Blowback (The Black Cipher Files Book 1) (6 page)

I had twenty bucks and no syringe. There was only one place to go. Good thing I’d flipped through his wallet when I’d examined his duffel. I gave the cabbie an intersection in Lucas’s neighborhood and slunk down in the seat. I wanted that syringe back.

He switched the meter on and took off.

I waved the twenty at him. “Run the meter for five bucks worth, get me as close to that intersection as you can, and the rest is yours.”

SEVEN

I wanted that syringe back.

I’d walked the last six blocks to Lucas’s townhouse. He wasn’t home yet, so I waited in the shadows on his cement steps.

Darkness blanketed the sidewalk. Old fashioned street lamps illuminated the cement in little pools of light, but kept the garage entrance fairly dark.

The Ford Focus cruised down the street. I straightened and slipped into the shadows near the garage door. Lucas punched a code into the electronic gadget aimed at his garage. The car idled as he waited for the door to rise. If there was a perfect time for an ambush, it was now.

Not the time to let down my guard.

My heartbeat slowed and I settled into familiar alertness as the single barn-like door rose. I slid into the garage quickly.

Pure fluorescent light, shockingly bright in the blackness, shone in my face like an interrogation floodlight. I squinted against the strong rays.

Lucas angled the car in with a burst of gas. The garage door started rolling down before the car even bumped the pvc pipe designed to stop it from hitting the wall.

He shut off the engine and opened the door slowly. I knew he’d seen me. He probably expected me. "We need to talk."

Not a chance.

Lucas sighed and stepped out of the car, the syringe nowhere to be seen.

“Just give me the syringe.” I figured reasoning with him was the only way to go. In a day, I’d lost half my evidence, my competence and my confidence. But I’d never let him see that. “And I’ll be out of your way.”

His gaze cut to the back seat of the car. “No.”

The duffel.

I reached for the back door.

He grabbed my wrist in his left hand, clenching so tightly his fingers whitened. “No.”

I thought about arguing. I thought about physically attacking, but he looked pissed.

And I had no idea why.

The puzzle of his anger tugged at me when I shouldn’t even care. I needed to focus on who was coming after me--and what was in that syringe.

“You’d be better off if you just let me go.” We both knew I wasn't talking about my wrist.

“I can't.” His fingers loosened on my wrist, his thumb rubbing against the pulse gently. “You need help.”

Nope. I needed a phone, a computer and a place to regroup and reassess. And I would find one--alone.

As soon as I got the syringe back.

I tugged my wrist away from his grasp and the sweep of his thumb against my pulse. I grabbed the door handle to the back seat, yanked it open, and reached into the back seat for the duffel bag.

I monitored his movements while I scrabbled through the duffel. Lucas took two steps to a refrigerator in the corner. He keyed a passcode into a panel on the front and the refrigerator popped open with a hiss.

He’d out maneuvered me. I hit my head on the door frame as I tried to squeeze back out of the car. I caught a glimpse of some wine bottles, as he tossed the syringe inside then shut the refrigerator door with a snick.

Fuck. I'd let him distract me.

“Open it.” I swung the duffel forward and back, bursting and sparking with electric fury.

I’d fucked up my mission. Since escaping, I’d almost been captured, twice. I’d lost evidence. I had to pull it together. Irrationally, the syringe represented the chance to reverse the course of this mess. If I could just get it back, things would return to normal. Or as normal as my life was.

He lifted his hand as if to touch me.

I knocked away the tender gesture.

"They had access to your tracking beacon,” he stated gently. “Either you have a government agency after you or someone sold you out."

Yeah. Tell me something I don’t know.

I needed that freaking syringe. And I needed to know what was so important they’d have multiple surveillance teams in place. And who the fuck they were. “Open the refrigerator.”

He put his hands on his hips. “It’s an eight digit alpha numeric code. It will take you longer to crack it than it will for me to take a shower.”

“Shit.”

“Let’s go.” He pivoted toward the door.

Not a chance. I swung the duffel out and around, watching as it arced toward Lucas’s traitorous head.

He ducked.

Fortunately, I’d seen his muscles tense and checked my swing. Otherwise the momentum would have spun me around.

He faced me and fell into a ready stance, his hands in blades. Martial arts training. Figured.

“I should have dumped you in the boonies when I had the chance.” I feinted to the side, dropped the duffel and kicked it back toward the car.

“Why didn’t you?” One hand went behind his back to ease his Glock from his pants. He placed it carefully on the counter behind him, his gaze steady on mine.

I shrugged. I still didn’t have a lock on why I’d kept him with me. And as this mission spiraled into a complete cluster fuck, I lamented my uncustomary breakdown in judgement.

What the hell had I been thinking?

“Open the door,” I demanded.

I didn’t want to advance until he was locked into a smaller space. To make it difficult to evade, I shifted nearer to the fridge and boxed him into the corner. I hadn’t glanced at it but Lucas knew where my focus lay.

“It’s state of the art.”

I shot out my heel in a forward kendo kick.

He twisted, his thigh taking the brunt of the kick, his calloused fingers grasping, almost holding my foot.

I danced back, trying to keep his attention fractured. Then, with the other foot, I lashed out.

Again, he blocked my move.

In quick succession, I kicked three more times. Each time Lucas blocked my move, safely, gently, making no attempt to counter-attack.

He whispered, sharp and focused, as if he could will me to back off, “I am not your enemy.”

He sure as hell wasn’t my friend.

Each time he grabbed my bare foot, his fingers trailed along the bottom in what felt strangely like a caress.

I retreated. This wasn’t working. He wasn’t engaging. “I'll shoot it open,” I said, testing him.

“The lock is explosion sensitive. Any kind of device or blast from a bullet will cause a backup lock to activate."

Sure.

"Steel butterfly bolts along the inside walls will bore into pre-drilled openings and twist to secure." His shrug was for effect because the calm truth in his eyes convinced me. "You shoot the lock and it will take longer than trying to crack the code.”

I glanced around, noting a multi-drawer tool chest in the corner, chock full of screwdrivers and wrenches of all sizes. Perfect. “Why so high tech?”

His eyes gleamed in the bright glare of the garage lights. “I really like gadgets.”

Right.

Since I couldn’t shoot it or blow it up, I'd just dismantle the damn thing. It would take time, but I needed that syringe.

“Truce?”

I contemplated his hand, held out in an imitation of good will.

“Look. I need a shower. Then I might have a solution to your syringe problem.”

I deliberately put my hands on my hips. “Give it to me and I won’t have a problem.”

“Later.” He grinned and used the hand I'd ignored to gesture at the car. “In case the diner guys noted the license plate, you want to disable the tracking box in the Focus or you want me to do it?”

Huh. My brain must be rattled. It should have been my first priority. Dammit. If this mission was a disaster, the fault was mine. I’d been distracted and off balance since it started.

“I’ll do it.” I yanked the connection wires, shutting off the device that would track location, accidents, speed and whatever else the rental company wished.

While I disabled the box, he reached behind his neck and pulled his bloodied shirt off in a smooth one-handed move, leaving his gun hand free.

Then he tossed the shirt in a garbage can just to the right of the washer and dryer. The ripple of muscles in his abdomen had my mouth going dry.

His skin had been gloriously smooth. The urge to reach out and stroke him was intense. I curled my fingers into a fist.

“I’ve got one shower. We can take turns.” He dug into his pocket for keys. My body reacted to the bulge outlined by the soft denim he wore. He was trying to distract me with sex. I knew it and still my brain took a moment to process.

“It’s your place. You go first.”

“And they said chivalry was dead.” He unbuttoned his jeans, his thumbs hooked in the waistband.

I swallowed the shot of desire. Waiting until he had his jeans at thigh level, I struck out with a kick designed to unbalance him.

Lucas, damn him, anticipated the move and grabbed my foot, turning the maneuver back on me. I slipped to the floor, jerking him with me.

He grinned as he toppled onto me, kicking out of his pants as we fell onto a square of carpet. “Let’s get this over with. You are not getting the syringe. Yet.”

His heavier weight pinned me. I tried to ignore the sultry heat of his bare chest pressing against my breasts. That momentary hesitation cost me, and I lost the chance to disable him with my knee.

Lucas slid one large hand beneath the elastic waistband of the chef’s pants and boxers, the hot press of his palm against my naked skin startled me again.

Erotic memories clashed with fight instinct.

The remembered pleasure evaporated as he spoke. “Do I have to steal your pants as insurance, so you don’t leave again?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Without that syringe.

He smiled at me–-a conspiratorial smile--as if we had some secret just between the two of us. “I know you want the syringe. I think I have a way to find out what’s in it.”

Did my need to know what was in the syringe outweigh the caution never to trust anyone? Focus on what you can control.

Something about this whole mission was...off. I should have stayed at that warehouse and gotten shot up with whatever was in the syringe in Lucas’s refrigerator. I’d never disobeyed a mission directive before. In a sense I hadn’t, but I sure hadn’t followed the parameters that had been set up either.

“My friend’s background is from the DOJ crime lab in Sacramento,” he continued trying to persuade me.

I was already shaking my head. I couldn’t afford the scrutiny of credentials needed to get into a government lab.

“She does private work over in the East Bay now. No major security measures.” He assessed me steadily.

“What’s in it for you?” I kept my tone even, mild.

“Information.”

I must be mistaken about his reluctance. “About....”

“My missing person.”

Ah yes. The kid. The man didn’t give up.

“Okay.” Since I didn’t know squat about Staci beyond the basics of her cover information or about Johnny Wishbone, I figured I was safe in agreeing.

I caught the gleam in his eye before he subdued it. He thought he’d played me. Whatever.

“Let’s go,” I said.

“Shower and food first.”

“Time’s a wasting. Are you going to let me up?”

He rolled off to the side. Smart man. If he’d pushed up I wouldn’t have been able to resist a sharp jab to his balls. Just on principle.

He tugged his jeans back up. He'd set me up.

Worse, I fell for it.

I glanced at the counter. The Glock was gone.

Lucas opened the house door, punched another code in the alarm box, and started up the stairs. “Grab that duffel, will you?”

Unable to resist, I tugged on the handle of the refrigerator door. Locked.

Then I prodded at the keypad. Nothing.

Running my fingers along the side seams of the refrigerator door, I tested the hardware. The hinges were interior. I was screwed.

I had two choices. One. I could head for the toolbox. Two. I could search the place looking for another way to get that refrigerator door open.

Staring at his butt in the worn denim, I snagged the duffel and bounded up the stairs.

I pulled my gaze back to his face as he said, “For what it’s worth...when you search my place, try not to make a mess.”

And he headed for the shower. Casual as you please.

EIGHT

I should have never let Lucas get the drop on me in the garage. My reactions, my thought processes were off. Perhaps as a result of whatever they’d used to knock me out? It was something I’d have to explore later. I needed my focus back. Now.

I tossed his apartment quickly and efficiently, looking for anything that might help me get that refrigerator open before he finished showering. Like...an instruction manual, but I found nothing.

His desk was Mission style, big, heavy, and scarred. A pile of unopened mail, addressed to Lucas Goodman, lay on the corner. The drawers held nothing but office supplies. No files, no warranty cards, no clues.

I moved away from the desk and on with my search.

He had a collection of Mexican blankets scattered around the room. One was thrown over the back of an overstuffed leather chair and another over the arm of a worn, lived-in sofa.

He liked to read, any kind of suspense, mystery or thriller based on his bookshelves. He had a few favorite authors for whom he chucked out the extra change for hardcover. I’d thumbed through some looking for potential hiding places, or an earmarked alpha numeric code, but all I found was he had a tendency to bookmark with receipts and he always paid in cash.

Lucas Goodman had told the truth. At least about the apartment. And I still couldn’t trust him.

Then I saw the other books.
In Spanish.

I flashed back to the drive-thru in Podunk. Obviously, he hadn’t been completely honest.

I moved into the kitchen and quickly rifled through his refrigerator. When the pine floor squeaked, I turned toward the arched doorway.

“Find anything in the icebox?” he asked lazily.

I hadn’t. Not that I expected him to hide anything there. He was too clever. But I hadn’t even found any food, and I was hungry. Frustrated.