up for a week of Sundays. In reality, he was still within his normal workday. Normal. Yeah, sure.

He bent to the preliminary autopsy report that the DC Police Department had rushed through the system, given the celebrity of the dead man. To Wicker’s relief, it confirmed that John Ridgeway had died of a heart attack. At least he wouldn’t get caught in a lie over that.

It also listed the drugs in the man’s system, with a notation that more might be added to the list after more extensive tests. He recognized them all except one, sildenafil.

When he looked it up, he found it was the active ingredient in Viagra.

Son of a bitch. At least it wasn’t illegal. But had Ridgeway been stupid enough to use it when he knew it was contraindicated with the alpha blockers he was taking for his high blood pressure? Or did the woman give it to him without his knowledge? Maybe she’d said it was something else.

He picked up the phone and dialed Yarborough’s pager. A few minutes later, the man appeared in his office.

“How is the interrogation going?” he asked.

“She claims she was hired by Middle Eastern terrorists.”

“Is that credible?”

“Maybe.”

“What’s their motive? ”

“She says she doesn’t know.” The security man shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “What is it?” Wickers snapped.

“The longer we keep her here, the riskier it gets. I suggest we move her.” “To where?”

“To the facility we have in Northern Virginia.”

Wickers weighed the pros and cons. Starting this cover-up had been a knee-jerk reaction to protect John Ridgeway’s reputation. Now they were dealing with unanticipated consequences. Like what if the cops wanted to search the Ridgeway Consortium? That would be a little inconvenient if he was keeping a woman captive in the basement.

He sighed and looked up to find Yarborough watching him. “Move her.”

BRADY WAS TEMPTED to sprint to the back stairs. Instead he took Grace’s arm, and they walked sedately down the hall to the elevator.

“You could have turned me in to those guys,” she whispered.

“Would a bodyguard turn in the woman he’s guarding?” “You’re serious about that?”

“Yeah,” he answered, still not sure which way this whole thing was going to go. Or was he already in too deep to get back on the right side of the law? Until a few minutes ago, he hadn’t done anything illegal. Then his instincts had taken over.

“Thanks,” she murmured. When they reached the basement level, she said, “They already spotted your car once. They’ll be on the lookout for it again.”

“I won’t be driving anything they’ll recognize.”

Her head snapped up. “What are you going to do—steal some wheels from one of your neighbors?”

“No. I have several vehicles down here—for undercover assignments.” He mentally considered his choices and decided on a gray Ford. The body had seen better days, but the engine was in excellent condition.

They strolled into the garage as if she was his houseguest and they were going out for groceries. But when he looked at her pale face, he couldn’t stop himself from pulling her into his arms.

She clung to him, and he held her tightly.

“You feel better?” he asked her.

“No, but at least we got out of there.”

He nodded, but he knew in his gut that there was more to come. They’d be looking for him and Grace.

He eased away—it was dangerous to linger in the garage.

He led her to the car he’d selected.

“Get in the back—and lie on the seat—so it looks like there’s just one person in the car.”

“Okay.”

When she was settled, he reached into the carry bag he’d brought, took out a baseball cap and pulled it low over his face before heading for the automatic garage door. The gears ground, and he waited an eternity for the door to open. Finally, he drove into the night, a fugitive from the law. Or would the two security men report what had happened to the cops?

He drove for about twenty minutes before he looked over his shoulder to see Grace lying on her side on the backseat, hugging her knees against her middle.

“I think it’s safe for you to get in the front now.”

“Thanks.”

He pulled onto a side street and stopped. As she climbed into the front seat, she asked, “Do you think those men are really from the Ridgeway Consortium?” “Why do you ask?”

“They don’t seem much like the guards I’ve seen there. What if they work for someone else?” “Who?”

She shrugged, but he wondered if she might have an idea about their identity. “No idea?” he pressed.

“No.”

“What happened in the bedroom before I got there?” he asked, changing the subject abruptly.

She swallowed hard. “That guy came in and started looking around. I was in the closet. I knew he was going to find me there, so I waited until his back was turned and jumped him.” “Risky.”

“What would you have done?” “The same.”

She laughed. “At least I feel better about my decision.” “Don’t use me as a shining example of anything.” “Don’t run yourself down,” she shot back.

When he didn’t come back with a rejoinder, she looked out the window into the darkness. “Where are we going?” “Hell if I know. I haven’t gotten that far yet.” “Can I make a suggestion?”

“I thought you didn’t have any plans when you escaped from your apartment.”

“I didn’t have a car. But now that we do, I know of an unoccupied cabin in the Catoctin Mountains.”

“Up by Camp David?”

She nodded.

“Perfect. There’s a lot of security up there.” “A good reason to assume you won’t go in that direction.”

“Who owns the cabin?”

“Friends,” she answered quickly. “But they don’t use it at this time of year.”

“Some of your young DC professionals?”

Again she paused. “Yes.”

“Are you leading me into a trap? ”

“No.”

He waited a beat before bringing up another touchy subject. “You realize we can’t just leave two wounded men in my apartment.”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

IT WAS EARLY in the morning, but Washington was a city where traffic never stopped.

Phil Yarborough sat in the passenger seat of the unmarked white van as it traveled along the toll road to Reston, Virginia. When he felt the driver’s foot bounce on the accelerator, he looked over inquiringly.

“What?”

“Two patrol cars are closing in on us with their lights flashing. What do I do now?”

“You’re not exceeding the speed limit?”

“Of course not!” the driver snapped.

“And you don’t think you have a taillight out—or anything like that?”

“This vehicle was checked before we left the Ridgeway Consortium.”

“Better pull over.”

The van slowed, then swung onto the shoulder. One patrol car stopped in back of the vehicle. The other boxed them in front.

Yarborough watched as two uniformed officers got out of each vehicle. Lord, now what?

As they walked toward the driver’s door, he rolled down his window.

One of the officers pulled some papers from his jacket pocket. “This is authorization to transfer your prisoner.”

“What authorization?” Yarborough snapped. Reaching across the driver, he held out his hand.

The officer gave him the papers and he found he was reading a federal court order transferring custody of Karen Hilliard to the Justice Department.

“The orders comes from the Department of Homeland Security, under the Patriot Act,” the officer clarified.

Yarborough cursed under his breath. Somehow that Middle Eastern terrorist story had gotten out.

“Why wasn’t I informed of this?” he asked.

“I guess the authorization just came through.”

“I need to call my boss.” Yarborough wasn’t happy.