Hush (35 page)

Then her survival instincts kicked in, and she reached across the dash to activate the siren and lights.

“Good girl. Hand me the radio mic.”

Acadia got what he was doing immediately and unhooked it from the dash. “Ready?”

“Yeah. Go.” In fluent Spanish, Zak proceeded to inform his “fellow” officers that he was in pursuit of one of the perpetrators of the explosion, but that there had been three vehicles leaving the scene. He described two cars in detail with partial license plates. He assured the other officers that he would bring his man in, and then nodded for Acadia to switch the mic off.

She watched two police cars behind them suddenly peel off in the direction he'd indicated. “Very clever.”

They were going over ninety miles an hour, past the terminal parking lot, onto the main road leading from the
airport, then the freeway—a dangerous speed that had other cars swerving to get out of their way as they came careening up behind them, lights blazing and siren blaring.

Acadia buckled her seat belt and kept her eyes trained on the side mirror, her heart beating so fast she could feel it in her eyeballs.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
She watched to see if any of the other police vehicles would choose to follow them, and their phantom perpetrator, or not.

So far, so good.

But then, she knew those were frequently famous last words. Especially around Zak.

Bracing one hand on the dash, she gripped the armrest tightly with the other as he increased their speed. She didn't look at the speedometer. She really, really didn't want to know.

She didn't talk, mostly because she didn't want to break his concentration for even a nanosecond at these speeds, but also because her mouth had dried up with sheer, unadulterated fear.

Not a fan of speeding cars or chaos in general, Acadia preferred having a plan to follow. This wasn't a plan. There weren't even loose guidelines here. She wanted instructions. In writing would be great, and in triplicate even better. Their stolen police car wove between two loaded produce trucks and scraped the center divider, sending sparks shooting off the side of the car like fireworks.

With a hard yank to the wheel, Zak leveled out to pass a pickup truck. “Get out your phone,” he instructed, watching the road.

She'd rather find her
gun
, now that she came to think
of it. But she lifted her butt and removed the cell phone from her back pocket.

Zak twisted the wheel to pass a tourist bus, missing the back bumper by inches. “Ready?”

She turned the phone on, found the window with the illuminated keypad. “Okay.”

Zak rattled off a number.

“I don't think that's an area code, Zak …”

“It is, trust me. Put it on speaker.”

Acadia dialed the too-long number, sure it would have some sort of error message, but the phone rang.

Once. Twice. A man, not sounding happy, snarled, “This better be fucking good. It's four seventeen a.m.”

“Zakary Stark. I have a situation.”

Acadia held the phone up for him.
A situation?
She leaned over and pressed the horn on the steering wheel to prevent two cows from wandering into the road. Yes, indeed. It was certainly a
situation.

“Where are you?” The man on the other end suddenly sounded wide awake.

“Caracas. Any second now we're gonna have the bad guys up our asses.”

“Explain later,” the man said briskly. “Got a vehicle?”

“Commandeered a police car.”

The other man chuckled. “Conspicuous. GPS?”

“Yeah.”

Acadia took her life in her hands, because she had to release the latch on her seat belt to turn on the GPS. Her stomach sloshed unhappily as Zak threaded the car too fast through the traffic.

The voice on the line gave Zak short directions, which Acadia programmed into the GPS as the vehicle rocked and whined and shuddered, passing other cars. Up ahead, the dome of light over the city brightened while they approached at full speed.

The voice asked, “Got that?”

Acadia tried to figure out spellings, took a wild guess, and finished punching in the unfamiliar street names.

“Yes,” she told him, hitting Start.

“There's an alley at that street number. Blue Ford Taurus, license … Hang on. Ready?” Without waiting, he rattled off the plate number. “Key's taped inside the exhaust pipe. Change of clothes, cash, and a selection of toys under backseat. Lose the cop car. Lay low. Call me if you encounter any more difficulties.” The phone went dead.

Acadia lowered the phone, but kept it in her hand in case Zak needed to call someone else. Her knuckles whitened as she tightened her fingers around it. “Who was that?” she asked, bemused that the man hadn't even bothered to find out what would happen to his car once they were done with it. Then again, she'd clearly entered some
Bourne Ultimatum
spy universe.

She was ready to leave it.

Zak frowned. “An old friend. Savin was a recruiter, back in the day, when I attended MIT.”

Not a recruiter for MIT, she bet. “And he's where?” Because that wasn't a regular area code she'd punched in.

“Somewhere in the States.”

That was certainly vague enough. “And he just happens to have a spare car parked in a Caracas alley?”

Zak's lips twitched, and she noticed that his shoulders weren't quite as tense as they'd been minutes before. “He's that kind of guy.”

She waited for Zak to follow the GPS directions. She pushed her foot hard to the floor, where a brake pedal would be if she were driving, as he swung across three lanes of traffic to take the exit. Her heart stopped beating when a minivan, a flatbed truck, and a wandering llama were all barely skimmed by the car's fenders.

“What kind of guy is that?” she asked weakly when he took the off-ramp. At the bottom, he turned off the siren and lights, and her ears throbbed in the sudden silence.

“He wanted me to come work for him, way back. Black ops,” he explained, and suddenly, it made sense. Military, or something like it. “We were working on ZAG. I declined. “

“If he can get us out if this mess, I think I love him.”

“Married, kids. You'll have to look elsewhere.”

Wasn't looking, but found you anyway.
She kept her mouth shut.

The traffic thinned out around them as they entered the city and slowed to a normal pace.
Normal
in Venezuela, she was discovering, was pretty damned fast. She wondered if her hair had turned snow white since they'd left the hotel.

Ten minutes later, Zak pointed out the alley, then drove several blocks away and parked between two large
delivery vans. It was a tight squeeze, and she held her breath, as if that would help him maneuver the car into the narrow opening.

“Let's go.” He popped his door, then walked around the front of the vehicle to take her hand as she got out on her side. Slung over his bandaged shoulder was the heavy bag that they'd hastily packed; in his right hand was one of the guns she'd had on her lap for the drive to the airport.

“I know you're a guy with an aversion to guns,” she said solemnly, “and I just want you to know that I'm very grateful you've put that aside for now.” She thought she detected the hint of a smile, but he said nothing.

The engine popped and steamed, pinging loudly as the overstressed parts cooled.

Acadia interlaced her fingers with his. His hand felt big and solid in a world gone completely mad. The night was warm, but she realized her teeth were chattering and cold shivers traveled up and down her spine. Goose bumps of fear roughened her skin. She took out her little penlight and illuminated the cracked, weedy sidewalk.

“Why would your friend have us walking in the murder capital of the world in the middle of the freaking night?” Acadia demanded, voice low. She tightened her fingers in Zak's. “The murder rate in Caracas tops that of every other city in the world. There's one here every ninety minutes,” she told him. Wishing she'd shut up, but too scared to stop herself.

There were no streetlights in this part of town. And while the city lights illuminated the black sky, where they were walking was dark and scary as hell. Caracas wasn't
exactly a safe city to be wandering around at midnight. If she'd thought the street where they'd parked was dark, the alley, narrow and close, was darker. It smelled strongly of urine and feces, and they walked in the middle where there weren't as many filthy newspapers and other hard-to-identify things pushed against the walls on either side. She watched where she stepped and tried not to breathe. From time to time, she heard something scuttling close to the walls. Rats?

Three derelict-looking cars were parked halfway down the block. The blue Ford was in front. It was the only one with all four tires, but the back window had been knocked or shot out, and the side window of the passenger door was held shut with liberal use of electrical tape. Zak let go of her hand to crouch down by the rear bumper.

Acadia felt exposed and so freaked out she was about to jump out of her skin. Angry too, but her anger had nowhere to go. Zak had done everything in his power to send her home. And God, she wanted to be home in her small house outside the base right now. She wanted every light on, and the fresh scent of flowers from her garden drifting through the window.

Locking her knees, she wrapped one arm tightly around her waist and held the light for Zak.

She dragged in a shuddering breath as he ran two fingers inside the exhaust pipe. Something caught, tore, and he straightened with a key ring in his hand. Matted duct tape fluttered as he stripped it off his hand. “Get in on my side.”

Acadia dragged in her first steady breath in hours as she crawled across the seat of their getaway car.

ZAK GOT IN AND
started the car, headed north. He shot a brief glance at Acadia. Her long blond hair was wild and disheveled. She looked sex-rumpled. He caught a glimpse of the freaked-out look in her soft, gray eyes and the strain on her pale face, which reminded him that while he was used to life-and-death thrill-seeking adventures, she was not. And coming down off an unexpected adrenaline rush could be a bitch.

He wished with everything in him that she were thousands of feet in the air and winging her way back to Junction City, where she'd be safe. “I'm sorrier than hell for dragging you into this clusterfuck.”

“Save it,” she snapped. “You can apologize if we live through this.”

The vehicle looked like a piece of crap, but the engine purred. Souped up, for sure. From the sound of it, there was a twin turbo-charged eight-cylinder under the hood. He hoped to hell he wouldn't have a reason to put it to the test. “You're okay, right?”

“I think maybe we should stop asking that question,” Acadia suggested wryly. “Because anything either of us answers is going to be a big fat freaking lie.”

Zak huffed out a pent-up breath. “Jesus. I was so hot for you I almost missed the signs.”

“Signs?”

“On the jet. I saw, but my brain wasn't in computing mode.” Because he was so consumed with nonverbal
communication, so intent on getting her to safety without saying all the things on his mind, he'd almost gotten her killed. “There was a bloody handprint on the door going into the cockpit. It was small, just a smudge, but the image only registered as we were getting the hell out of Dodge.”

It could've been a costly mistake. Thank God he had quick reflexes. The instant he'd felt the give of the carpet as he'd stepped off the stairs and inside the cabin, he'd jettisoned them back down the stairs and straight to the car.

A pressure-sensitive explosive device had done the rest.

Acadia was fading fast. The adrenaline, with nowhere to go, was going to knock her on her ass. His shoulder ached like a son of a bitch, and his thoughts were taking him in a direction he sure as shit didn't want to go.

They both needed rest; God only knew they hadn't had much in the last few days. He usually thought well on his feet, but if this situation was shaping up the way he didn't want to think about, his feet were going to be knocked right from under him.

He had to rest his body and get his mind clear before he started jumping to conclusions. Any conclusions.

Even the obvious one.

He started looking for a small, out-of-the-way hotel. One that wouldn't ask questions. Cold, hard cash was going to be their identification. Zak found a hamburger joint that was still open, navigated the drive-thru, then continued until he spotted a small hotel on the edge of a gentrified neighborhood. As far as he could tell, no one
had followed them, but he circled the block a couple of times just to be sure. In the quiet middle-class neighborhood, it would be easy to spot a tail. Paranoia had saved his ass more times than he cared to count.

THEY CHECKED INTO THE
Hotel Altamira Centro as Señor and Señora Montoya, took the elevator to the top floor, and didn't speak for all five stories as the elevator rattled faintly around them. Zak found the room number, opened the door, and ushered Acadia inside.

Slapping on the light switch, he locked the door with both locks, set the food bags down on a nearby chest of drawers, then slid the monstrosity across the room to block the door.

Acadia was still standing in the same spot when he was done. “Hungry?” he asked quietly, scanning her face. She looked scared and exhausted, and seeing her that way, because of him, twisted like a knife in his gut.

“I'm not sure,” she mumbled, her lips barely moving. Definitely shock. “I think I want a shower first.” But she didn't move.

Damn. This was bad. Zak crossed the gold shag carpet and cupped her face gently in both hands. Her silky hair covered his fingers. Her skin felt warm and smooth, but her eyes looked a little bruised, and her soft mouth trembled. “Want help?” he asked softly.