Chapter Ten

“We got out of there too easily,” Angus-Tyler said as he jimmied the lock with the ice pick. “He let us go.”

Andy shrugged, her body losing blood.

“But I was impressed you had a fireman’s control key so you could override the elevator.”

“Respect the pockets.” She patted her skirt like a zombie.

“Do I even want to know how you secured one of those?” Angus asked.

“Lots of kisses.”

“I’m sure.”

They threaded their way back down through the rows and rows of shelves. Andy’s energy withered with each step.

“You doing okay?” he asked.

Andy nodded, her breath labored. “Just let me rest here for a minute.”

“We don’t have a minute. Tyrone’s men are following the elevators. I’m sure they have realized we are down here.”

Her skirt weighed her down.

“It’s time to nix the skirt,” he said, his voice tense.

“That’s not how I was hoping you’d persuade me out of this.”

Angus smiled. With her arm over his shoulder, they continued on.

Andy continued. “Sorry, but there’s too much we need in here. The dress stays.”

They found the coal chute. Angus pried the door.

“I can’t open it, too many layers of paint.”

“See? Here’s a knife,” Andy slid her hand up her skirt, and handed pocket knife from a pocket.

“Thank you,” Angus said, slicing the layers of paint holding the little door closed.

Angus’s tux clung to him in the moisture. Sweat dampened his shirt and dripped from his brow as he scraped as quickly and as noiselessly as he could. Each stoke pained his wounds.

Trapped. With the knife, he slit the sleeves and up his chest, he ripped his shirt off, leaving a white undershirt, drenched in sweat and blood.

“The lock’s been picked,” a voice called to the other guards. Angus paused. They were closing in. Angus had almost finished the first side.

“I’ll help.” Andy crawled up beside him and commenced on a second side with a flathead screwdriver. Fear and pain flashed in her eyes as she clinched her jaw against it, scraping paint as fast as she could.

The second side finished. One last side.

Andy’s screwdriver slipped in her weakness and caught Angus in the fleshy part behind his pinky, he barely noticed the sting.

“Sorry,” Andy said, slumping to the ground.

“I’ve got this,” he said.

Thankfully, they worked safely in the shadows, but Tyrone’s men would get here eventually.

“Almost there,” he said.

Angus slid his knife in the opening, prying. With a pop, the door swung open.

Angus faced to Andy to celebrate, but she had passed out.

“If I have to carry you up, I’m taking off your skirt. Any objections?” He searched for the buttons.

“This is not how I imagined undressing you for the first time,” he muttered. “And I prefer my women conscious.” He breathed out. “I wish you’d slap me for my impertinence.”

Andy woke while his hands were inopportunely around her thighs, sliding them from her dress, leaving her in a pair of little white shorts and her bodice top. Her lips white, her face wan. “Are you stripping me?”

“You can’t make it up the shaft with your dress on.”

Her pale lips parted. “That sounds really dirty.”

He slid her from the battle array of barbarous cotton candy. He placed her through opened shaft door.

“Can you climb?” he asked.

Barefooted, she hoisted herself up the chute.

“There they are!” Men approached. Shots ricocheted around them.

Angus used the steel door as a shield as the sounds of gunshots rang in his ears. He thrust Andy upward and climbed up himself.

Up the shaft they climbed, Andy’s head throbbed. She was grateful to still have her LED light hanging around her neck, illuminating the way as she held to the edges of the chute.

“I keep slipping on dust,” she said.

“Don’t worry I’m behind you,” Angus said.

The door at the top had to be forced open. Andy enjoyed the rush of cold fresh air even if her dizziness increased.

The little doorway allowed them passage to a small landing, the river churning below. “Now what?” Andy asked.

Darkness surrounded them. Tyrone’s men scouting the perimeter of the building limited their options. Men shook the metal as they scaled the chute below.

“Trapped,” he said.

Suddenly, a flashlight beamed on them and a voice yelled, “There!”

Andy didn’t have time to shield her eyes to confront their accuser.

“Jump?” Andy panted, fighting to stay conscious. “I wish I had my PFD.”

Angus and Andy dove off the edge into the water below.

****

Disoriented in the dark, Andy swam, the water rushing fast around her. Her head throbbed as the icy, dark, and dirty water stung the wound.

Weightless. All she had to do was open her mouth and breathe in. Then suddenly, someone grabbed and hauled upward. Her head broke the water first, and she gasped for air.

“Can you swim?” Angus spit water, trying to keep her head afloat, treading water, while being swept around. His usually blondish hair plastered dark against his head.

The current rushed faster than her locked muscles could swim. They ached, and her head throbbed. Angus tugged her diagonally across the current toward the shore. Andy swam the best she could, but Angus was doing most of the maneuvering.

Finally, they attained the shoals.

“We made it,” Angus said, dragging Andy to where she could reach the bottom and crawl through the water to the bank. He attempted to stand, but slipped, splashing into the water. Grasping some earth, he hauled himself up and out of the water onto the marshy bank. His frequent breaths made puffs of steam in the icy air. “You’re lucky you’re wearing an LED light. It was the only way I found you under there.”

“You lost your pants,” she said.

He wore only a pair of muddied brown-white boxers and t-shirt. His shirt clung to him, making his shoulders and chest even more defined.

“Kicked them off in the river.”

Her brain wandered. Cold. Very cold.

Once safely on land, she glanced at the far away city lights, civilization, and laughed between chattering teeth.

Angus, still catching his breath, leaned close. “What?” he asked.

“What would people think if they met us, two people half-dressed.” Her jaw clenched against the chattering. Her body ached, her head hurt. Her mind, drifting. “Out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“They would think, they must’ve had a great time escaping from a very snooty party.”

Andy’s jaw shook uncontrollably. “Thankfully nobody’s around. Where are we?” Andy scanned the banks. Dark barges piled with train car-sized containers of coal ran parallel to the river. A few trees, skimpy, waterlogged, cloistered nearby. Flat grasslands stretched behind them.

“Illinois.”

Her muscles ached, her toes numb. Clenching her jaw against the cold made her head ache all the more. Everything sounded far away, distant. The wind snapped around her.

“I had matches in my dress,” she managed to get out.

He laughed again, this time a full, hearty laugh filled with irony. It was cold. Cold enough to die. They were miles from St. Louis and not a road in sight. The cold river staunched the flow of blood, but it started to bleed again, making its own black river down her forehead.

With so much lost blood, the cold, fatigue, she passed out.

Angus didn’t panic. Years of survival training kicked in. He wrapped her head in his undershirt, scooped her up under her neck and knees. He laughed at her name for him. Angus was no worse than any other alias he’d had. He indulged her in it.

He had her in his arms now, blood spilling down his chest where her head lay against his pec. He never wanted to let her go. But he couldn’t love her. People in his line of work couldn’t afford to have love interests, family, or anybody they cared about. They became a liability. A distraction, deterrent, a bargaining chip. He’d been able to avoid it for so long.

If only he could tell her what he really needed. But that would be stupid. He must never tell Andy the whole truth. Doing so would endanger them both. But he’d been stringing her along too far. She deserved some truth.

Of course, if she died now, there’d be no chance to tell her anyway. Angus ran. Without glancing at her, he knew Andy was fading. He kept moving, pumping legs, numb with cold, toward the lights growing brighter before him.

Soon, he distinguished cars parked by a building, then people. A man exited his car a phone to his ear.

“Hey!” Angus hollered, his voice strange to him. The man swiveled briefly, glancing away, then did a double-take. Tears flowed down Angus’s cheeks. He hadn’t realized he’d been crying. “Can you help us?”

The man grimaced at the strange sight of a man in his underclothes carrying a woman not much more dressed than he was. Steam escaped from Angus as he exhaled.

The man dropped his phone to his chest. “What do you need?”

He needed her warm, some place safe. He read the sign flashing above him.

River Bottom Topless Bar

“Can we use your car?” Just until the extraction team could come and get them. “And your phone?”

“My car?” The man shifted feet, hesitating.

“We’re not carjackers.” He breathed the icy air biting his lungs. “My girlfriend and I…” Why couldn’t he think of anything convincing? “We wanted to go for a swim.”

The man raised an eyebrow, but Angus didn’t care.

“And my girlfriend hit her head. Please, sir, can we just warm up in your car?” He didn’t want to take her inside. A strip club was not a place for Andy, especially when underdressed. He didn’t want men, those men, staring at Andy.

The realization he wanted to protect her scared him, more than bullets, more than death.

“Can I use your phone, too?”

When the man handed him his phone, Angus thanked him before stepping away to make his call.

“We need extraction,” Angus said into the man’s cell.

“What phone are you calling from?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll scrub the number when I’m done. We need EMS. Now.”

“We’ll need your location.”

Angus gave the information. He sighed. “And my cover’s been compromised.”

“Andy’s not with you, is she?”

“She’s inside, warming up,” Angus stood off from the car, outside in the wind, the man’s jacket around him. The man sat in the car with the blasting the heat on Andy in the front seat.

“What happened?”

He described the night, from beginning to end.

“How was I supposed to know Tyrone employed local FBI agents?” he asked. Of all the things Tyrone had to be honest about.

“How’s Andy?”

“Not well. Still unconscious.”

“No, I mean, does she still trust you?”

Angus glanced back to the car. He could only make out her outline through the fogged windows. “I don’t think we can recover from this one with protocol.”

A swear word passed through the phone.

“Listen, there’s only one way to get her back. She feels emotionally close to me. But I will need to be on my own. Completely on my own. No back up, no ears, no tails. Just me and her.”

No hesitancy on the phone. “No.”

“It’s the only way.”

“It’s against protocol. And a huge risk.”

“She’s not going to trust me if she doesn’t feel completely safe. I have to earn her trust. She’s still withholding information.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know things.” Angus could be persuasive. “I’ll report when I have updates, but I control when I check in. This is the only way you’re going to get your man. Andy has skills. She’s not trained, but don’t underestimate her. She’ll take us right to him.”

There was a long pause. “And if not?”

“Trust me.”

A sigh. “What other choice do I have?”

****

Tyrone glanced at the bloody mess in his penthouse. Glass shards, men struggling. Then one body, facedown dark liquid saturating his brown suit around a knife wound, caught his attention.

Tyrone knelt beside him and slid out the knife, inspecting it with wonder. It wasn’t his hand that threw the knife. It was not him who threw the knife.

Bobby twitched.

“He’s alive,” he said, his voice sounding strange to him.

A few men helped staunch Bobby’s wound. Another man called the infirmary. Tyrone had his private doctor on retainer. He’d spare no expense for Bobby.

While waiting for the doctor, Tyrone held Bobby, using a napkin compress for the wound in his back. But the wound cut deep. Tyrone cursed Andrew Baker.

Covered in Bobby’s blood, Tyrone gritted his teeth. How was he going to tell Hazel?

The elevator pinged. “What happened up here? Where’s Bobby? Am I to be abandoned at my own engagement party?” High heels sounded on the parquet floor. Then they stopped. Hazel gasped behind him.

“Bobby! My Bobby!” Hazel ruined her designer gown in an instant as she knelt in Bobby’s blood, scooping up his pale face, covering it with kisses. His breathing was shallow, but there.

“What happened?” she asked. “Who did this?” So much like her mother. Tyrone couldn’t bear it.

“Andrew Baker did this.” Tyrone was too ashamed to tell the truth.

“Why?” Disbelief dissolved into tears as Hazel struggled to choke back emotion. She’d seen too much as Tyrone’s daughter to be too emotional, but even this was too much for her.

Hazel bent over Bobby, her smooth, white shoulders shaking, sobs wrenching Tyrone’s soul.

Tyrone barked orders. “I want their names. I want their addresses. I want to know where they attended high school, who their friends are, what people they’ve dated. Get our connections in the FBI, track their movements, their cards, their phones. Everything! I want an interview with the editor of the Times.”

He needed to appease his conscience. He needed Andrew Baker to take the heat for Tyrone’s mistakes. He needed his daughter to stop crying.

****

Darkness. A knock wakened her heavy and dull body. Even opening her eyes was a chore. Finally, the room swirled into view.

“Yes?” she said, taking in her surroundings. An IV and cords ran from her arms to monitors beeping in concert with her heartbeat. The hospital gown and thin blanket offered little warmth. Her bandaged head didn’t throb. Now her body rose, light and airy. Like she was floating. And so relaxed.

“How are you?” Angus asked when opened the door.

Andy cracked a smile when he approached. Was that his name?

Angus stood next to her bed. “After twenty-one stitches and fighting a nasty bacterial infection, you look great.”

She glanced sideways. “I can never tell if you are telling the truth or lying.” Where had they left things?

“Stop trying to guess, then.” He shrugged. A few heartbeats passed. Angus slid a small black visitor’s chair from the wall and sat, facing her. “So you withheld something from me.”

“How did you know?” she asked.

“I found a sticky in your clothing.”

She’d stuck it in her bra. She blushed.

“Did you find it at the T-Building? Why didn’t you tell me?” His face fell.

Andy ignored his hurt expression, assured it was an act. “Why should I trust you?”

Hints of her memory slapped at her. Angus, that was what she’d decided to call him, sat almost immovable, only the slightest twitch of his eyelids.

“I can’t work with someone when there’s no trust,” she said.

“I’ve never told you a complete lie.”

“Ha!”

“You don’t have to believe me.”

“I don’t believe anything you say anymore.” Andy didn’t mean to be so honest, but the drugs made her mind foggy.

Angus averted his gaze.

Plucking a cord stuck into her vein, Andy airy, mind dulled asked, “What’s this? Truth serum?”

“Pain killers and heavy antibiotics. All legit. Unfortunately, our little dip in the Mississippi wasn’t the cleanest thing we could have done with open wounds.”

Andy’s brow furrowed. “How long was I out?”

“Three days.”

“Where have you been?”

“I was getting stitched up in the infirmary.”

More details floated back to her. The attacks, the flight. The pain. “Your side?”

He tucked up his shirt to reveal a bandage taped to his torso. “Not as bad as your head. I worried you weren’t going to make it. They gave you lots of blood.”

A bit of pity softened her. “Thank you for saving my life.”

His gaze fixed on something in his lap. Conversation stopped. Tiny muscles in his jaws flexed, the beeping monitor the only sound in the room.

“Since you’re feeling better,” he started, “are you going to tell me what was on this yellow sticky?” He held up the dry but watermarked square between his pointer and thumb and tapped it with his middle finger. It was blank.

More memories flooded her. Tyrone’s penthouse. FBI. Not FBI. “Who are you?” she asked, her mind clearing. She had glanced at the sticky briefly in Brad’s office. But she couldn’t remember the name, even if she’d wanted to tell him. If she could just fight the cloud in her brain. There were other things she hadn’t told him, too. About Dr. Armstrong. Glad she didn’t even mention him. “Why should I talk?”

Angus didn’t have a leg to stand on.

Andy narrowed her eyes to little slits. “Who are you?” she asked, sitting up straighter, still feeling weak, but strangely strong by having a piece of the puzzle he didn’t have. A bargaining chip. She wasn’t sure who these people were, whether FBI or CIA or MMA. She wanted answers.

“I’ve trusted you with my life,” she said. “I need to know who you are.”

“I can’t tell you.” He almost pleaded with her. His eyebrows peaked on his forehead. He shook his head and repeated it. “I can’t tell you.”

“Because I’m not talking until I get information. The truth, this time, only the truth and nothing but the truth.”

His expression darkened. “You don’t want the truth.”

“Yes, I do. If you want to progress on this case, I need the truth.”

But he didn’t start talking. There were lines on his face, dark circles under his eyes. “Hasn’t it ever occurred to you I can’t tell you because of who you are? You’re a journalist and they aren’t exactly known for keeping secrets.”

Andy’s jaw dropped agape. “Fine. I’m leaving.” Andy grabbed tubes, trying to dislodge them.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“Why not?”

“Mr. Hershal, your editor, is dead.”

Andy grew more light-headed, then a heaviness settled into her chest diving into the deepness of her stomach. Mr. Hershal was a dear friend of her father’s. Even though he was tough on Andy, she owed him a lot. It was weird mourning a man she’d never met in person.

“What happened?” she asked.

“They say it was an accident. Fell off his horse while riding at the club yesterday. But I’m sure it was more complicated than what they want us to believe.”

Her stomach ached. How many more people would die?

He continued. “Tyrone knows all about you now.”

Andy scowled. She hated the name. But she wasn’t too happy with Angus trying to manipulate her, either. “Don’t worry. He couldn’t have given him too much information.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve never met him. He couldn’t point me out in a crowd. I set up an LLC under a C-corp umbrella so I couldn’t be traced.”

“But what about your father? Mr. Hershal knew him, too, didn’t he?”

Andy blanched. Sandra wasn’t safe.

“You’re safe here,” he said. “We can protect you.”

“Can you protect Sandra? You couldn’t even protect Brad or Conner.”

His lids flinched a bit.

“I’m not letting Tyrone kill Sandra.”

Suddenly, he stalked over to her machine and unplugged it, a flatline sound followed. His entire manner changed from tired-worried to active-urgency.

“What are you doing?” Andy asked.

“Disabling the bug.”

“What? Who is listening? Your team?”

He nodded. “Don’t ask questions. Check the time,” Angus said forcefully. “You’ll need to know how long you have until a nurse comes in. She’ll say the machine is broken, and will replace it. They are monitoring you through this machine, listening to everything you say and do. In a few minutes, they’ll replace this machine. If you want to make a run for it, you’ll need to know how much time you have before they realize you are gone. I don’t blame you for leaving, but let me help you go and save Sandra. Unplug the next machine when you are ready to go. We can meet up after you escape.”

“Why are you helping me?”

He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the floor. “Because you don’t deserve this.”

She couldn’t tell if it was an act, or if they really were monitoring the room. But she needed him if she wanted to get out of here.

“I smuggled in your clothes and bag from your condo,” he said as if this would convince her he was really helping her. Andy had to take a gamble.

“Where do you want to meet?” she asked.

He smiled. “Meet me at the Cafe Reginald and you can tell me everything there.”

“And you can tell me everything there.”

“Of course.” He nodded curtly.

“With nobody else.”

“Nobody else.”

“Time?”

“Think you’re feeling well enough to break out and meet by three p.m.?”

Andy nodded.

“Until three, then, Cafe Reginald.” He raised his eyebrows in goodbye, but paused at the door. “Be safe. Stay away from Tyrone’s men. Don’t try to confront them alone. You’re not well enough.” He ducked out as the nurse entered.

Andy glanced at her clock when the nurse opened the door. Five after eleven. Only five minutes. More than enough time.

As soon as the nurse finished and closed the door, Andy leaped out of bed. The first few steps caused her to pause at the foot to catch her breath. Sitting in bed for three days on meds made her lightheaded, weak. But she didn’t have time for weakness. Persisting on, she had to dress and get out of there, STAT.

Waiting until the last minute to pull her IV line, just in case they were monitoring her, she tore open her bag. True to his word, Angus had left her clothes and her phone, all her cards and money were in there.

And phones.

She called Sandra.

Voicemail. Andy would have to go to her house first. She wondered how much she would have to tell her to convince her to leave.

To escape the hospital, Andy couldn’t resemble a patient. She painted her pale face with bronzer, to give it color. Then wrapped a scarf around her bandaged head.

“I don’t know if turbans are in right now, but better to appear ridiculous than get caught,” she said to her reflection.

All dressed, her hair tucked up, she cut the medical tape from her skin, then gently pulled the IV from her vein.

The countdown was on. As she had no intention of meeting with Angus, she had to make arrangements to warn Sandra and leave town before three.

****

Andy rapped at Sandra’s door outside the city, a small brick house about sixty or seventy years old. The shutters needed a coat of paint and the flowerbeds needed weeding. Andy hadn’t been there in months, but knew to dig in the plant boxes for the spare key. The door swung open to a small, mousy middle-aged woman.

“Mandy! You’re here. Your head.” Her eyes widened in concern, taking Andy’s head, bandage and all, in both hands, kissing the side of her smarting head. “What happened?”

“Listen, Sandra.” Andy’s heart was up in her throat, and she couldn’t speak. Andy didn’t know how to tell her she continued on in her father’s place doing dangerous things. Too much to explain, too many lies to confess. She’d have to opt for a quicker route. “I’ve gotten into trouble.”

“Trouble? What sort?” Her expression changed from concern to worry.

Andy shook her head. Her throat dry, her head still hurt. Andy navigated the cluttered mess, years of memories, dust, and junk mail sat around in piles; picking up stuff would be important, Sandra’s wallet, her keys. Brad was right. Sandra was a hoarder.

Andy continued. “I bought you a ticket to visit your sister in Ohio. Your flight leaves in three hours, so don’t pack anything. Just go. I sent your boarding pass to your phone.”

The horror on Sandra’s face tortured Andy, her biggest nightmare realized.

“Just like being married to your father,” her stepmother said. “For how long?”

“I don’t know.” Andy needed time to think. She didn’t know how long it would take to track down Dr. Armstrong. “Maybe change your name, color your hair.”

With the Internet, relations could easily be tracked down. “Close out your Facebook account, and don’t tell anyone where you or I are going.”

“What is going on, Amanda?” Sandra stood resolute, her arms crossed her chest.

Andy didn’t want to lie. She swallowed hard. “I should’ve told you years ago.”

“Told me what?”

With a deep breath, Andy started. “Before he left, Dad passed the torch of Andrew Baker on to me.”

Her mother drew a sharp breath. “He dragged you into his mess, too, eh? I should’ve known.”

“Sorry, I didn’t tell you. Dad didn’t want you to worry.”

“Worry? I have to mysteriously leave for some unknown reason.”

“I shouldn’t have lied to you.”

Sandra nodded her head. “You think?” She paced, wiping her hands across her face. “I hated the lies your dad told to keep all his secrets. But it’s more than that, Mandy. Now he’s got you into the same habit.”

Sandra paced. The lines on her face were deep. Her hair far too gray. A pit formed in Andy’s stomach. How could she add to her pain? “Also, Brad was involved in something.”

“Brad?” Sandra’s face paled. “I haven’t heard from him in a week. Is he okay?”

Andy’s stomach knotted. She bowed her head. “He’s not coming back.”

Sandra’s expression fell. “They got him, too, didn’t they?”

“You knew?”

“I had a feeling. The police told me he was missing. I didn’t believe it. He’s involved in this mess somehow, too?”

“Yes.”

“He lied to me, too.”

“I know.”

“Just promise me one thing,” Sandra said, halting Andy who was grabbing her purse and packing it with her passport and cash. “Promise me you won’t lie to yourself.”

Andy had fifteen minutes to gather her stuff from Sandra’s house before she needed to catch her flight to Boston. The house was disorganized, sloppy. She bounded upstairs to the bathroom, digging through pink foam rollers, old hair brushes; grateful Sandra had kept everything. Finding everything she needed would be the problem. She needed cosmetics and hair holders and her old curling iron. A miracle it still worked. She wrapped the cord around the barrel. Clothes, fingernail files, fishing line, toenail clippers, floss, duct tape, and razor blades. She hadn’t lost it all in her dress at Tyrone’s, but she’d lost a lot.

Andy stuffed cotton balls into small zippered pouches, but it just wasn’t all fitting. She tossed in a blush brush. The mascara fell out. Hands trembling, she picked it up. She had too much. She was about to fetch a backpack from downstairs when the doorbell rang.

Andy froze. She didn’t want anyone knowing she was here, least of all any of Sandra’s friends. Anyone she had contact with was a liability.

Andy ducked behind the half-wall leading to the downstairs, peeking through the plants for cover. Sandra’s youthful stride negotiated the cluttered space, her keys jingling at her side, matching her pace. She opened the door.

Andy’s blood froze when a familiar voice said, “Hello there, ma’am.”

Tyrone himself.