Exit Strategy (5 page)

Three years ago she’d graduated with a BS in management from the University of Colorado, Boulder. She’d immediately gone to work for her grandfather as head of his philanthropy foundation, doling out millions in donations and grants to various charities. Judging by all the zeroes listed beneath her grandfather’s net worth as owner and CEO of a global mining corporation, Sabrina hadn’t even made a dent in his empire in spite of all the grants she oversaw.

Six months ago, her world fell apart.

Her brother, Thomas, was killed in a mugging, leaving behind a wife, Angela. That must have been the Angela she’d mentioned when she’d asked Mason who had sent him to help her.

Three months after Thomas’s death, her grandfather—­who by all accounts had raised her, because her parents were trotting around the globe all the time—­literally disappeared. The police had no clue what had happened to him. Sabrina was the only one pressing to keep the investigation open and to prevent her grandfather from being declared dead, even though her cousin—­Brian—­wanted the courts to issue a death certificate and split up his massive estate. It appeared that Brian would get millions if that happened. But Sabrina would get
billions
. That was a hell of an incentive to want her grandfather dead. And yet she was fighting that possibility with everything she had.

Those twin losses of her brother and grandfather weren’t the last of her family tragedies. Just two months ago, her parents had died in a zip-­lining accident. Mason swore when he read the details. Buchanan had been right that they were interesting, to say the least.

The final notable event in Sabrina’s bio: A little over a month ago she’d been charged with felony theft for taking some of her grandfather’s collections of old coins and Civil War–era weaponry from his home. Her claim in court was that she was trying to protect them so her cousin, Brian, didn’t sell them. She believed he was behind the mysterious disappearances of other valuables from the mansion.

Mason was inclined to believe her since Brian was the one who had pressed charges against her for the alleged theft of the collections. In the plea bargain that Sabrina’s attorney arranged, the court locked up the mansion—­which prevented Brian from getting anything else—­but Sabrina, in return for no jail time, had to agree to leave Colorado for a period of at least twelve months and just check in via phone to an assistant DA once a month. That seemed like a bizarre agreement and Mason could only speculate that her cousin had someone in his pocket in the prosecutor’s office. Brian probably hoped that by getting Sabrina out of the way he could get the courts to move forward and declare his grandfather dead.

After reading the rest of the details in the background document, Mason clicked the Web site links that Buchanan had listed and read the supposedly corroborating information. But he didn’t stop there. He’d cultivated an impressive collection of research sites over the years, sites that would make a private investigator envious. He used these now to delve beneath the surface and dig up everything he could on the Hightower family. By the time he was done, he was confident that he had an accurate picture of Sabrina’s background and what she’d been doing for the past ­couple of years.

With everything laid out in front of him on the screen, the feelings of protectiveness and the inconvenient physical attraction he felt for Sabrina no longer mattered. The truth was what mattered.

After stowing the tablet into one of his go-­bags, he secured the straps over his shoulders, backpack style. Then he drew his knife from the sheath inside his boot and headed to the bedroom. But when he opened the door, he froze.

The room was empty. Sabrina was gone.

Chapter Four

Day Two—­1:45 a.m.

S
abrina stumbled, her slightly too large sneakers flopping on her feet, causing her to lose her footing on the slippery grass.

Officer Jennings, the supposedly undercover policeman who’d freed her and helped her climb out of the cabin window, grabbed her left arm, steadying her. “You okay, miss? Do you need me to carry you?” He kept his voice low, barely above a whisper, as they hurried through the mixture of grass and rocky soil toward the woods.

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.” Sabrina tugged her elbow out of his grasp. His touch felt every kind of wrong and kicked off internal alarms that were already on high alert. She wasn’t totally sure that he was who he’d said he was, but at least she wasn’t tied up anymore and had three fewer bad guys to worry about. And the only alternative to going with him once he’d broken into the bedroom and cut her bonds would have been to yell for help. But the ­people who’d have come running weren’t the kind of help she wanted.

As unobtrusively as possible, she inched her right hand down toward her pocket—­the one with the sewing scissors in it. She’d managed to swipe them from a tray inside the cabin after he’d cut the ropes and tape on her arms, while he was occupied freeing her legs.

Had she just exchanged one bad guy for another? It really was nearly impossible to believe that an undercover cop was in the area just when she needed help. Even ­people who were fortunate enough to have good luck in their lives—­which definitely didn’t include her—­couldn’t be
that
lucky.

She glanced at the badge clipped to his shirt collar, the same badge that he’d pressed against the window before forcing it open and climbing inside. It looked real enough. But then again, she hadn’t met any cops in Asheville and wasn’t sure what one of their badges was supposed to look like. But, the questions that he’d whispered to her once they were outside all made sense.

Are you hurt?

Is the person who tied you up still inside?

Was anyone else taken captive with you?

Let’s get you to safety first. Then I’ll call for backup.

He’d said the things she’d expect a police officer to say, given the circumstances. He’d done nothing suspicious and had been polite and seemed concerned about her the whole time. But she still felt uneasy.

Maybe because she’d already been fooled once tonight. She had no intention of being fooled twice. Her plan, once they reached the woods, was to drop him to his knees with the same kick she’d threatened to deliver to the man who’d taken her from her house. Then she was going to run faster than if a swarm of horseflies were hot on her trail.

If he really was a cop, hopefully he’d understand and wouldn’t arrest her later. If he wasn’t a cop, well, then at least she’d have a head start. She’d do her best to hide. And if he caught her, she’d fight with everything she had, including those tiny scissors. Of course, it would make everything easier if he really was here to help her and her imagination was just taking her on a trip to nightmare land.

“Officer Jennings? How did you find me?” she asked, trying to sound curious instead of accusing. “Did one of my neighbors call 911? I, ah, wouldn’t have thought they were close enough to even know that I was in trouble.”

Was it her imagination that his smile seemed forced, fake?

Twenty yards to go.
Twenty more yards and they’d reach the trees.

“I was working undercover in your neighborhood and heard the call-­out about a vehicle driving suspiciously on the parkway. Out here a car can disappear into the mountains in no time and I was just a few minutes away.” He shrugged. “Never saw the vehicle but I did see some fresh, muddy tire tracks leaving the road a few miles up and followed them to the cabin. I couldn’t believe it when I looked through the window and saw you tied up. Thank goodness I took the call.”

“Yes, thank goodness.” Did undercover cops listen to police radios? Or carry badges on them? She knew more about police procedure than she’d ever wanted to, because of her arrest in Colorado, but that knowledge didn’t extend to undercover cops. And the idea that Jennings was listening to a police radio seemed counterintuitive to the whole undercover premise.

She rubbed her right hand against the bulge of the scissors in her pocket and glanced at the pistol holstered on his belt. She quickly looked away and judged the distance to the woods again. Almost there.

As they reached the first tree, a good ten feet from the others, he suddenly grabbed her arm and jerked her around, forcing her back against the trunk.

Wincing against his hold, she said, “Officer Jennings, what are you—­”

“Call me Ace.” He reached behind him and pulled out a pair of handcuffs, the silver metal flashing in the moonlight. “And I’ll just call you bait to get who I really want.” He clipped one end of the cuffs to a small branch beside her head, obviously intending to chain her to the tree.

Sabrina dropped her legs out from beneath her, yanking her arm out of his grasp.

He cursed and grabbed for her but she rolled out of the way, digging for the scissors as she scrambled to her feet.

“Get back here, you little bitch.” He closed the distance between them.

She slammed her foot toward his crotch as she swung the scissors at his neck. He brought up his knee, blocking her kick. But he wasn’t quick enough to block the scissors. He let out a guttural roar as they punctured his neck.

Sabrina took off running toward the woods.

M
A
SON DROPPED THE
cut pieces of rope and duct tape onto the bed and ran to the bedroom window. The shouts he’d just heard sounded like a wounded animal, or a person in a great deal of pain. Moonlight revealed a man and woman about fifty yards away. The man writhed on the ground, clawing at his neck. The woman disappeared into the trees, her straight, dark hair bouncing past her shoulders, her white tennis shoes flashing in the dark—­the same woman he’d just gone into the bedroom to cut free.

Sabrina
.

The man on the ground tossed something away, lunged to his feet, and then took off after her.

Ace.

A sick feeling twisted Mason’s gut as he saw the gun in Ace’s hand.

He yanked his Glock out of his holster and vaulted over the windowsill.

D
AMN HER SHORT
legs. And curse her poor eyesight. Sabrina hunched down behind some bushes, trying to blend in with them. She’d run as fast as she could, but Jennings—­no, he’d called himself Ace—­had quickly caught up to her with his long strides. And even though she could see every ridge in the bark on the tree beside her, those dark shapes looming farther away could just as easily be bushes or a man with a gun getting ready to shoot her.

Where was Ace now? She’d heard him run by as she’d ducked behind some oak trees. But everything was quiet now, too quiet. As if he was stalking her, listening for the tiniest sound to give her position away.

Her hands shook as she pushed a low-­hanging branch out of the way and squinted into the darkness. She should go back toward the cabin. There had to be a road out front. If she could skirt around the edge of the woods, staying out of sight, and reach that road, she could find her way to the parkway and flag someone down.

The idea of asking another stranger for help was terrifying, but no worse than waiting here for the bad guys she already knew about—­Ace, the man and woman from the Hummer, and Tall-­Dark-­and-­Deadly. What had the woman called him when Sabrina was pretending to be asleep? Oh yeah—­Mason. It was a nice name. Too bad it belonged to someone who was the opposite of nice.

She stayed as still and silent as she could, watching the shadows, ticking off the seconds in her head. When she reached sixty and hadn’t seen or heard anything alarming, she stepped out from behind the bushes and headed in the direction of the cabin.

A shadow separated from the trees a short distance in front of her.

She froze, swallowing hard. It was Mason, standing with both hands wrapped around the grip of his Glock. But he was aiming it off to her left. She started to look in that direction when he suddenly swung the muzzle back toward her.

Bam, bam, bam!

The bullets slammed into her chest, stealing her breath in a white-­hot burst of fiery pain. She dropped to the ground, writhing in agony.

Mason fired several more shots toward the trees as he sprinted past her without a glance. Answering gunfire and the thumping sound of someone running echoed back.

The noises quickly faded as pain became her world. Pain and the struggle to breathe. She lay like a fish on dry land, gasping for air, unable to pull blessed oxygen into her aching lungs.

A few moments later, the dark shape of a man entered her line of vision. The moonlight behind him left his face in the shadows. But she knew who he was because of what he held in his left hand pointing down toward the ground—­a gun, the same one he’d pointed at her before he’d so callously pulled the trigger.

Mason holstered his pistol and crouched down. Funny, he didn’t look like the evil man that she knew him to be. He looked . . . concerned, his handsome brow furrowed with worry lines. That made no sense. Why would he care about someone he’d just shot? Not that his reasons mattered. Not anymore. Very little mattered anymore.

Not the series of tragedies that had claimed the lives of her brother and parents.

Not the bogus felony conviction that had forced her to leave her home state.

And certainly not the struggle to clear her name and reclaim her legacy. Her cousin’s twisted machinations would continue unchecked.

But that didn’t matter either. What
did
matter was that, without her around to keep pressuring the Boulder police and to keep paying the private investigators, the search for her missing grandfather would stop. Everyone but her had already given up and thought she was crazy to keep hoping he might still be alive. Knowing that her death might mean Grampy Hightower would never be found hurt worse than the burning ache in her chest.

She gasped for air but the sharp pain in her ribs had her arching off the ground.

“Dying hurts,” she bit out between clenched teeth.

Mason slid his fingers into the line of buttons on her blouse and ripped it open. Tears of pain and humiliation started in Sabrina’s eyes. It wasn’t enough that he was killing her, was he going to molest her as well?

She raised her hands to cover her breasts but was surprised when she touched cloth instead of skin.

“You’re not dying. It only
feels
that way when .40 caliber rounds slam into a Kevlar vest.”

“Kevlar?” She raised her head. Sure enough, the odd bulkiness beneath her shirt that she now remembered feeling back in the cabin was a bulletproof vest. But it was much thinner than the vests she’d seen before. And she hadn’t even thought about what she was wearing while climbing out of a window and running for her life.

She gingerly lifted her hands, feeling the vest for herself, the holes where the bullets had flattened against the material rather than go through her. She looked up at him but he was staring past her, scanning the trees.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “You knew I was wearing the vest?”

He cocked a brow and looked down at her. “Of course. I’m the one who brought the vest in the first place. And I verified that Emily had put it on you back at the cabin. I would have had to go for a leg shot otherwise.”

“A leg shot? I don’t understand.”

“Ace had you in his sights. He was going for a headshot but he stepped behind a tree and I couldn’t see him anymore. All I could do was shoot
you
so you’d fall down and he’d miss.”

“You’re saying that you shot me to
save
me?”

He nodded. “You don’t need to be afraid of me anymore. I promise that I only want to help you.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she lied.

“Uh huh.” He didn’t sound convinced.

She frowned and risked a shallow breath. It didn’t hurt nearly as much this time, probably because her mind finally realized she wasn’t really hurt. At least not as badly as she’d believed. She drew another, deeper breath. The pressure was easing.

“I don’t understand,” she repeated. “You’re saying you aren’t going to hurt me, but earlier you said you were hired to do exactly that.”

He let out a deep sigh. “Yeah, that was a poor choice of words.”

Everything he said only deepened her confusion. “Then . . . you
weren’t
hired to kill me?”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

She threw her hands up in exasperation, then winced and grabbed her right arm. The cut had started throbbing again after she’d fallen to the ground.

“Just tell me if you’re going to kill me,” she demanded.

“Killing you is the last thing that I want to do now.”

“Why? What’s changed?”

“Now I know that you’re not a terrorist sympathizer.”

Her eyes widened. “Well of course I’m not, you dolt. What gave you the idea that I was?” She sucked in a breath, hoping her off-­the-­cuff insult didn’t make him change his mind about hurting her.

He coughed behind his hand, his eyes suspiciously crinkling at the corners like he was trying not to laugh. “We’ll continue this conversation later, after I get you to safety.” He scooped her into his arms and held her tight against his very broad chest as he took off running toward the direction of the cabin.

Sabrina curled her fingers into his shirt, trying to steel herself against the pain that jarred her ribs with his every step. By the time he reached the cabin, she was a twisted bundle of raw nerves ready to beg him to put her down. But he didn’t take her inside. He ran past the front door to the far side, only stopping when he reached a small, black Jeep—­the kind with chunky steel roll bars and a canvas top. Except that the top was nowhere to be seen and the doors had been removed.

With far more gentleness than she would have expected, he leaned over the side and settled her into the passenger seat. She slowly let out a pent-­up breath as he fastened her seat belt. Their eyes met and she almost blurted out,
Thank you
before she caught herself and averted her gaze. She’d be damned before she’d thank the man who’d kidnapped her. If he really had just saved her life, it was only because he’d put her in danger in the first place.