Читать книгу Carrie's Protector - Rebecca York - Страница 9

Carrie heard Wyatt mutter a curse.

Alarmed, she followed the direction of his gaze.

From her hiding place, she saw a dark-skinned man with a shaved head lying at the bottom of the back steps, his arms spread and a gun still clutched in his hand. As she realized who it was, her chest constricted painfully. The man was Gary Blain, one of the bodyguards who’d gone out of his way to be nice to her during guard duty. It looked as though he’d been trying to get away when he’d been gunned down.

She choked back a sob. Another casualty. On her account. “No.”

Wyatt put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her against his side, and she turned toward him, closing her eyes and pressing her forehead against his chest.

“Well, we know why he didn’t answer the phone,” he said in a raspy voice.

“What about the rest of them?”

“We’ve got to assume they’re dead, too. Probably in the house. And Gary almost got away.”

“My fault—again,” she whispered.

“No. The bastards are determined to get you. When we escaped from the Federal Building, they probably came here. Or maybe they sent a team here as a precaution in case we got out of the trap they’d set.”

“How did they know about this place?”

“Obviously, somebody gave away this location.”

“Could they have followed you? I mean, sometime earlier?”

“I don’t think so,” he answered, but she heard the tiny note of doubt in his voice. Still, he continued, “We have to assume it’s the same person who told them about your meeting this morning.”

Carrie fought the sick feeling rising in her throat. Death and destruction were following close on her heels. It was hard to imagine everything that had happened today and harder still to believe that someone was deliberately trying to kill her. But apparently, that was what happened when you ratted on terrorists.

“What are we going to do?” she murmured.

“For starters, thank God that we didn’t go charging in there.”

“You mean thank your instincts.”

“Whatever,” he answered dismissively. “We’d better get the hell back to the car before somebody spots us.”

Even as he spoke, it was already too late. Lookouts must have been stationed in all directions, because in the next second, gunfire erupted from inside the house, and men charged outside, sprinting in their direction.

Wyatt grabbed Carrie’s hand, leading her back the way they’d come, heading for the screen of trees. Behind them she heard running feet closing the gap.

Lord, no.

“On my own turf, I’ve got a little surprise to slow them down,” he said. He reached into his pocket, pulling out something that looked like a cell phone. As they ran, he pressed a series of buttons. In back of them, small explosions began to erupt from the grass, sending sprays of dirt and stones into the air.

She heard a loud curse, as someone behind them took a hit.

The explosions continued, but Wyatt didn’t slow his pace, so she kept running beside him, her lungs burning as she struggled to keep up with him.

She was beginning to think they were in the clear when the gunfire stopped. But after the last explosion, she heard a sound that made the hair on her arms prickle. Someone must have escaped Wyatt’s trap and he was pounding along behind them.

At first the thuds were faint. Whoever was back there had lost ground because of the charges, but he was catching up, and now he began shooting as he went.

Wyatt whirled and returned fire, but his weapon was no match for his opponent’s. Unfortunately, they were still a long way from the electric fence and the car, and she could hear the pursuer steadily gaining on them.

She glanced at Wyatt, seeing the grim set of his jaw. Apparently, he didn’t think they were going to make it to the fence.

When they came to a place where the land had been contoured into several small hills and valleys, Wyatt stopped.

“Get down. And stay down, no matter what happens.”

She remembered when she hadn’t liked Wyatt. Now she obeyed his orders without question, because she knew that was the only way she was getting out of this trap alive.

Dropping behind a hillock, she dragged in great gasps of air and pressed her hand against her side, her gaze fixed on the man who was charging toward them, firing his weapon as he ran.

She ducked and slung her arms over her head, as if that would stop a bullet. Her heart was pounding as she waited for Wyatt to drop the guy. But in the next moment, Wyatt made a strangled sound and fell back against the ground.

Carrie felt her heart stop. He’d been hit!

With a whoop of victory, the gunman closed the last few yards between them and swung his weapon toward her, taking a long moment to meet her terrified gaze.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

But Wyatt obviously had no intention of letting her get murdered. He leaped from behind the mound and shot the guy in the back at point-blank range. The attacker went down with a gasp of surprise.

Wyatt charged toward her, snatching the assault rifle from the man’s grasp.

“Why didn’t you shoot him before he got so close?” she gasped as she stared at the terrorist. He was another perfectly normal-looking young man. If you saw him on the street, you never would have known what was in his mind.

“Because I only had one bullet left, and it had to count,” Wyatt answered.

He turned to look back the way they’d come, and she followed his gaze toward the bodies of two men sprawled in the field. Neither was moving.

“Are they dead?”

“We can’t go back to find out. Come on. Before another one comes after us,” he said.

Reaching down a hand, he helped her up. She swayed on her feet for a moment. Then they ran back toward where they’d left the car. She was out of breath when they reached the fence, and he held it up for her. She dived beneath the wires, and he followed.

They made it to the vehicle, and she allowed relief to flood through her as she climbed in and locked the door. Wyatt shoved the weapon he’d appropriated onto the floor between his seat and the console, then turned the ignition and slammed the shift into Drive, speeding away before any other terrorists could figure out what had gone wrong with their foolproof plan.

She sat for a few moments gripping the edges of her seat, willing her heart to stop pounding and her breath to slow. Against all odds, they had gotten away again. Thanks to the man beside her.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Then she remembered the sound he had made as the terrorist was charging toward them. When she opened her eyes and swung her gaze to the left, she saw the blood oozing through the fabric of his shirt.

“You really are hit,” she gasped out. “You weren’t just pretending to get his attention.”

“It’s not bad.”

“How do you know?”

“I can move my arm all right. I can drive. The bone’s not broken.”

“You have to—”

“—get us the hell out of here before they figure out which way we went.”

She saw the set of his jaw as he kept driving along the narrow country road, watched him grimace when he had to turn the wheel, putting distance between them and the safe house that was no longer a refuge.

She wanted to ask what they were going to do now, but she was sure he’d tell her when he figured it out. It was amazing how much her thinking had changed in the past few hours. She’d thought Wyatt was a grim lone wolf, and she had wondered why her father had hired him. Now she understood that he was the best man for the job. Maybe the only man. Could anyone else have saved her life so many times today?

She heard him curse under his breath, and alarm shot through her.

Jerking upright, she looked in all directions but saw no suspicious cars.

“What?”

“I shouldn’t have gone back there,” he muttered, and she knew he was blaming himself for the latest shoot-out.

“You had your reasons.”

“They were a mistake.”

He clenched his teeth, and she could tell he was fighting the pain in his arm. If she’d known where they were going, she would have ordered him to let her drive, but the safe house was in an isolated part of the county, accessible only from a series of narrow, winding roads, an area she barely knew.

All she could do was divide her attention between their surroundings and Wyatt, watching the sinister red patch on his sleeve grow bigger as he drove.

He saw her watching him. “It’s not an artery.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I’d already be dead if it were.”

She made a snorting sound.

He kept driving, clenching his teeth every time he made a turn and checking the rearview mirror frequently to make sure they weren’t being followed. When signs of civilization began appearing, he slowed his speed. Finally they approached a strip mall, and he pulled into the parking lot of a drugstore, finding a spot near the door. “I’m going to stay here. Can you go in and get a few things?”

“Of course.”

“I need gauze pads, antiseptic, adhesive tape, and if they have men’s shirts, get me something I can wear that’s not bloodstained.”

She nodded and climbed out, looking around to make sure nobody was paying any attention.

Inside, she grabbed a shopping cart and took a moment to orient herself, then headed for the first-aid section. She found the required items and added a bottle of painkillers, a bottle of water and a roll of paper towels. Then she went to the clothing department. It wasn’t large, but she did find a long-sleeved, button-down-the-front sports shirt that looked as if it would fit Wyatt.

At the cash register, she started to reach for her credit card, then remembered a credit transaction could be traced. Instead, she paid in cash and hurried back to the car. Wyatt was sitting with his head thrown back and his eyes closed. They snapped open, and his hand went to the gun when she opened the passenger door. When he realized it was her, he relaxed.

He’d gotten them to the shopping center, but now his skin was gray and covered with perspiration. He was in shock.

“You’re not in any shape to drive,” she said.

She expected an argument, but he got out of the car and walked unsteadily to her side. She switched places with him, then drove around the back of the shopping center.

He stared around in surprise. “What are you doing?”

“Having a look at your arm.”

The strip mall backed up onto a wooded area, and she drove to the side of the blacktop, parking under some lowhanging maple trees.

“Let me get my shirt off.”

He heaved himself up and climbed out, where he stood studying the area. When he established that they were alone, he started unbuttoning his shirt. She could see that moving his arm was hurting him.

Joining him, she said, “Let me.”

Standing in front of him, she began working the buttons, exposing his broad chest, which was covered with a dark mat of hair and what looked like an old scar.

“What happened to you?” she asked as she gently touched the scar.

“I was in a war zone,” he clipped out, telling her by his tone that he wanted her to drop the subject.

Pressing her lips together, she tried not to focus on his buff physique as she helped him take his good arm out of his sleeve, then gathered up the fabric so that she could ease the other sleeve down his arm. The blood had already stuck the fabric to his skin, and he made a small sound as she peeled the shirt away. There was a trash can nearby. Balling up the shirt, she started toward it.

He stopped her with a firm command. “No. I don’t want any evidence left around here.”

“Oh, right.”

He walked back to the passenger seat and sat down heavily, giving her access to the arm. Gingerly, she examined the wound. It looked as if the bullet had torn a path across his skin, leaving a deep canyon in his flesh.

He turned his head and inspected the track. “It’s not bad. Which is good, because spending time in an emergency room could be dangerous.”

“Why?”

“That’s a logical place to look for me.”

“How would they know you were hurt?”

“I left some blood on the ground.”

She made a low sound. She had been so wound up with getting away that she hadn’t even noticed.

After opening the paper towels, she pulled a couple off, wadded them up and wet them with the water, then gingerly wiped at the dried blood on his arm, being careful not to start the wound bleeding again.

She’d barely spoken to the man in the week she’d been with him. In the space of a few hours, she’d gotten to know him a lot better. Now she felt the intimacy of this encounter. He was half-naked, and she was tending to him with handson closeness. She might have tried to speed through the first aid. Instead, the situation made her want to linger. Too bad they were parked in the back of a shopping center, a location that wasn’t exactly private.

“How did my father happen to hire you?” she asked.

“He was looking for someone to guard you, and he got a recommendation from one of my former bosses at the CIA. I guess he liked what he heard.”

“You quit the Agency?”

“I got into a situation in Greece.”

“What kind of situation?”

“I got my partner killed,” he snapped.

“It probably was as much his fault as yours.”

“Her.”

“Oh.”

“I should have known better than to get involved with her.” The way he said it told her this was another subject he didn’t want to talk about. She wouldn’t press him. Not now when he was injured, although she couldn’t help wondering what had happened.

She opened the bottle of antiseptic. “This may sting.”

He answered with a tight nod.

She poured the clear liquid onto his arm, hearing him wince as it pooled in the wound.

When she was satisfied that she’d cleaned it well, she taped on the gauze pads.

Next came the shirt, which she pulled out of the bag and unbuttoned. Reversing the process, she helped him get his arms through the sleeves, which turned out to be about an inch too short, so she left the cuffs unbuttoned.

Before she finished, a blast from a car horn startled her, making her lose her balance and fall forward, pressing her breasts against Wyatt’s face. Quickly she pushed herself away. Turning, she saw a white Jeep with an orange dome light on top. A middle-aged man in a security guard’s uniform was leaning out the driver’s window, staring at them with narrowed eyes.

“This side of the lot is for store owners and employees only. You can’t come back here and make out,” he said in a stern voice.

When she started to object that they’d been doing no such thing, Wyatt put a hand on her arm.

“Sorry, Officer,” he said.

“Button up your shirt and move along.”

“Yes, sir,” Wyatt answered.

She’d never expected to hear him cave in the face of authority, and she knew he probably hated doing it, but she also knew he was avoiding any kind of confrontation, avoiding having the guy come over and see the bloodied shirt or the gun in the car. While Wyatt and the guard had exchanged pleasantries, she’d bundled the supplies back into the drugstore bag and thrown them in the backseat. Now she hurried around to the driver’s door. The security guy stayed where he was while she pulled away, then followed her to the parking lot entrance. She waited for the light to change and pulled out, heading down the road in the opposite direction from where they’d come.

Wyatt had leaned back in his seat but now he sat up suddenly and cursed.

Carrie’s gaze shot to him in alarm. “What?”

“We have to get rid of that gun.”

“Like throw it in the bushes?”

“No. Like put it in the trunk.”

He craned his neck to look at a road sign. “Turn off on a side road and look for a place where there aren’t any houses.”

She followed directions, and they both got out. She blocked the view from the road while he stowed the weapon out of sight.

Back in the car, he directed her to the Intercounty Connector. When they’d gotten onto the high-speed road that cut across the D.C. area, he said, “Get off at Route 29 and head for Columbia. There are a lot of motels over there. Find something that’s part of a midpriced chain.”

When they reached Route 29, she slowed, and he looked at her inquiringly. “What are you doing?”

“I have to call my father and tell him I’m okay.”

“When we know we’re safe.”

“He’ll be worried.”

“We’ll be in Columbia in less than thirty-five minutes. If you were dead, he’d know it. The news stations would have already broadcasted it.”

She winced.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, and she took the highway he’d suggested, which turned out to be a toll road that cut across Montgomery County to Howard County.

ALTHOUGH THE SAFE house had been deemed an easy target, four men had been given the job of taking it down and waiting for Carrie and Wyatt to return. Now two of the men were dead and one was wounded. The guy who was still functional walked down the access road and into the woods, where he and his partners had parked a white van out of sight. The standard anonymous utility vehicle. In this case, perfectly suitable for getting rid of the bodies of three large men who’d been at the wrong place at the wrong time. And two terrorists who’d gotten themselves killed by taking off after the fleeing man and woman.

The four-man team had caught the hired guards by surprise because the bitch they’d been minding had been out of the house, which was reason enough for them to relax. The unwanted visitors had disabled the security system at the safe house—as a further means of gaining access unawares. Nobody had been looking out the windows when they’d crept up through the fields and made the dash across the cleared land around the house. Only one of the guards inside had been on his toes enough to make it outside, and he hadn’t gotten any farther than the back steps. Too bad his body had alerted the guy with Carrie Mitchell that something was wrong at the house. And too bad he’d come sneaking up from the side yard. Apparently, he was an efficient and cautious fellow.

The men who’d taken the house were named Harry, Sidney, Jordan and Bruce. Sid was the only one not wounded or killed.

He wished he’d turned down the job. He hadn’t signed up for this gig because of any ideological convictions. He was in it strictly for the cash. Now he was cursing himself for getting lured in by easy money. It flitted through his mind to climb in the van and drive away. Then keep driving. He already had the first payment from the patron who’d hired him and the others.

But he didn’t think escape was a practical solution. You didn’t just quit a job like this. Once you were in, you were in for the duration. And from where he was sitting now, it looked as though it was going to be a longer haul than he’d been led to believe. The only way they were getting out of this was to finish the mission—or die trying. Harry and Jordan were already dead. And Bruce had a mangled leg. Two of the guys in the downtown end of the operation had also bought the farm.

Although Carrie Mitchell and her bodyguard had made it out of the area, Sid didn’t call in for instructions right away. Instead, he spread tarps in the back of the van and started the annoying process of loading the five bodies into the vehicle before cleaning up the blood on the floor inside the house and moving dirt around to cover the blood outside, as per the instructions he’d been given to leave as little evidence as possible.

Bruce watched him work with dull eyes. Usually he was the one in charge. Now he was in too bad a shape to do more than nurse his wounded leg. “I’m hurt bad, man,” he moaned.

“We’ll get you back to headquarters.”

“Shouldn’t I be in the hospital?”

Sid gave him a considering look. “Hang on. That’s what you’d say to me if our situations were reversed.”

“It’s a long way back to the hideout.”

“Not that far, and it’s real private.”

Bruce cringed, probably thinking that his partner was considering leaving him in the same condition as the bodies. He closed his mouth and let Sid finish the quick and dirty cleanup. The rushed job wouldn’t hide the evidence if the cops came in with luminol. But it was probably going to be a long time—if ever—before the authorities got to the safe house.

Who was going to call them? Not Wyatt Hawk. He was too conscious of maintaining the secrecy of his assignment. Which was going to make it difficult to find him and the woman. Hopefully, plan B would flush them out. And hopefully Sid could go back to his normal life of petty crime.