Baggage Claim (Tru Exceptions - Christian Romantic Suspense Book 1) (5 page)

Rachel felt humiliation wash over her in waves. Had she really been that wrong in reading him? Had she really been that obvious in her interest? She had been so sure of their mutual attraction. Now, to find out she had been completely wrong was like someone had just pulled a chair out from under her right as she was going to sit down.

Rachel was a confident young woman in every area of her life, except one. Now, all of her insecurities about her love-life came flooding over her. He didn't want her. He didn't like her. There must be something wrong with her that no decent guy ever seemed to be interested in her romantically.

"Can I ask you a question?" Rachel asked calmly. "You said you had to kiss me twice in order to protect me. How exactly were you protecting me when you kissed me in the warehouse?"

"You were breathing too heavily," he answered simply, unemotionally. "One of the terrorists was getting too close. You were so scared you were practically hyperventilating. Your breathing was loud and irregular. I knew he would find us if he heard you, so I did the only thing I could think of to get you quiet fast."

"You kissed me because I was breathing too heavily?" Rachel asked, disbelief in her tone.

"It's not like I could have verbally told you to be quiet. Kissing you was the fastest way to shut you up."

"But did you have to do it so thoroughly?" Rachel demanded, her anger rising so rapidly that the normal filter from her brain to her mouth wasn't working properly. From previous experience, Rachel knew this greatly increased the chances of her saying things she would later regret.

"Look, I'm sorry if you felt misled. I was just doing my job, and right now, you and your protection are part of that job. It's really nothing against you personally. I make it a policy to never get involved with women from the cases I work. Ever."

"I understand," Rachel said, her serene voice contradicting her true emotions. She stood to her feet. "And if it makes you feel better, I really don't think you misled me. In your mind, you were just doing your job."

"Yes, I was," Dawson said, also rising and standing beside her. "I'm glad you understand."

Rachel took her half empty water bottle and removed the cap, as if to drink. Suddenly, she jerked the bottle forward, flinging a heavy stream of water straight into Dawson's face and chest.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Rachel crooned, feeling intense satisfaction at watching Dawson sputter. "I don't normally do that kind of thing. I actually make it a policy to never fling water at unsuspecting men. Ever. But, I guess sometimes someone who really deserves it comes along, and, I don't know what comes over me. I have to make an exception. But, don't worry, Hollywood, I don't plan on making a habit of it."

As Dawson ran his hand down his wet face, Rachel thought she detected a glint of humor in his eye, but she couldn't be sure.

"Come along, Montana, we need to get moving," he said, obviously choosing a timely retreat from their previous discussion. "I heard sirens headed toward the fire. Our friendly terrorists are going to know that we escaped from the building, and they're not going to want to stick around after the fire department sets up camp."

Dawson once again took possession of the suitcase as he and Rachel began walking to the other end of the alley.

"I don't even understand why they set that fire in the first place," Rachel said, more than willing to call a truce, at least for now. "Weren't they afraid that the fire would ignite the explosives in the bomb?"

"No. I think the metal case that houses the explosives is probably fire proof. Worst case scenario would be that the fire would destroy some of the wiring. But that would be easy to replace, and the important part of the bomb would still be intact. Ideally, I think they were hoping we would try to make an escape out of the building and bring the bomb to them."

"But what if we didn't? Why would they risk it? They wouldn't be able to retrieve the bomb with the building in flames and the fire departments arriving on scene."

"Don't underestimate these people, Rachel. They're professional terrorists and have spent much of their lives planning for situations like these. More than likely, they were ready with some uniforms that would enable them to blend in with the firemen until the fire was out. Then, they could just go in and retrieve the bomb."

Rachel thought, still not completely satisfied with the explanation. "But how would they know where to find it? That warehouse had a lot of square footage. How could they even hope to locate a suitcase in it, especially after it had been heavily damaged by fire?"

Having reached the end of the alley where it met the street, Dawson suddenly stopped walking, a strange look on his face. "They would have had to… track it!"

Dawson grabbed Rachel's shoulder and pulled her into the shadows. Clutching his cell phone, he made a call.

"Is tracking on the bomb still disabled?" he asked urgently. "Are you sure? Check again."

Rachel gradually became aware of footsteps approaching slowly from at least two different directions.

"Never mind," he snapped.

Hanging up, he caught Rachel's hand in his free one and whispered, "Keep close."

 They turned and ran down the sidewalk. Although Dawson tried to keep to the shadows, the streetlights stationed at regular intervals were still able to illuminate their progress. The sound of running footsteps echoed from behind them.

Rachel had no idea what Dawson's plan was, or even if he had one. But, they were already both tired and winded from the fire. There was no way they could outrun the terrorists, and there was no way they could sneak through the shadows and escape. Even if they could manage to lose their pursuers, it wouldn't be for long if they were being tracked as Dawson suspected. It seemed hopeless.

But, surely, they wouldn't shoot them in the back here on the street. There were too many cars, and the sidewalks were increasingly filled with people. Nevertheless, Rachel braced herself, waiting to feel a gunshot hit her back even as they dodged around other pedestrians.

Though Rachel's lungs felt like they would burst, they hadn't run far before Dawson took a sharp left, leading her to a building with a long line of people out front. Going directly to the front of the line, Dawson showed some kind of card or ID, and the sentinels moved aside to let them in.

As they walked through the door, Dawson leaned over to Rachel's ear. "If they really are tracking us, then our best chance is to be around lots of people. We won't be open targets, and, hopefully, it'll be much more difficult to pinpoint our exact location."

Rachel looked around the large room, finding that they were in a crowded nightclub. A long bar ran along one side while most of the open area was taken up by a sea of dancing people. At the front of the room, a live band was playing deafening music while overhead, multicolored lights blinked and partied to the beat.

Holding her elbow, Dawson guided Rachel through the room, passing sights that were so foreign to the Montana girl they may as well have been visiting another planet. People, many of them wearing very little, were dancing in contortions that Rachel had not ever imagined. The fluctuating lights in the dark room gave everything an eerie, unreal look. Reaching the very center of the room, Dawson stopped. Still holding the suitcase in one hand, he grabbed Rachel around the waist and began dancing.

Dawson must have seen the stark terror in her eyes and misinterpreted it. "Relax. Just dance like everyone else and maybe they won't even notice us."

"I can't," Rachel said, shaking her head adamantly. "I have no idea how to dance like this. I can do a pretty good line dance, and my brother taught me how to swing, but this…? No."

Dawson actually laughed at her fear, pulling her closer. "Don't worry. You gave a great performance in front of your hotel earlier. Just do it again. I can handle having my toes stepped on for one night. It's not like I'm going to make a habit out of dancing with you."

Rachel glared at Dawson, feeling her earlier anger replace her fear, which, she later realized, was probably exactly what Dawson intended.

Leaning in closer to him, she began swaying to the music, mimicking some of the movements of the people around her. Warming up, she threw herself into the role. Gyrating, messing with her hair, leaning in toward Dawson--she figured if she was going to do it, she might as well go all the way and look absolutely ridiculous like everyone else.

Dawson's nearness sent goose bumps creeping along her skin. Feeling the pressure of his body next to hers as they danced made her pulse race. Rachel once again felt the current between them, like the attraction between two magnets.
Stop, Rachel,
she ordered herself firmly, closing her eyes briefly and trying to talk the feelings away.
It's not real. You're nothing to him. It's all in your imagination.

She avoided his eyes, imagining his scorn and knowing he'd be able to read the emotions on her face. She needed a distraction.

Purposely pressing close to him, she spoke into his ear. "You stink, Hollywood… literally."

"Trust me, Montana, you don't smell like a rose either."

Rachel realized, after being in a fire, they probably looked about as good as they smelled. Dawson's clothes were filthy and the smell of smoke was overpowering. Of course, she would have to claim at least half of that odor as her own. She was somewhat amazed that their appearance didn't seem to be attracting the attention of those around them. But, given the smorgasbord of fashion already on display, maybe that wasn't so surprising.

"Time to start making our exit," Dawson said abruptly, still dancing but pulling Rachel along to the opposite side of the room from where they entered.

Looking over his shoulder, Rachel saw at least two men threading their way through the dancers and zeroing in on their location. She lost sight of them as Dawson moved more rapidly through the club. Using a door behind the stage, they found themselves in a storage area obviously meant for employee use only.

Before they made it to the door marked 'Exit,' they heard the other door they'd just come through slam shut. Quickly, they pushed open the large metal exit door and entered the alley that ran behind the building. To the right was a dead end. The wall of another brick building cut off any escape that direction. To the left, the alley extended the length of the nightclub before meeting with another alley running perpendicular.

"They're too close behind us," Dawson said hurriedly. "We'll never make it out of here, especially with them tracking our every move."

He took out his gun and positioned himself behind the door. "We're going to have to make our stand here. Get behind the dumpster, Rachel," Dawson ordered, indicating the large metal hulk in the corner.

Heart pounding, Rachel obeyed, crouching on the other side of the dumpster, but making sure she still had a good vantage point for watching Dawson. They waited.

Suddenly, a gloved hand clamped over Rachel's mouth and she was pulled back roughly. A muscular forearm held her back tight against her assailant's body. She couldn't move. She couldn't scream. She felt the pressure of something cold and hard on her temple. Though completely dark, it took less than a second for Rachel to realize she now had a gun to her head.

Dragging her from behind, her assailant pulled her back toward Dawson. As her feet tripped and slid across the pavement, Dawson whirled their direction right as the door to the nightclub opened. Another terrorist stepped out, immediately aiming his gun at Dawson.

"Put down your gun nice and slow," the man holding Rachel said calmly, his voice free of any identifiable accent. "If you try anything, she's dead."

Dawson immediately put his hands up in surrender, his gun still in his right hand. Slowly, deliberately, he began to put it down, making every effort to show his cooperation.

Rachel's thoughts went on overdrive. She knew the second Dawson's gun hit the ground, they'd both be killed. Guns were trained on both of them. There didn't seem to be any scenario where they would live past the next few minutes.

She couldn't let Dawson put that gun down. Even if she was killed, Dawson had to stay alive so he could prevent the terrorists from getting that bomb. If she was going to die anyway, she might as well make it count. Her daddy didn't raise a girl who would go down without a fight.

Within the split second it took for the flood of thoughts to rush through her head, Rachel reacted. She quickly turned her head to the left, directly toward the barrel of the gun. The movement loosened her attacker's grip on her just a fraction. Immediately her right hand shot up, grabbing his gun hand. Spinning out of his hold, her left hand grabbed the gun and twisted it backward out of the man's hand. Before the terrorist had even realized what she was doing, Rachel had escaped and now held his own weapon trained directly to his forehead.

Rachel heard a gunshot. Keeping her eyes on the shocked terrorist in front of her, she shifted her position to see Dawson standing upright, gun in firing position. Apparently, with his gun almost to the ground, he had seen Rachel's movement, brought his weapon up and fired at the terrorist whose gun was aimed at him.

Confirming his enemy on the ground was dead, Dawson confiscated the dead man's weapon and came over to Rachel. Removing a pair of handcuffs from somewhere, Dawson handcuffed the other terrorist.

Rachel heard a sound, like a small piece of metal rolling across the asphalt.

"Come on," Dawson said quietly. "We have to get out of here."

They sprinted back to the door of the nightclub, Rachel grabbing the suitcase while Dawson brought the prisoner.

Backs against the wall, Dawson paused, as if indecisive which direction posed the least risk.

"I saw at least two terrorists following us in the nightclub," Rachel whispered.

"This other one was obviously waiting out here to cover this exit," Dawson mused. "One came out the door, but where is the other one from inside?"

Gunshots rang out, hitting the walls and pinging against the metal dumpster.

"I guess that answers that," Dawson said, pulling open the door and reentering the building.

Pulling the large metal door shut behind them, he locked it and slid several other deadbolts in place. He then looked around the darkened back stage area. Opening a door to his left, he pulled their prisoner in behind him and motioned for Rachel to follow as well. While the terrorist wasn't putting up a fight, he also wasn't accommodating. He moved slowly, as if waiting for a rescue or an opportunity to escape. His limited cooperation was probably only obtained because Rachel still kept the weapon steadily pointed at its owner.

The room they entered was more like a large closet, obviously used for storage and maintenance supplies. An exposed light bulb hung from the ceiling, providing an artificial glow over the heavily-stocked shelves and the equipment and other junk stationed in the corners and randomly throughout the room.

Wasting no time, Dawson patted down the terrorist, searching him from head to toe. He found no other weapon but removed his wallet and some other small items, which he stuffed into the front pocket of the suitcase.

Grabbing a white barkeeper's apron off a shelf, Dawson gagged the prisoner. Rummaging around, he located some long cords like those used to tie back curtains. Quickly, Dawson expertly tied the man's hands and feet.

Dawson's phone beeped. He answered it and listened.

"Thank God!" He breathed, then reported hurriedly. "We apprehended one of the terrorists. There are others around, so we have to get out of here now. You'll have to come pick him up. He's gagged and tied up in the storage closet backstage. Just look at my tracker right now and mark the location."

He paused and listened. "How close…? Okay, got it."

After hanging up, he bent to check the ties one more time to make sure the prisoner was secure.

Rachel asked, "If you were going to have your associates pick him up, why did you take his wallet?"

"A little insurance," Dawson replied. "I don't have time to question him. There's always a chance he will escape, be killed, or kill himself before they can collect and question him. If that happens or if he just refuses to talk, at least we will have some info and a lead to track down."

Returning to the door, Dawson shut off the light and cautiously opened the door a crack. Seeing and hearing nothing, he opened it wider and stepped back into the backstage area. After Rachel followed, Dawson shut the door behind them, leaving the prisoner in the dark. They retraced their steps from earlier, going back to the entrance of the nightclub.

"They said the tracking device on the bomb has been disabled again," Dawson whispered. "But, we still have to make it out of here. Our best chance is to go back through the nightclub and try to blend in with the crowd."

As Dawson's hand turned the knob, Rachel suddenly realized she still held a gun in her hand. Dawson had a holster of some kind that hid his gun beneath his jacket. Rachel had nothing. Not knowing what else to do, she impulsively lifted the bottom hem of her shirt and placed the gun underneath it. Thankfully, the gun was very small, but it was a little unnerving to feel the cold weapon against her bare skin.

As they reentered the nightclub, she kept her hand on the gun from outside her shirt and tried to make her hand position cover the shape of the gun and
look as natural as possible. Hopefully, her shirt was blousy enough that the casual observer wouldn't even notice.

Dawson didn't bother dancing and playing the part this time. Instead, he made a beeline for the entrance, heading straight through the middle of the dance floor and swerving around the closely packed couples. Rachel had difficulty following his erratic path.

They reached the entrance right as a large crowd was exiting. Grabbing Rachel's free hand, he positioned them in the center of the throng as they moved outside. Their connected hands kept them from being separated by the jostling bodies around them.

Once outside, the tightly packed crowd loosened. Keeping their hands together, they walked quickly with the pedestrian traffic for several blocks. At a busy intersection, Dawson finally paused. Rachel realized this intersection must have a lot of nightlife destinations, as there was heavy traffic on both the streets and sidewalks.

"This seems like a good place to be inconspicuous for a few minutes," Dawson said, backing them up into the shadows of a building.

They stood in silence a few moments as Dawson seemed to focus on analyzing every detail of their surroundings.

Finally, he gently pulled Rachel to stand directly in front of him.

Placing his hands on her shoulders and looking directly at her, his gaze intense, he said, "First, you used a gun better than most professionals, making an unbelievable shot to take out the car chasing us. Then, you escaped from a terrorist with a gun to your head, disarmed him, and took him prisoner with his own weapon!" With shock and admiration in his eyes, he asked in a completely awed and bewildered voice, "Who ARE you?"

Rachel had an insane desire to giggle. "You read my file--my dossier. Remember?" she replied. "You already know everything there is to know about me. I'm nobody special. Just Rachel Saunders from Montana."

Now that they were finally standing still, the effects of the adrenaline were catching up with Rachel. She was breathless, and her legs felt weak and wobbly. She suddenly realized her hand was cramping as it still had a death-grip hold on the gun under her shirt. Taking the gun out, she handed the weapon to Dawson with shaky fingers.

"You keep it," he said, refusing to take it. "Obviously, you need and deserve your own gun."

"I already have plenty of my own guns. I just couldn't bring them on the plane," she said, trying to keep her tone of voice steady.

Rachel looked down at the gun in her hand. Dawson wanted her to keep it, but it made her nervous. She didn't know what to do with it. But, she also realized that for safety, she probably needed to keep it in case something happened and Dawson needed help. Finally, lacking a better place, she returned it back under her shirt. Thankfully, the Walther 9mm was so small it was easy and inconspicuous to carry. She'd recognized it as one of the newer weapons, one she probably would have loved to take target practicing under normal circumstances. But, now, it had lost a little of its appeal.

She felt Dawson's eyes on her, but ignored him, focusing instead on masking her shaking limbs. She needed to seem strong and capable, but her body was playing the traitor. Now that she was just earning some respect from Dawson, she didn't want him thinking she was a weak, dependent female.

A couple seated on a bench a few yards to their left got up, leaving the bench vacant. To Rachel's relief, Dawson moved to sit down. Her legs felt like wet noodles, and she hadn't been sure how long they could keep supporting her. Reaching the bench, Rachel's muscles felt like they finally gave up the ghost and she plopped down. Dawson sat uncomfortably close. Rachel had to stop herself from scooting further away to recover her personal space.

"So, Rachel Saunders from Montana, how did you learn to shoot like a sniper and fight like a black belt?"

"My dad," Rachel replied. "He has a black belt in karate and is also a very good shot with almost any kind of gun."

"Sounds like a guy I'd like to know." Dawson's voice was casual and matched his relaxed position as he lounged on the bench. Yet, though seemingly unperturbed, Rachel noted there was still tension in his body and his eyes never stopped moving as they scanned every detail of their surroundings.

Trying to mimic Dawson's laid-back attitude, Rachel spoke. "My older brother, Phillip, has never really shared any of the same interests as Dad. Even as a kid, he never liked the ranch and had no desire for Dad to teach him anything. So, my dad taught me. I had to learn to shoot to protect the animals at the ranch. Dad always said I was a natural shot. He also wanted me to learn to protect myself. He taught me everything, including how to disarm an opponent who had a gun to your head--not that I've ever had to use martial arts in a real life situation before. I'm happy to know that it actually works."

"And it apparently works very well," Dawson said. "What about your brother? Did your dad end up eventually teaching him too?"

"No, Phillip has made his own path just about as far away from Montana as he can get. He's currently in Florida and loving it. He and my parents are still on great terms. They've always allowed him the freedom to follow his own dreams and make his own choices. But, I'm probably a lot closer to our parents than he is, simply because I love the ranch and share their interests.”

With a jolt, Rachel felt Dawson's arm move across the back of the bench and pull her close. She shot a glare his direction.

"What?" he whispered innocently yet with a wicked gleam in his eye, as if he knew exactly what he was doing and was thoroughly enjoying her discomfort. "We have to keep up appearances."

Rachel responded with a seething stare, but didn't move away.

"Your dad must be very proud of you," Dawson said conversationally, continuing their previous topic as if nothing had changed.

After being so ornery, was he now trying to flatter his way back into her good graces?

"You were obviously a great student for him," he continued.

Rachel shrugged, trying to get over her discomfort. "I guess I've always been a Daddy's girl."

"It's a little more than that, Rachel. I mean, you were quite impressive. I didn't think we were going to make it out of that alley alive. I had no idea you knew how to do something like that, let alone that you would be courageous enough to try it. You had a gun to your head! I don't think most agents or law enforcement officers could have done what you did." Dawson's restless eyes settled on her thoughtfully. "Maybe I should say YOU ARE quite impressive."

Rachel ducked her head as she felt her face warming from his praise. She certainly didn't feel like she deserved it. She had never felt fear like she had when that gun was to her head. But, she had known that their only chance to survive was for her to do something. So, she did what her dad had trained her over and over to do. Brave? No. Courageous? No. Desperate and scared past logical reason? Definitely yes.

Rachel finally risked a glance up at Dawson and couldn't look away. His intense eyes locked with hers. She felt the web of attraction drawing them together.

 In the dim glow from the streetlights, Rachel saw his eyes darken. He was so close now.