GABRIELLE’S NECK HURT. Her arms hurt. Everything hurt.
A dream shouldn’t hurt, should it?
She fought through layers of drowsiness, struggling to open her eyes. Sleep pulled at her, but some annoying sound kept poking at her to wake up.
…cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo.
The clock. How many times had that bird chirped?
Her brain flickered to life. She lifted her head from the desk. She swallowed against the icky taste in her mouth and rubbed her sore eyes, blinking to focus. Fish swam across the monitor screen on her laptop. Life should be so happy and free.
The smile she started to indulge vanished.
Computer. Bulletin boards. Mandy!
She reached for the mouse, moved it, and tapped, bringing up the message board. She read quickly. Thank God.
They-whoever had received her first warning on Mandy-had asked for more help last night, specifics on the château and the Anguis. She couldn’t add anything new on the château, but after convincing herself Mandy’s life was worth the gamble, she’d shared a little more of what she knew on Durand that must have helped. The message posted to the bulletin board at just after ten this morning now read, “Babe in safe hands.”
Would have been nice if she’d received that at six this morning when she’d finally crashed at the computer. She could have slept in a bed.
Gabrielle squinted to focus on her cuckoo clock. Almost four o’clock? Light leaked into the room through cracks in the blinds. So, that would be four in the afternoon? Monday. No wonder every muscle ached. She’d only slept a handful of hours in the past three days and that had been bent over the desk.
A bath, some food, and she’d go back to bed for a while.
Food first or she might not make it through the bath. She scrounged around the kitchen, considered having food delivered, then changed her mind when she found Thai leftovers and a glazed doughnut for dessert.
The bath was almost as refreshing as brushing her teeth. She spent every day in T-shirts and sweatpants, what she called frumpy comfort. But to sleep she slid on a silk camisole and lace panties, her little self-indulgence. Never having to think about her appearance was just one perk of living in seclusion. A sad chuckle escaped at the sarcastic logic.
Gabrielle whipped back the covers on her bed, snuggled down beneath them, and drifted right off to deep sleep.
An annoying noise infiltrated her swirling dreams.
She tried to ignore the sound. Her body pleaded for her to ignore it, but the stupid sound wouldn’t leave her alone.
She’d have to disconnect her clock.
Ding, ding. Silence.
Ding, ding. Silence.
Gabrielle’s eyes flew open. Not the clock.
The security alarm.
CARLOS GRABBED HIS bag out of the overhead bin and filed into line exiting the airplane and headed for customs at Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport.
He checked his cell phone for the local time-4:00 p.m.-then keyed a text message to headquarters, informing the director he’d arrived and would head to Nashville as soon as he made a stop at home.
Calling the expansive four-bedroom cabin in the north-Georgia mountains home was a stretch since he didn’t own or rent it, but that was all he had. Telling lies about his past, such as that he’d grown up in Bolivia instead of Venezuela, hadn’t protected his identity. He’d even kept an apartment in Nashville at one time, until the Anguis soldier recognized him three years ago. After that, he stored his few belongings in the cabin, which served as a safe house. The only possession he truly cared about-the photo of him and his little brother when they were kids-was in the cabin’s safe. A rival of the Anguis’s had shot his brother to retaliate for a slight by Durand the day before the kid would have graduated, with honors, from college.
The cabin served as one of their many secure residences where any agent could spend downtime or take a prisoner temporarily.
All Carlos needed for a home.
All he’d ever risk having.
He scrubbed a hand over his cheek, scratching at the whiskers, too tired to bother shaving when he’d showered eleven hours ago. And if he didn’t get a haircut soon he’d have to start pulling his hair back into a ponytail. The yawn caught him off guard.
He’d stolen a catnap on the flight back from Charles de Gaulle Airport in France, but it hadn’t been worth a damn. His mind had refused to let him forget the lifeless feel of Mandy’s body when he’d carried her onto the helo…or the gruesome image that blossomed when he’d cut her out of the snowmobile suit. The sharp scent of blood had clashed with biting-cold air. He’d sucked in a breath at her washed-out skin and blue lips, the makeshift bandage soaked with what had appeared to be every drop of blood from her body.
A sick ball of failure had crashed through his gut.
But miraculously she’d still had a pulse. The medics started an immediate infusion and kept her alive until they reached a secure facility outside Paris where he’d left her.
Mandy’s prognosis sucked, but she hadn’t died in his arms.
She had a chance.
Gotthard would send word on Mandy as soon as he landed in Nashville. Korbin and Rae should be hitting D.C. and New York about now, everyone returning on separate flights for security.
Carlos stepped up to the customs desk and gave all the standard answers to wary-eyed officials. Did they practice looking suspicious in mirrors?
Welcome to the United States. Don’t even think about chewing gum the wrong way.
He maneuvered around pockets of weary passengers flowing toward the exit like a lazy stream and had reached the upstairs main terminal when his cell phone started buzzing.
When he flipped it open, one message popped up.
Call office immediately. Translation: Urgent.
Carlos keyed the speed dial.
“You through customs?” Joe said without any salutation.
“Yep.” Carlos pushed through the glass exit doors of the terminal. Smokers flooded the humid Atlanta air with nicotine as they sucked on either their first or last cigarette.
“We found the source.”
Mirage.
Last Carlos had heard before flying home was that BAD had traced the IP address to a computer in Russia, where Joe had extensive contacts. That could mean anything or anyone. A UK team from BAD had also been closing in on a London location right before his airplane lifted off. Which one found Mirage?
Carlos snapped to attention. He checked his watch, calculating the possibility of catching an international flight at this time of day.
“Great. Fly to Gatwick?” Carlos strode quickly to the other side of the airport thoroughfare where traffic flowed between the parking garage and the terminal. He could be headed anywhere in the world since the post had been bounced to a hacked computer system in Romania, then Russia. But the minute BAD had pinned down the Russian IP and gained authorization to trace the path from there, a team of agents on the ground and in BAD’s headquarters had waited on Mirage to make a mistake.
“No,” Joe told him. “That’s why I sent an urgent message. The bulk of our immediate resources were shipped to the UK as a starting point since language data programs we ran the posts through indicated our source could be from there, but that might have only been to throw us a curve.” Joe was saying the informant was either not in the UK or not from the UK.
“Where?” Carlos shook off any last exhaustion with that word, ready to track the bastard down.
“Georgia. Peachtree City.”
“Are you serious?” Carlos spun around and rushed up the ramp to the parking deck.
“Yes. That’s why I called you. I’ve only got one local asset and he’s on the way to the location.” Joe paused and sounded as though he sighed. “I sent instructor Lee.”
Carlos jammed his parking ticket into the payment kiosk and stuck his credit card in next, willing it to process quicker. “Instructor? When did that happen?” Instructor was code for “field agent” since this was not a secure line. Lee couldn’t be ready for prime time yet.
“Today. No choice. Nobody else close enough besides you.”
“Where is he?” Carlos snatched the paid ticket the minute the machine spit it out and picked up his pace, eyes searching for his steel-blue 750i BMW.
“Ten minutes away from the meet spot.”
“Send him a message to wait, no matter what-”
“I gave him guidelines. You’ll get a text with the meet location next. He has the rest.”
“I’ll be in touch.” Carlos shut the phone and found his car. Just in time to toss his bag into the trunk, climb behind the wheel, and release a scalding curse.
Welcome home. Deposit any hope of the day ending on a good note and charge toward a situation with as much planning as a train wreck.
The only redeeming factor?
Carlos got first shot at interrogating the snitch on Durand Anguis. To find out what angle Mirage was working. Informants always wanted something, always had an ulterior motive.
And he hadn’t met one yet that wasn’t a criminal.
He could list four countries off the top of his head that would jump at the chance to get this one. They could have him as soon as Carlos got what he wanted.
GABRIELLE JUMPED UP, tossed on a gray long-sleeved T-shirt and sweatpants, then shoved her feet into sneakers with Velcro clasps. The perfect shoes for quick exits. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand, which informed her she’d slept a half hour.
How long had the security alarm been sounding?
She hit the wall button to shut off the repeating double ring, then ran to the closet and snatched up a backpack that held clothes, money, passport, and a few more necessities. Always.
On the way to the living room, she took her hair out of the clamp at the back of her head, then twisted her hair up and stuck a cap over it. Swallowing was difficult. Fear climbed the constricted muscles of her throat and threatened to strangle her by the time she reached her desk. She lunged for her laptop, working the keys in between slinging a scarf around her neck and shrugging on her knee-length khaki trench coat. Two clicks of the mouse and her monitor split into six screens, showing the areas scanned by digital video cameras positioned around the house.
Five frames revealed nothing unusual.
Number six covered the yard leading up to the front door…where a giant man in an ill-fitting brown suit walked up the first step to her porch.
Slow, heavy steps thumped on the wooden boards.
Gabrielle snapped her laptop shut and shoved it into a case with a shoulder strap that held all the accessories. Where to go? She’d always planned on having enough notice to reach her four-wheel-drive Jeep and take a path through the woods, one advantage of living in a community with eighty miles of golf-cart paths. Her gaze slashed to the picture window at the rear of the house, filled with a serene image of Lake Peachtree and a boat dock with a runabout tied up. With a full gas tank.
She’d make a perfect target alone on the lake.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
He couldn’t be a salesman. The sign next to the mailbox at the head of the driveway stated clearly NO TRESPASSING, VIOLATORS WILL BE ARRESTED.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Gabrielle grabbed her car keys on the off chance she could reach her Jeep. Which would already have happened if she hadn’t been so exhausted so the alarm would have roused her faster.
From the other side of the door, a deep voice said, “Law enforcement. Open up.”
That froze her. FBI? If they’d tracked her electronically, he could very well be CIA since she’d routed everything through several bounced locations to an IP in London.
“The house is surrounded.”
Her heart jumped a foot.
Bloody hell. Options ran through her mind at blinding speed since she only had two.
Running, option one, was pointless.
Gabrielle accepted option two, turned around, and went to the foyer, hoping to bluff her way out. She plastered a smile on her face and opened the door.
“Can I help you? I was on my way out-” She paused to stare up six and a half feet off the floor at a face that would launch a million nightmares. Pocked skin, hulking posture, and a thick neck. Salt-and-pepper hair.
“You don’t look like Harry Beaker,” he said.
“I’m not. Harry isn’t here, but I’ll be happy to take a message for him.” More smiling. Could she be so lucky he was only looking for Harry? She clutched the door with one hand and the door frame with the other to hide her trembling.
“And you are?”
“Gabrielle Parker. I’m just a renter. I’ll make sure Harry gets your message, but I need to go or I’ll be late.” She’d call Harry the minute she got free if this guy really was looking for him. Harry was pushing ninety, an ex-marine and feisty. She doubted even the CIA could intimidate him.
“I’m not looking for Harry. I’m looking for you,” he said.
Her skin prickled at the threat in his voice. “Who are you?” That hadn’t come out like the demand she’d hoped for, but had been the best she could do with a dry throat and staring at someone who might be from Durand Anguis.
He reached inside his jacket.
Her heart thumped a panicked beat.
“Special Agent Curt Morton with the DEA,” he said, flipping his badge out for a couple seconds before closing the case and shoving it back inside his jacket. He offered her a smile she wished he hadn’t. Those big teeth and crooked nose were almost as scary as his flat gray eyes. “Sorry if I gave you a start, but I wanted to be sure before I said too much.”
“Sure of what?” she asked, breathless as someone who had just finished a five-mile race. Or close to hyperventilating.
“That you’re the one who’s been sending electronic messages to intelligence agencies about Durand Anguis.”
Busted. And exposed. Durand would find her for sure now.
CARLOS MOTIONED FOR Lee to follow him when he closed the door on a dark blue Suburban and stepped away. The vehicle was parked just off a private driveway in Peachtree City and hidden from the road by a copse of trees. With an unconscious driver.
His feet and hands were bound with flex cuffs, which would hold him until Carlos had time for a full interrogation. The driver had a DEA badge on him, but the credentials were phony.
Carlos couldn’t pull the thug’s real name to mind, but he’d seen that face and cauliflower ear before. The driver had been part of an electronics bust last year. Hired muscle who offered bargains.
Discount muscle was like eating cheap sushi.
A risk to your health.
Sticks snapped. Carlos cut his eyes at Lee, who grimaced at the noise. Rookies were a risk, too, but Joe wouldn’t send someone wet behind his ears. And Lee had ancient eyes in a young man’s face. Hard eyes, but he must have come off the streets and lacked experience in wooded terrain.
Waving a hand, Carlos dismissed the misstep and moved ahead, sorting through his options.
Someone had clearly beaten them to the informant. Who? And was the driver’s partner here to grab the informant…or meet with him? At least two had to be involved. The guy in the car was likely a lookout, a poor one, so the partner could be at the house by now.
Carlos moved quickly through the woods, parallel to the driveway. Light faded faster with each step, tossing shadows through the sparse woods.
Who had beaten him here?
He paused at a curve in the driveway where an open area-the front yard-appeared in the next twenty feet.
He turned to Lee. The young guy’s sharp hazel eyes burned with determination. Not quite eye level with Carlos or as heavy-built, Lee stood just over six feet tall, trim, muscular body dressed for the task in camo pants and long-sleeved, dark green shirt.
In spite of all that, this kid was too clean-cut for Carlos’s taste. What were Joe and his codirector, Tee, thinking these days?
Joe had given Lee strict marching orders about following anything Carlos said, without question. To that, Carlos had added one simple order-if things went bad, he wanted Lee to back off and contact Joe.
Do not, under any circumstances, play hero.
Voices approached from the open area just beyond them, too soft for Carlos to make out what the two people said.
He signaled with his hand for Lee to stop and back him up, but stay out of sight. Lee palmed his weapon and nodded. Carlos pulled his own 9 mm from the small of his back, and silently edged forward toward the pair talking.
“I D-DON’T KNOW what you’re talking about.” Gabrielle tried to chuckle, but the sound skidded close to hysterical.
Special Agent Morton wasn’t smiling. “You’re the one who sends information on Durand signed ‘Mirage.’ We’d like to talk to you.”
“I really don’t-”
“Miss Parker. Right now you’re considered an ally of the United States, but if you refuse to help, your status might change to being considered an accomplice to the Anguis crimes. We’ve obviously tracked you as the Mirage to this point electronically.” He stopped speaking, wisely allowing time for that little warning to settle in.
Accomplice? She swallowed, panic quivering just under the surface of her practiced calm. At least he was with U.S. authorities, not Durand, but leaving here with him would not end well. “C’est des conneries!”
“What’d you say?” His thick eyebrows bunched in confusion.
She clutched the shoulder strap of her bag in a tight fist. “This is bullshit. I have done nothing wrong.” After years of shielding her identity from the Anguis, she’d lose her anonymity the minute the DEA processed her. Roberto’s attempts on her life would pale compared to what she believed Durand would do. “Can we just talk here?”
He shook his head.
“Do I need an attorney present?” Not that she had one, but she could buy time hunting one.
“No. We want to keep this as quiet as you do and protect your anonymity.”
Who could argue with that?
She looked past him. “Where’s your car?”
“At the entrance to your driveway. Saw the warning. Figured I might risk a flat tire by coming down the drive.”
“Is the house really surrounded by agents or police?”
“No, but I do have backup.” The gruesome smile appeared again. Why did he even try?
She reached around and pulled the door closed. “I don’t know what you are talking about, but I’ll cooperate. I’ll follow in my car.”
Special Agent Morton shook his head again. “We ride in mine. I’ll have you driven home.” He moved an arm to point toward the driveway as if the way to the car wasn’t obvious. When he did, his jacket shifted open, exposing a shoulder holster with a gun.
If she made too big of a fuss, he could just arrest her.
She fumbled with the key, finally locking the dead bolt after two tries. As they said here in the States, just go with the flow for now.
He waited as she walked down the steps ahead of him. Each pace away from the house hurt. This had been the best place she’d lived. She couldn’t come back here. Harry’s rental house was one of the original homesteads in this planned community, with a paved drive a quarter mile long and hidden by trees on both sides. She trudged through a fresh layer of leaves covering the front yard she’d raked just yesterday.
Striding alongside her, the DEA agent flipped his phone open, punched a key, and waited.
“Why do you think I’m some Mirage person?” she asked. Where had she screwed up, and who else might have caught her mistake? When he didn’t respond, she looked over her shoulder. He’d slowed, but extended those long legs twice, then stopped next to her so she stayed put.
He punched buttons on his phone again, and since he used it like a two-way radio, she could hear the ringing at the other end. No answer.
The flash of suspicion he turned on her now twisted his ugly features to truly evil.
Chill bumps spiked along her skin.
CARLOS WAITED SILENTLY as the two men walked side by side toward the driveway. The tall one could have played Lurch on The Addams Family. The smaller guy was maybe a couple inches over five feet tall. He wore a khaki trench coat and carried a laptop shoulder case plus a backpack.
And little guy’s voice had been high when he said, “Why do you think I’m this Mirage person?”
Damn. Could he be the informant everyone in the intelligence world was searching for?
Carlos slowed his breathing, completely silent so he could hear the conversation. Lee had become perfectly still.
The mismatched pair paused ten feet from where Carlos stood without moving a muscle. Lurch had punched his cell phone and waited. When no one answered, something registered behind that flat forehead that flipped his pissed-off switch.
Two things hit Carlos at the moment Lurch snarled, “Who did you alert that I was here?” at the little guy.
Lurch was Baby Face Jones, a master electronics felon who contracted out for special side jobs, such as kidnapping and torture, when the coffers ran low.
And the little guy-the possible informant-was a woman.
Her face turned a pasty white. She mumbled, “No one.”
She sure wasn’t what Carlos had imagined.
Baby Face grabbed her by the arm. “Come on.” He lifted his phone with the other hand to key it with his thumb.
Now for the train-wreck part of this operation since Carlos couldn’t risk that Baby Face would bring in more men.
“Stop right there.” Carlos stepped from the brush, his weapon pointed at the pair.
Baby Face’s head whipped to Carlos. He released the woman and his phone in one movement and drew a weapon, finger on trigger. Firing.
Carlos shot first, catching Baby Face in the shoulder, the only option he had to knock the incoming bullet wide and not kill Baby Face or hit the woman. But the bullet passed close enough for Carlos to feel heat brush his ear.
The woman screamed, eyes startled in horror at Baby Face, who hit the ground, howling.
Lee jumped into view.
Carlos spun to Lee. “I hit his shoulder. Stop the bleeding and-”
“She’s running!”
Carlos whipped back around to see her legs chewing up ground toward the far end of the one-level brick house. “Son of a bitch.” He ran after her.
She was quicker than he’d have guessed. She raced around the corner, disappearing.
When he made it to the backyard, she’d already reached a long dock and flew down the wooden walkway, skidding to a stop before the bench at the end. She tossed her computer bag and backpack into a small runabout and jumped in. He could see her now, but in another fifteen minutes the twilight would fade into night.
Without slowing a step, Carlos shoved his weapon inside the waistband at the small of his back, freeing his hands since she hadn’t appeared to be armed. He reached the spot where the boat had been tied just as the outboard she was yanking on caught with a low growl. She shoved off and stood, heading for the steering wheel while the boat floated in neutral.
When his foot hit the last section of dock closest to her, he used that step as a springboard, going airborne. He cleared the six feet of space to the boat, catching a handful of her on the fly, knocking her overboard with him.
She screeched, “No!” as they hit the cold water on the other side of the boat.
Carlos surfaced with a hand still clutching her jacket.
She twisted around, coughing, then fought and kicked loose, catching him in the ribs with her shoe. He grunted, lunged, and snagged her again as she sank. He yanked her around until he had her back to his front, but she was sinking both of them.
“Stop it,” he ordered.
She kept flailing her arms and gasping for air. “Help!”
He locked one arm around her middle to free his other arm. The boat was closer than the shore by now, but neither would be an option until she stopped fighting him. “Calm down or we’ll drown.”
She was gulping for air and squeezing out terror-filled shrieks that died in a mouthful of water. “I…can’t…swim.”
Oh, hell. “I can…if you don’t fight me.” He was kicking his legs so hard to keep them afloat his muscles burned.
She stopped moving, all except the deep, wheezing breaths.
Carlos glanced around, hoping Lee could deal with Baby Face and watch both their backs at the same time. The informant shook so hard against him, he expected hysterics any moment. He didn’t know what her story was…yet, but he had to keep her alive long enough to find out.
“Take it easy,” he said, this time in a calmer voice. “I’ll get you to the boat.”
“Who…” She breathed hard a couple times. “Are…you?”
“Do what I say and you won’t get hurt.”
She stiffened at that, then seemed to realize she’d slowed their progress and relaxed some.
He pulled her along as he swam until they reached the boat. She leaped to grab the side as if this runabout were the only life raft in a raging sea.
He’d heard this was a shallow lake. How deep could it be here? Six feet?
But if she thought the water was a deep lagoon, he wasn’t telling her any different.
Carlos put his hands around her waist and moved his lips close to her ear before lifting her. “When I get you in this boat, do not make any sudden moves. Don’t try to run away or put the boat in gear or I’ll throw you back overboard. Do you understand?”
She nodded. Her knuckles were turning bone white from her death grip on the boat rail.
Threatening to put her back in the water wouldn’t help calm her down, but it might prevent her from doing something really stupid like trying to use the oar on him.
He kept his voice calm. “When I give you a push, roll into the boat.”
Another silent nod.
He lifted her and she lunged into the boat, legs kicking to the point he had to duck or lose his head. As soon as more of her was in than out, he hoisted himself up and over the side.
She huddled in a ball at the back. Cap gone, her hair hung in wet clumps.
“Come up here where I can see you.” He motioned toward the passenger seat with his hand.
No movement.
“Now.”
She raised belligerent eyes wild with fear.
Carlos shoved a handful of soaked hair off his face. She was still freaked-out. He’d have to go get her. He never let anyone sit behind him, definitely not a felon.
He moved to reach for her, but she held up a hand to stop him, the action almost regal and elegant in spite of the soaked trench coat and sneakers. She pushed up and teetered her way to sit in the plastic passenger seat, her wide eyes never leaving him.
Fair enough. He wasn’t taking his eyes off her either. He sat on the top edge of the driver’s seat and shifted the outboard motor into forward, cruising back to the dock. Cold air seeped through his wet clothes. He glanced at her huddled form shivering against the chill and thought about the blanket in the trunk of his car. She should be okay until then.
When they reached the wooden planks, he cut the outboard motor, tied up the boat, and jumped out, offering her a hand.
That she refused.
She grabbed her backpack and computer bag, then climbed out, careful not to get too close to him.
“Let’s go.” He waited for her to move forward.
“What will you do with me?” She had a lush French voice, laced with a sophistication that carried a soft British accent. But those exotic blue eyes and high cheekbones were decidedly French.
“Haven’t decided that yet.”
“You murdered a-”
“He’s not dead,” he said before she could accuse him of murdering Baby Face. “Takes a lot more to kill him than a bullet in the shoulder.” Carlos pointed the way he wanted her to go and she finally started moving.
She trembled with each step.
Carlos had to clamp down on the urge to comfort her. She’d been leaving with Baby Face Jones, a known electronics felon who made his living by online pirating and financial scams.
Had Baby Face come to kidnap her or was she cutting a deal with him?
She’d appeared to be leaving voluntarily.
Baby Face was a genius when it came to electronics, but Carlos doubted even Baby Face could have found the informant without aid from someone with deep pockets. Someone who could give him access to megacomputers equal to The Monster, BAD’s computer supersystem Joe swore was unmatched anywhere else in the intelligence field. Just one of many questions Baby Face was going to answer once Carlos and Lee took him into headquarters.
Was this woman really the infamous Mirage?
Had the entire intelligence world been overlooking something obvious Baby Face had stumbled on?
Hard to accept that possibility, which meant he’d had help.
When Carlos rounded the house, Lee was nowhere to be found. What the hell was he doing?
Carlos directed the woman to keep moving a step ahead of him toward where Baby Face lay on the ground. There was no sign of Lee or anything stuffed on Baby Face’s shoulder to stop the blood flow.
She reached Baby Face first and backed up, whispering, “Mon Dieu.”
Carlos stepped up ahead of her. Baby Face bled profusely from a sliced throat.
Something had gone very bad.
She inched away, making noises that normally preceded gut puking.
He didn’t have time for her to be sick. In fact, Carlos would bet they were lucky to even be alive and that Lee had not fared as well. Whoever grabbed Lee might not have realized Carlos had been around the backside of the house chasing this woman into the lake.
The thought of Lee dead sucked, but if Carlos stopped to think about the waste of a young life, two more would be snuffed out next.
He grabbed the front of his captive’s wet jacket, spinning her terror-rimmed eyes to his, then spoke low. “Listen up. We’ve got to go. Whoever killed him might come back.”
Shock blanched her face even whiter before her eyes sharpened to two angry slits. “You mean your buddy didn’t do this?”
“No, he’s probably dead, too.”
That stunned her. “Who would kill both of them?”
“We can talk or try to get out of here alive.” When that registered on her face, he asked, “You got keys to that Jeep?”
“I’m not helping you.” She whispered the words, underlining you at the end with a slur.
“Oh, yes, you are unless you want to end up with your throat slit…or worse.”
That struck a nerve. She shook like a wet dog and took another step back. White showed all around the iris of her eyes, the perfect picture of a terrified woman.
If tears followed, hysterics wouldn’t be far behind.
Merde! He had no time for that or to calm her down. Carlos grabbed the lapels of her coat, pulling her so close he could see tears hanging on her silky eyelashes. “You can either hand over the keys or I’ll strip-search you right here.” He hated to use that threat, but it did the trick.
She didn’t cry.
The mean look she gave him would force a rabid dog to back down. She shoved her hand into the pocket of her coat and produced a small ring with two keys. One was for an automotive ignition and the other looked like a house key.
Carlos took the keys, then latched onto her arm and towed her across the yard to where a ten-year-old dingy-white Jeep Wrangler was parked. With a freakin’ soft-top, but at least it had the little half doors on each side. If he didn’t have her to deal with, his chances on foot would be better, but getting this informant to headquarters in one piece was his sole priority at the moment.
She was BAD’s only connection to the Fratelli.
And he had to find out just how much she knew about the Anguis.
He hurried her into the Jeep and watched to make sure she stayed in while he circled to the driver’s side. When he slid behind the wheel, he told her, “Scoot down to the floorboard.”
“Why?”
“You’ll be less of a target. I don’t have time to answer questions and keep you alive, so do what I tell you when I tell you.”
“Why?”
He cranked the engine. “You got a problem with your hearing?”
“No, I hear just fine.” She sat perched on the seat, pure defiance in contrast to the fear pulsing from her in waves.
“Then you must be dense,” he muttered, steering out to the driveway and watching everything at once.
“No, I’m not dense.”
“Then what exactly are you having a problem understanding?”
“Why don’t you just kill me right now?”
He tossed quick glances at her as he eased the Jeep past the body on the lawn and started down the driveway with the headlights off. He had enough twilight to see the driveway.
“What makes you think I want to kill you?” he asked, his gaze sweeping everywhere for a threat.
“You’re Anguis, right?”