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

As Carrie drove toward Columbia, she glanced at Wyatt. He was sitting with his head back and his eyes closed. She wanted to reach out and press the back of her hand to his cheek, but she had the feeling that if she did, he’d come instantly alert, and she’d find a gun pointed at her side. Which meant it was prudent to keep her hands on the wheel.

She knew Wyatt was being cautious when he’d asked her to drive so far away from the safe house. Would the terrorists really start checking every motel within a twenty-mile radius of their last known location? She doubted it, with so many motels in this area. But maybe they’d do it if they were desperate enough. And they’d certainly seemed determined to stop her from testifying.

Beside her Wyatt made a strangled sound, and her eyes snapped to him, seeing him looking around and getting his bearings.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Okay.”

Probably it was a lie—designed to reassure her. How could he feel okay after getting shot?

He shook his head and started to stretch, then stopped abruptly, undoubtedly because the pain in his arm had hit him. He dragged in a breath and let it out.

“How long was I sleeping?”

“A half hour.”

“How close are we to Columbia?”

“We’re here, but I don’t know where to find a motel. They built the place so you can’t find anything.”

He laughed. “It was the original plan not to spoil the view with big signs. Then they realized that they needed to make the commercial areas more obvious.” He looked around. “Head down Route 108, then turn at the Palace Nine shopping center. You’ll find the right kind of motels along 100 Parkway.”

She took his advice, stopping at a chain that advertised breakfast along with a room for less than a hundred bucks a night.

“You stay here. I’ll check in,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want the clerk to see a man and a woman together and remember the two of us if anyone comes asking questions. And a lone male is less suspicious than a lone female.”

She nodded and pulled into a parking space near the door. When he got out, she watched him steady himself against the car door, then square his shoulders.

She gave him a critical inspection as he headed for the lobby. He looked like a guy who wasn’t feeling 100 percent, but there was no way to know that he’d been shot a little more than an hour ago.

She glanced around, glad to see that nobody was paying her any particular attention.

PATRICK HARRISON STRUGGLED not to let his taut nerves overwhelm him. He spared a quick glance at his watch. It had been two hours since he and Carrie’s father had heard the news of the attack in Washington, D.C., and he felt the tension humming around the comfortable, wood-paneled home office.

He sat in one of the leather guest chairs. Douglas Mitchell sat behind his broad rosewood desk. They were both staring at a flat-screen television tuned to CNN. There had been nothing new to report for the past hour and a half, but the commentators were attempting to fill the air. At the moment the network was running a background piece on the Mitchell family, discussing the way Douglas Mitchell had taken the twenty million dollars he’d inherited from his father and turned it into over a billion—by buying up companies in distress and gutting them. The tactic had made him popular with the investment group he’d formed but not so much with the men and women who’d lost their jobs under his tender loving care.

Next came candid shots of Carrie as a teenager riding in horse shows and more shots of her all grown up and out on dates in D.C. with various eligible bachelors. She was also shown with her father on a trip to Europe they’d taken two years ago. There were no shots of Patrick, of course. He was invisible as far as the family history was concerned.

Next were some of the nature pictures Carrie had taken close to home and across the U.S. Patrick realized that if she survived this ordeal, her career was going to get a big boost. Or if she died, perhaps her pictures would sell for hundreds of dollars more than they had the day before.

Patrick shot a glance at Douglas’s rigid profile. The man had one hand pressed to his forehead as though trying to ward off a headache.

Patrick tried to make his voice reassuring. “Carrie’s in good hands. I’m sure she got away.”

Douglas whirled around in his swivel chair, his eyes fierce. “I’m not interested in your half-assed opinion. You don’t have any more information than I do.” He was as wired as a cat caught in a clothes dryer. Of course, he had a right to be. Since the moment his daughter had come home to the Mitchell estate to tell him about overhearing a terrorist plot, he’d been sick with worry about her.

Not that you could tell what he was feeling, unless you knew him well enough to see below the surface of his bluff exterior.

His attitude came across as annoyance and anger, but Patrick had been with him long enough to understand the old man’s anxiety. His daughter had come forward to testify against a gang of domestic terrorists, putting herself in immediate danger. She’d been hiding out for a week, and she’d gone downtown to meet with the Federal prosecutor. Unfortunately, the terrorists had been waiting for her and her bodyguard, Wyatt Hawk.

From the news accounts, it seemed that Hawk had gotten her out of the building. But where were they now?

Patrick took a calming breath. He’d known Carrie all his life, and he hated feeling as though there was nothing he could do, but he didn’t see any effective course of action open to him.

The old man picked up his phone and punched in Hawk’s cell number once again. The results were the same as every other time Douglas had tried to make the call. There was no answer.

“Damn him!” the elder Mitchell growled. For a moment, it looked as if he would throw the phone across the room.

“Remember your blood pressure,” Patrick murmured.

“I don’t need your damn advice,” Mitchell shot back, slapping his hand against the desk. After a moment, he took a breath and said, “Sorry. I’m on edge. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

“I understand.”

“But I need to know what’s going on.” This time he dialed the safe house where Carrie had been staying for the past week. The results were the same.

“What can I do to help?” Patrick asked.

“Bring me a scotch and soda.”

“Is that wise?”

“Don’t question me.”

Patrick sighed and got up. Again he sneaked a glance at his watch. How long was this ordeal going to last?

Maybe he could have a drink, too. And maybe he’d have another discussion with Douglas about hiring security for himself, although the man was firm in his conviction that he didn’t need it.

He had just crossed the thick carpet to the bar when a noise alerted him that something was wrong. He whipped around to see two men standing in the office doorway. They wore ski masks over their faces and carried automatic weapons.

Patrick leaped toward the desk, putting himself between Douglas and the two men.

“What the hell?” Douglas turned.

“Out of the way.” One of the men charged toward Patrick and hit him on the side of the head with the butt of a gun. He cried out in pain and went down, struggling to cling to consciousness.

While he was on the floor, the other intruder crossed to Douglas Mitchell. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“You’ll find out.” The man grabbed Douglas by the arms and hustled him toward the door. When Douglas struggled, the man shoved a gun into the older man’s back. “Cooperate, or you’re going to get killed.”

The man turned to address Patrick. “Tell Carrie Mitchell that if she doesn’t turn herself in, her father’s dead.”

“We…we haven’t heard from her,” he managed to say.

“Well, you’d better hope she calls. And oh, yeah, if you contact the cops, you can kiss Mitchell’s ass goodbye.”

THE LONGER CARRIE waited for Wyatt to come out of the motel office, the more her tension grew. So many bad things had happened in the past few hours that she couldn’t stop herself from waiting for the next one.

To her relief, Wyatt returned with the key in under five minutes and directed her to a room around back. One room. She didn’t love that arrangement, but she understood why he’d done it.

Inside, the accommodations were pretty standard, with two queen-size beds and enough room so that they could keep out of each other’s way.

Wyatt pulled back the spread on one of the beds, kicked off his shoes and lay down heavily.

“I’m going to call my father,” she said.

“Go ahead.”

She dug her phone out of her purse and clicked it on. It beeped immediately.

“There are messages for me.”

“Call your father first,” he said as he leaned back against the pillow and closed his eyes.

“Right.” She clicked the automatic-dial button for her father’s house. The call was answered on the first ring, not by Douglas Mitchell. It was Patrick Harrison, her father’s chief of staff. His mother had been a maid in their house, and she’d died in an automobile accident twenty-five years earlier. Since there had been no relatives willing to take the three-year-old boy, her father had unofficially adopted Patrick, and he’d been a member of the household ever since. He’d gone to college at Ohio State, then come back home to work for the senior Mitchell.

“Carrie, thank God,” he said. “I’ve been trying to call you, but there was no answer.” He sounded near hysterical.

She kept her own voice calm as she answered, “Wyatt told me to turn off my phone so they couldn’t use it to pinpoint our location.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. But the men at the safe house are dead.” She gulped. “All except Wyatt. We were going back there, but it was an ambush. Like at the Federal Building.”

“Thank God you’re all right,” he said again.

Something in the tone of his voice told her he wasn’t just worried about her.

“What happened?” she asked, praying that her father hadn’t had a heart attack or a stroke.

“There’s no easy way to say this.”

“Then spit it out!”

“Your father’s been kidnapped.”

“Lord, no!”

At the sound of her raised voice, Wyatt surged off the bed. Crossing to her, he took the phone out of her hand.

“What did you just tell Carrie?” he demanded, clicking on the speaker so that they could both hear.

“Her father’s been kidnapped.”

“How? Where?”

“Two men came to the house.”

“Are you all right?” Carrie interjected.

“One of them hit me with the butt of his gun, but I’m okay. They’re demanding that Carrie turn herself in, or they’ll kill Douglas. And they said they’ll kill him if I call the police.”

Carrie gasped, hardly able to believe what she’d just heard.

“Are you sure it’s the terrorists?” Wyatt demanded.

“I…guess. I don’t know for sure. Who else would they be?”

“What did they look like?”

“They were wearing ski masks.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“I was on the floor, hanging on to consciousness by my fingernails.”

Carrie made a low sound. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I mean, I’m still here. Maybe so I could give you the message about your father.”

“Yeah,” Wyatt agreed.

Patrick switched subjects. “Where are you?”

“Somewhere safe,” Wyatt answered.

“We have to go home,” Carrie said.

“No.” Wyatt fixed his gaze on her. “Patrick just said that men broke in and took your father, but they want you. They’ll keep him alive as long as they don’t have you. If you turn yourself in, you’re dead, and so is he.”

Carrie stared at Wyatt. A few minutes ago he had seemed as if he needed a good night’s rest before he would be fully functional. Now he looked like the agent in charge again. “I want to know what happened, but I’m not going to take that information now, in case this call is being traced.”

“By whom?” Patrick asked.

“The terrorists. I’ll call you back soon.”

“But—”

Wyatt clicked off.

ON THE OTHER end of the line, Patrick Harrison cursed. Slamming down the phone, he stood for a moment, struggling to control his temper as he reminded himself to breathe in and out slowly. Hawk had said he would call back. When, exactly?

Patrick had just been through a terrible ordeal, and now he didn’t like the way Wyatt Hawk was handling the situation. No, for starters, he didn’t like it that Hawk was on the case at all.

Patrick had come up with the initial list of bodyguards. Then he’d found something questionable in the guy’s background. He’d told Douglas not to hire Hawk, but the man had always had a mind of his own. He might listen to advice, then do the exact opposite because he was sure he knew better. In this case, he’d decided to go ahead with the former CIA operative, even though the man had messed up on his last job.

Patrick had lived with Douglas Mitchell’s arbitrary decisions for years. Since he’d come back from college to work for the old man, he’d thought more than once that he should have struck out on his own. But he’d been comfortable here, and when Douglas had made him a good offer, he’d known that the man wanted him to stay—and valued his work ethic.

But he’d found out soon enough that working for Douglas could be an exercise in frustration. Never more than at this moment. He’d have liked to have Carrie home at the family compound so he’d know exactly where she was. But Hawk had her stashed Lord knew where. It could be somewhere close. Or they could be in the next state by now.

He banged his fist against the rosewood desk, then struggled for calm again. Hawk had said he’d call back. Then Patrick would get more information. Or not, depending on Hawk’s mood.

He cursed again, more softly this time. Wyatt Hawk was turning out to be the biggest mistake he could imagine making.

CARRIE’S STOMACH ROILED as she stood in the middle of the room, clutching her cell phone. “My father—”

“—is a hostage.”

“Which is my fault. And the men who snatched him hurt Patrick.”

“Carrie, none of this is your fault. You were just doing your duty as a citizen. What were you going to do, let them blow up the U.S. Capitol and pretend you hadn’t heard anything?”

When she started to protest, Wyatt reached for her and pulled her close, pressing her face to his shoulder. “We have two jobs here. The first one is to keep you safe. The second is to get your dad back.”

“What if I think that’s the wrong order?” she asked in a strained voice.

“It’s not. And we will get him back.”

“How?”

His tone was soothing as he rubbed her back. “We don’t do it by running off without a plan. We’ve got to consider all the angles and proceed carefully.”

He kept his arms around her, rubbing her neck and shoulders, and she leaned into his strength as she thought back over the awful conversation with Patrick. Thank goodness she hadn’t been alone. If Wyatt hadn’t stopped her, she would probably have told Patrick where she was, and the terrorists could be on their way to the motel already if they’d been listening.

“They can’t find us through the phone?” she murmured.

“We didn’t speak long enough for them to trace the call. But I want to get rid of both our phones so they can’t use the GPS.”

She nodded against his shoulder.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked.

“Shouldn’t that be my line?”

He managed a low laugh. “I’m fine.”

“You were shot a little while ago. You were resting when I got ahold of Patrick.”

“I’ve been hurt before, a lot worse than this.”

“That scar on your chest.”

“Yes.”

“And you were in the hospital, right?”

“I said it was worse than this.” He eased away from her. “We need to get a couple of prepaid phones so we can use them and throw them away.”

“Okay.”

He gave Carrie a direct look. “You trust Patrick?”

“Of course!”

“Who else is at your house?”

She thought for a moment. “There’s Inez, our maid.”

“How long has she been with you?”

“Fifteen years.”

“Does she need money?”

“Everybody needs money.”

He nodded. “Who else could have heard you talking to your father about your plans to hide out?”

She felt as if she was being interrogated, but she knew he needed to know the answers. “There’s a gardening crew that comes by a couple of times a week. They could have been eavesdropping.”

“Anyone else?”

“Not on a regular basis.”

His eyes narrowed, and she could see he was considering contingencies. “I don’t want to leave you here, and I don’t want to take you to the store, but I think that sticking together is better at the moment.”

She nodded, assuming he was probably afraid she’d call Patrick if he left her.

He carried the cell phones to the bathroom and crushed them under his heel, then stuffed the pieces into his pocket.

She winced, thinking about the contacts and the pictures he’d just destroyed.

He glanced at her, apparently reading her expression. “You can get a new one later.”

“Right.”

“I’m going out first.” He opened the door and looked out, then crossed to the car and motioned for her to follow.

As she got in the car, she asked, “They couldn’t have found us here already, could they?”

“Probably not, but I didn’t think they would show up at the safe house before we got back there. It appears that this operation is bigger and better organized than we assumed initially.”

“Oh, great.”

Minutes after they’d entered the motel room, they were back on the road.

This time, Wyatt took the driver’s side. She wanted to protest that he should be resting, but she was pretty sure he wouldn’t pay any attention to the suggestion. Obviously he was the kind of man who wasn’t going to let a woman drive him unless he was incapacitated.

As he drove, he tossed away the pieces of the phones, then turned to her. “I have Patrick’s bio. He’s been with you for twenty-five years, right?”

“Yes.”

“And does he have any reasons to dislike your family?”

“Why would he? My father did everything for him. He treated him like a son, actually. He had a bedroom down the hall from me. He ate all his meals with us. My father sent him to the same private school I went to. He paid his tuition at Ohio State.”

“So he was a good student?”

“Yes.”

“Did he ever give your father any trouble?”

“You mean like rebelling?”

“Yes.”

“He and I did a couple of stupid things—like borrow my dad’s car when we were both fifteen.”

“What happened when your dad found out?”

“He didn’t. We covered for each other.”

“You like him?”

“He was as close to me as a brother.” Memories flooded her. “We hung out together, because Dad was usually busy. You could say he was the kind of father who didn’t have a lot of time for his kids, but I knew he loved me.”

“We were talking about Patrick, not your dad.”

“I was trying to explain why Patrick and I were so close.”

“And he loved Patrick?”

She hesitated. “That might be too strong a word. I know he’s fond of him. And he’s certainly come to rely on him.” Again she paused before continuing. “Patrick didn’t have to come back and work for Dad, but he did that on his own.”

“Okay.” Wyatt checked the rearview mirror. “What about your mother?”

“Dad never talks about her.”

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

She thought for a moment. “When I was maybe six. I went into her room, and she was packing.” The pain and confusion of that long-ago moment came zinging back to her again. “She said she loved me, but she needed to leave. She said she’d be back to see me, but she never came back.”