Exclusive (43 page)

Not until the camper door was opened and the light came on, was Gray jolted back to reality. Then the door was closed and locked from the outside. The couple lingered just beyond the door, planning their next rendezvous. The girl won the argument. He grudgingly agreed to meet her at a motel.

Barrie and Gray lay still, unwitting eavesdroppers to the sad parting of the illicit lovers. Finally the interlude ended when the man climbed into the cab of his truck and drove away.

Once they were in motion and the radio was blaring again, Gray yanked the quilt from over their heads. He avoided looking at Barrie. Now that it-whatever it had been-was over, he felt exactly as he had when the preacher caught his daughter and him beneath a peach tree, comparing the two best ideas God had ever had.

He lowered himself out of the loft. "Get down and get dressed."

He knew he sounded brusque, but he also knew that he couldn't afford to sound any other way. She'd made him forget all his training. He knew how to withstand enemy torture, to disassociate his mind from physical pain.

The Marines hadn't trained him to withstand Barrie Travis.

She managed to climb down from the bunk on her own. Garth Brooks was singing through the speakers about drinking whiskey and beer with friends in low places. Gray was

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grateful for the noise. It helped relieve the awkward silence between them as Barrie put on the nurse's uniform. Gray put his suit coat back on, then stepped into the overalls, zipped them up, and put a cap on his head. When Barrie finished dressing, she sat down on the bench. He passed her the satchel he'd retrieved from the bunk. In the semidarkness, he saw that her eyes were wide and watchful. "That's the first time you've kissed me." So.

"So aren't we going to talk about it?"

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No.

"Why not?"

"Because we're about to attempt the kidnapping of the First Lady of the United States. We should be thinking about the operation."

"The operation? I'm a woman, Gray. Not one of your recons."

"You insisted on coming along. If you don't like the way I command the mission, you can stay behind. But I need to concentrate, so-"

"One question? Please?"

"What is it?"

"Was it good for you, baby?"

He tried not to smile, but couldn't help it. He even uttered a passable laugh. "Shut up, Barrie."

"I thought so." Then she gave him that soft, smug, knowing smile that a woman gives a man when she knows she's got him where she wants him. After that she obediently remained quiet. Not another word was spoken until the pickup began to slow down. The driver turned off the radio as he came to a stop at the guard gate.

Gray looked across at her and whispered, "Well, we're here."

Chapter

7wo of the three men approached the driver's side of Daily's car. The other moved around to the passenger door. They were opened simultaneously.

"Mr. Welsh?"

"Who wants to know?"

He was taken by the arm and pulled from the front seat. He heard a pop and a swish of air and realized that Dolly was history, stabbed in the chest with a pocket knife.

"Hey!" Daily shouted. "Was that necessary? Who the hell do you think you are?" It was hard to sound tough when breathing was an exertion. He sounded so goddamn weak, he could have laughed at himself.

The three men weren't laughing, however. In fact, they were the grimmest trio he'd ever had the displeasure of meeting. One more and they'd have reminded him of that merry band, the four horsemen of the apocalypse.

"We think we're the FBI." They flashed badges at him.

"Yeah, right," he said sarcastically, knowing them to be Spencer Martin's heavies.

"We've been following you all evening, Mr. Welsh," said the one who was obviously in charge. "Did you really

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think we'd fall for that stupid-looking doll? We're not idiots, you know.

A woman who never speaks, never moves?"

"Is that a legitimate question or a commentary on your sex life?"

His quip didn't amuse the man, who spun him around, flattened him against the fender, and pulled his hands together behind his back, securing them with a plastic cable tie as he Mirandized him.

"What are you arresting me for? I haven't done anything. Unless inflatable dolls have become illegal. What do you want with me?"

"We want to talk to you about your houseguests."

"What houseguests?"

"I bet he'll cooperate if you yank that tube out of his nose," one of the others suggested to the leader.

Daily fought off panic. If they disconnected him from his oxygen tank, he'd be dead in no time.

"I don't think that'll be necessary," the leader said. "Not yet." Daily's knees went weak with relief, but his next words indicated that Daily's reprieve was only short term. "Our boss is real pissed off at you and your cronies."

"As if I give a damn. Isn't Spencer Martin man enough to come pick me up himself? Or is he scared of Bondurant?"

"Spencer Martin?" the man repeated, playing dumb. "Don't you watch the news? Mr. Martin is taking a brief leave of absence from his duties at the White House."

"Yeah, yeah. He's really scraping the bottom of the barrel if you're the best he can recruit for his nasty little army."

The three men shared a look among them.

Daily guffawed. "What? Surprised that I know? You thought it was a secret?

Guess again."

The leader said, "Old man, you're way out of your EXCLUSIVE 387

league. You'd be wise to cooperate with us. Where are Barrie Travis and Gray Bondurant tonight, and what are they up to?"

"Suck my dick, asshole."

The man took an angry step forward, but one of the others held him back.

"Where are they, Welsh?" he shouted.

Daily knew that he was up shit creek. Even if he told them what they wanted to know, he wasn't going to see another sunrise. These guys weren't just his interrogators, but his executioners.

His assignment had been to keep the bad guys busy, providing Gray and Barrie time to liberate Vanessa Merritt from Tabor House. As long as he had breath, that's what he would do. It wasn't exactly like going out in a blaze of glory, but it was a spark, anyway.

Belligerence wasn't working very well, so he took another tack and faked a swoon. "I don't feel so good."

"Tell us where they are, and we'll see that you get some rest."

Yeah, permanent rest. "Some motel," he mumbled.

"What motel? Where?"

"I don't know."

"Where?"

"Something with Washington in the name."

"Do you know how many motels there are around here with Washington in the name?"

"No," Daily replied innocently. "How many?"

The man grabbed him by his lapels and lifted him until the tips of his toes were barely touching the pavement. "If you want to see Miss Travis and Mr. Bondurant alive, you'd better get your memory back real quick." "It .

. . it's out toward Andrews," Daily stammered. "I went there with them once. I can't remember exactly where it is, but I'll know it when I see it."

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"Okay, let's go." The man shoved Daily forward with such impetus, the cannula was jerked out of his nostrils.

"My oxygen!" he cried. "I've gotta have it." He frantically and futilely struggled against the hand restraints.

"Relax, Mr. Welsh. We don't intend to let you suffocate. Not until we know what your friends have planned for tonight."

The tubing was reinserted into his nostrils. His oxygen tank was taken from his car and transported, along with him, to the gray sedan. When they pushed him into the backseat, Daily was comforted to see that Dolly's remains also had been brought along.

At least he wouldn't die entirely alone.

"If anyone stops you and asks, you're filling in for someone who's sick."

Gray had been giving Barrie instructions for ten minutes, ever since their adulterous driver had left his pickup to report for work. As anticipated, the guard at the gate had waved the truck through without checking the camper. They were on the grounds, but not yet inside the hospital. Gray had produced clip-on photo IDs with phony names for them to wear. "They won't pass muster on close inspection, but at a glance they look authentic."

"Dolly Madison?" she said, reading her name. "Speaking of Dolly, I hope she and Daily are all right."

"He'll do okay. Remember, there will probably be monitored security cameras, so even when no one's around, someone could be watching. Walk naturally and-"

"Purposefully. I know, I know. You've told me at least a dozen times."

"I just don't want us blown before we locate Vanessa."

"Will there be security guards on the inside?"

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"I don't know."

"If there are, will they be armed?"

"Possibly. The Secret Service, definitely. But I'll take care of them."

"One more thing. Once we have Vanessa, how do you plan on getting out of here?"

"Plan A, I'll hotwire this truck. You and Vanessa can ride back here."

"What's plan B?"

"Hell if I know."

"Great," she muttered. But it was she who opened the camper door and stepped out first.

Tabor House was more extravagant than Gray's description of it. Built in a U shape around a center garden, the house had three floors. Avoiding the grandiose front entrance, they went to the employee side entrance, which Gray had spotted during his reconnaissance the day before. Shifts were changing. Doctors, nurses, and other personnel were leaving as others were reporting in for the graveyard shift.

"I'll go first," Gray said as they approached. "Wait a few minutes and then follow me."

"Follow you where?"

He shrugged. "Don't worry. I'll find you." He started off, then turned back. "Barrie, if something happens to me, get the hell out. Understand?

Hide in somebody's car and ride out the same way we rode in. Okay?" She nodded.

"You won't, will you?"

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No.

With a frown of disgust, he turned and disappeared through the employee entrance door. Trying to appear casual, she opened her satchel and, without taking out the video camera, checked all the mechanisms to make certain 390 Sandra Brown

they were working properly. She also checked the tape deck to make sure she had remembered to load a cassette. It would be just like her to make history but forget to put a tape in the camera.

As she headed for the entrance, she was assailed by a thousand misgivings.

But only one certainty. If she didn't do this, Vanessa Merritt would die in this building. So she kept her eyes focused on the floodlight above the entrance, letting it guide her as a lighthouse guides a sailor through a perilous reef.

She entered through what had probably been a mud room when Tabor House was a private residence. That anteroom led into a large, well-lighted, well-equipped commissary/lounge where the staff took their breaks. There were various vending machines for food and drinks, a commercial coffeemaker, an industrial icemaker, several microwave ovens, tables and chairs, and two doors designating rest rooms. A bank of metal lockers took up one wall. A roster of telephone extensions had been made into a poster, large enough to be read from any point in the room.

The shift change was almost complete, so the crowd had thinned out. One man, who was dressed like an orderly, was waiting for his meal to heat in the microwave. A nurse was talking into a pay telephone. Another was fiddling with something inside her locker. Two men wearing jumpsuits like the one Gray had on were seated at a table drinking coffee and talking about turbine engines.

No one paid her any attention. She walked through the room as though she did it every night at eleven o'clock.

Beyond that room, the hospital underwent a drastic personality change.

Outside the bright sterility of the commissary was a corridor suggestive of hushed voices and stiff formality. The walls had a wainscot, embossed pastel paper above, paneling below. Brass wall sconces provided sub-EXCLUSIVE 391

dued lighting. The floor was carpeted. Barrie followed that hall to another that intersected it.

Left or right? Left or right? Don't look covert look purposeful.

Eeny-meeny, miney-moe. Okay, right!

The corridor she'd selected led toward the front of the building. Along it she saw offices, dark now, a formal reception/parlor area with a baby grand piano, and a solarium filled with tropical plants and ferns among cushioned rattan furniture. All very fancy, absent anything that looked clinical.

The atrium entry was quite impressive, with its sweeping staircase and a skylight fifty feet above the marble floor. In the center of this rotunda was a round foyer table on which stood an enormous floral arrangement, the gladiolus stems upward of four feet tall.

There was no one around except a janitor who was kneeling in front of a wall socket, tinkering with a screwdriver. Barrie went around the table to speak to him. "I might become a coke-head just to have the privilege of staying here."

"You can't afford it," the janitor said as he came to his feet. "There's nothing on the first floor except offices and meeting rooms."

"A records office?"

"Undoubtedly. But I'm sure the files are locked, and I didn't bring the tools for picking them. Besides, it would take too much time."

"Then what do you suggest?"

"A computer terminal," he said. "There's bound to be a patient roster that's constantly updated."

"Good idea. Onward and upward?"

"You take the elevator. I'll use the stairs."

"Meet you on two."

The elevator was an iron cage that had more aesthetic properties than mechanical. Barrie was grateful that it made 392 Sandra Brown

it up one flight. She stepped through the wrought iron doors, turned to her left, and came face to face with a nurse, who was as shocked to see Barrie as Barrie was to see her.