Killer Focus (23 page)

W
hen she came to, the car was parked on a quiet side street, which meant Colenso had managed to get the car back on the road. Dimly, she could hear the sound of a siren in the distance.

Colenso climbed out, then reached in and pulled her across the driver's-side seat. “If you're awake, you can walk. If you don't walk, I'll shoot you now. We're close enough.”

Apart from the glow of the motel light and the residential houses clustered around it, the street was pitch-black. Colenso—or Fischer—had taken out the street lighting. Hope surged. Her money was on Fischer.

His fingers bit into her upper arm as he pulled her out of the car. He kept a tight grip on her arm as they walked.

Taylor scanned the street. It appeared to be empty but, from the conversations she'd overheard, she knew Colenso had at least three men staking out the meeting, and probably more.

Keeping to the shadows, they turned into the parking lot.

Deliberately, Taylor dragged her feet. “How's your schedule?”

“We're on time. Hold out your hands.” He jabbed the barrel of the gun in her throat, unlocked the cuffs and put them in his pocket. “Talk again and I'll shoot.”

As they passed motel units with vehicles parked outside, her gaze was automatically drawn by a gray truck. There was no mud spattering the wheel rims or toolbox fitted to the rear of the cab. It wasn't Fischer's truck, but it was the same model and the same color. Her heart sped up as she skimmed the rest of the vehicles parked outside the units. They were mostly sedans, with the odd SUV just for variety. At a guess, the sedans belonged to the motel's business clients, the SUVs to tourists on holiday. The truck, a no-nonsense workhorse of a vehicle, stood out like a sore thumb.

As they got closer, she noticed the plate. It was a rental, and suddenly she was certain Fischer had placed it there. He had rented the same model truck that he owned and parked it outside the motel unit as a signal.

Movement flickered in the unit opposite where the truck was parked. Colenso's head whipped around. A series of detonations filled the air with thick, choking smoke. Time seemed to slow, freeze. A door was flung open and metal glinted. Simultaneously, a dark figure flowed up from one of the small gardens separating the units.
“Taylor, down.”

Fischer.

Colenso's hand came up. He was already firing, his grip viselike as he pulled her back toward him, using her as a shield.

Smoke swirled, stinging her eyes. The air stank of cordite. Fischer was down. Raw panic exploded, a fierce sense of disbelief. A dark shadow appeared next to Colenso, then a second. His men, she realized.

She heard the roar of a powerful engine and headlights cut through the smoke. A van braked to a halt; the passenger-side door slid open. A burst of gunfire split the air; one of Colenso's men went down. Colenso jerked her toward the van. The change in direction gave her the momentum she needed. Instead of pulling away, she surged toward the opening. As Colenso stumbled, off balance, she spun, grabbed the hand holding the gun and used her momentum to slam it against the side of the van.

Colenso grunted. The gun skittered across the asphalt. Tearing free of his grip, she flung herself clear.

“Bitch.”

The door slammed as she pushed to her feet. The van accelerated out onto the road, fishtailed and shunted aside a vehicle blocking the exit. Gunfire erupted, the sharp thud of rounds hitting metal punctuating the roar of the engine as the van disappeared from sight.

She picked up the gun Colenso had used—
her
gun—and stumbled over to Fischer. He was sprawled on his back. For a heart-stopping moment she thought he was dead, even though she knew he had to be wearing body armor.

Relief poured through her as he wrenched at the Velcro fastenings of the Kevlar vest he was wearing and sucked in a breath. Colenso's sustained firing had knocked him over, but the ceramic plates in his vest had taken the brunt of the impact. He was winded and bruised, but otherwise unharmed.

Fischer spoke rapidly into a mike, bringing himself up to speed with the search for Colenso. When a dark shadow—one of his men—melted out of the trees, he pulled her to her feet, retrieved his automatic weapon, and urged her out onto the street and into the rear of a van similar to the one Colenso had used.

Fischer leaned in the door. “Bridges is staying with you.”

Bridges, the dark shadow, stepped into the van and closed the door. He pulled off his balaclava and held out his hand. “You can call me Matt.”

She shook his hand. Young, fit, a Southern accent and very short hair. At a guess, ex-Navy.

She stared in the direction Fischer had gone. “What happened to Shaw and Tate?”

The warmth in Bridges's expression evaporated. “Shaw's in recovery, Tate's on life support. We'll know in a few hours.”

 

Within twenty minutes, several of Portland's police cruisers had blocked off the street and a news crew had arrived. The last of Fischer's team, which for this operation had included a number of FBI agents, their faces blanked out by balaclavas, had piled into a second van and left. Fischer, a balaclava now in place courtesy of the camera crew, had wrapped up the formalities with the Portland PD. Colenso's men, the five that had been caught, had been charged with attempted murder, resisting arrest and a number of weapons offences, and had been taken to the Portland police station for processing. Since two had criminal records and one had a warrant out for his arrest, the likelihood that any of them would be released on bail was slim.

The operation had been high risk, and only partially successful. Taylor had survived, but Colenso had managed to slip the net.

Visibility deteriorated as a heavy, cold rain set in. The news crew left, frustrated by the weather and the lack of action. The van door slid open, but this time it wasn't Fischer. Dana Jones, followed by Jack, climbed in out of the rain.

Taylor's throat closed up. Of all the things she hadn't expected to happen, this was at the top of the list. The meeting could only have been arranged by Fischer; no one else had the pull
and
the nerve.

Dana hugged Taylor, the pressure fierce. “Fischer's given us five minutes, then we have a rendezvous with a chopper at an airfield just outside of Portland.”

That, at least, made sense. With Jack's past, Fischer would want to avoid the airport itself, because the press would be staking it out, expecting at least some of the personnel, maybe even the prisoners, to fly out from there. “Where to?”

Dana sat next to Taylor, keeping a firm grip on her hand.

Jack took an adjacent seat. “Florida.”

Taylor glanced at Dana. “You're going with him?”

Her expression was wary. “For a couple of weeks. Maybe. I need some time out.”

The van door slid open again. Fischer pulled off his balaclava. “Time to go.”

Dana hugged her again. “Stay in touch. You've got my number.”

A vehicle pulled up next to the van. Dana and Jack ducked into the rear passenger seats. Seconds later, Fischer motioned for Taylor to step out.

The rain had eased to a filmy mist that wreathed the sidewalk and trailed across the road. The crowd of onlookers that had gathered to watch the show had thinned, driven off by the rain and the fact that for the past hour, nothing of any note had happened.

Fischer dug in his pocket for a set of keys and depressed a locking mechanism. Ahead a vehicle beeped and lit up. Taylor recognized the gray truck that had been parked in at the motel. Fischer must have moved it out to the road, which made sense, because the motel was still choked with police cruisers and sealed off from traffic.

Climbing into the truck felt like going home, which didn't make any kind of sense, since it was a rental, and nothing about Fischer should represent “home.”

Fischer pulled out from the curb. She studied the houses flashing by. A lone highway sign indicated they were heading west, not south—the direction she had expected him to take. “Where are we going?”

“Vermont. Cold Peak is about two hours away.”

The sense that Fischer wasn't playing by the rules intensified. He had liaised with the Portland PD and the Bureau, but if he was following procedure he should have joined his men for the debriefing. “What's going on?” The question was rhetorical. She already knew they were out on a limb; she just had to understand why.

His gaze connected with hers, hot and edgy and undeniably male.
Question answered.

“Burdett will have your head on a platter.”

“It'll be worth it.”

He handed her his cell phone. “If you want out, all you have to do is put a call through to Burdett.”

Taylor set the phone back down.

A
t two in the morning, a creak on the stairs jerked Helene out of the dazed limbo she'd fallen into.

She stared at the deep well of darkness. There was nothing there.

She remained frozen, the gun locked into position, oblivious to the burning pain in her shoulders and arms. Lopez hadn't shown. If he had, her men would have opened fire and he would have died.

For long moments she sat, listening to the incessant sound of the wind and the sea. She checked her watch. It was time to leave.

Lopez had won this round. Somehow, with that uncanny instinct he had, he had known. Which meant she had to be extra careful leaving. He could be waiting for her outside. If he wasn't personally there, he would have someone waiting to tail her.

She'd made the mistake of underestimating him. He had known that she was aware of his killing agenda and that there was only one name left on the list. He had also known that she had chosen to protect herself at the expense of the others. Now—too late—it made a twisted kind of sense that he had stepped back on the last kill, leaving her to carry out the execution and saving him the trouble, but the irony didn't amuse Helene.

Using the banister to haul herself to her feet, she made her way down the stairs, wincing at the stiffness of muscles and joints that were no longer young. As she passed the pool of light in the study, she glimpsed Ritter's legs and remembered that he was dead. For a brief moment she regretted his loss. He had been dangerous but brilliant; she could have used his mind. For the first time in her life she felt truly alone.

Now, it was just her…and Lopez.

 

The glare of street lighting woke Taylor. She checked the clock on the dash. It was just after two in the morning and she'd been asleep almost the whole time they'd been driving.

Fischer stopped for an intersection and a familiar sign registered. They were in Cold Peak.

The light turned green. Fischer accelerated through the deserted intersection. “Tomorrow you can collect your cat and anything else you need from your place.”

Smothering a yawn, she straightened. “And then what? Back on the Witness Security program?”

“Until we run Colenso to ground.”

And then what?
But she wasn't about to voice that question. Fischer was breaking the rules for one night. It wasn't good enough, but if it was all she was going to get, she was taking it.

Minutes later, Fischer pulled into his driveway.

Walking into the house was bittersweet. Fischer dropped his gear bag on the floor, kicked the door closed behind them and walked toward her. Taylor wound her arms around his neck. This time, for her at least, there was no ambiguity. What she wanted was clear.

His mouth came down on hers as he walked her backward in the direction of the bedroom. The first kiss was unexpectedly soft, the second even sweeter. Her palms slid upward, peeling off his T-shirt. Seconds later, her shirt dropped to the floor and the back of her knees hit the bed.

The bedroom was dark, the air faintly stuffy after days of the house being shut up. Light from the sitting room outlined Fischer's shoulders as he unhooked her bra and peeled off her jeans, glanced off the planes of his face as he pulled her toward him. Winding her arms around his neck, she arched into him and lifted her mouth for his kiss.

Reaching down, she unfastened his pants. He felt hot and sleek and smooth. He hadn't had time to put a condom on, and abruptly, she didn't want one. The decision was primitive and instinctual. She loved him; she had almost lost him. After tonight, she didn't know when she would see him again, if ever.

He cupped her face, his expression intense. A split second later they were on the bed and he was inside her. His mouth came down on hers and the night dissolved.

 

The sound of Fischer's phone woke Taylor. He was sitting on the side of the bed wearing pants but no shirt, his hair still damp from the shower.

He answered the call, then moments later flipped the phone closed. “Bridges has a reported sighting of Colenso.”

She raised herself on one elbow. “Portland?”

“Just south. I have to go.” He leaned over and kissed her, his mouth firm, the kiss brief.

Taylor watched as he pulled on a fresh shirt. “Is that a ‘goodbye, honey, I'm off to work' kiss?”

He shrugged into his shoulder holster as he walked toward the bed. “That's an ‘if I touch you again, I won't leave' kiss.”

He leaned down. This time the kiss was longer.

“Don't leave the house unless you need to, and don't go into town. If you want to collect Buster, you can use Tate's car, which is parked in the garage.” He extracted a set of car keys and some bills from his wallet and left them on the bedside table. “If you need food, order it in. I'll be back tonight.”

“And Burdett?”

Unexpectedly, he grinned, teeth flashing white against his tanned skin. “We'll talk about it when I get home.”

The front door closed behind him. Taylor listened for the sound of his truck as he backed out onto the road and accelerated away, then pushed back the covers and slid out of bed. According to the alarm clock, it was just after nine.

She gathered up her clothing, took one of Fischer's shirts from his drawer and walked through to the bathroom. She needed fresh underwear, but that would have to wait until she picked up Buster. On the way through town she could call in at one of the malls and do a little shopping.

As she stepped under the warm spray of the shower, she reviewed the pulse-pounding hours she and Fischer had spent locked together. There hadn't been a lot of time for conversation, but as curt and unemotionally stated as it had been, the phrase “when I get home” was unexpectedly sweet.

When she'd dressed and combed out her hair, Taylor picked up the phone and rang the cattery. Seconds later she set the receiver back down. Neil had picked Buster up two days ago.

Perplexed that Neil had collected Buster early, when there was no way he could keep an eye on him when he was at work, she called the computer shop. An unfamiliar female voice answered. Neil had been sick for a couple of days and he wasn't due back in for the rest of the week.

Frowning, Taylor hung up and dialed Neil's home number.

When Neil picked up the phone, his voice was croaky but recognizable. He had collected Buster because when he had rung the cattery to check on him, the vet had said Buster had been sick and off his food. Since he was home with a virus, he had decided to collect Buster early.

Taylor got directions for his house and hung up.

The drive to the small cottage Neil rented took less than five minutes. Locking the car, she strolled to the front gate, automatically checking out the street, which was lined with an eclectic mix of modern bungalows sitting cheek by jowl with the old miners' cottages that had formed the original heart of Cold Peak. Stately oaks lined the street, softening the down-at-heel appearance of some of the houses.

She studied Neil's cottage, which was definitely on the down-at-heel side. Despite the sunny weather, the house was shut up and the curtains were drawn. Farther down the street she could hear the blare of a radio, and across the road a baby was crying. In contrast Neil's cottage was silent, although if he was as ill as he had sounded on the phone, that was no surprise. He was probably in bed and simply wanted to sleep.

She lifted the latch on the gate and stepped onto the mossy, overgrown path. Instead of walking directly to the house, she checked out the small adjacent garage. Neil's car, visible through a small window, was a sporty SUV painted metallic purple with ski racks and, from the look of the speakers at the rear of the vehicle, a state-of-the-art stereo system. The vehicle went with his character, slightly quirky and demonstrating his love of equipment.

She walked around the side of the garage and found a side door standing slightly ajar. When she stepped inside, she almost tripped over a cat cage.

Already on edge that the garage door had been left open, leaving Neil's car, which was in all likelihood the most expensive asset he owned, open to theft, she studied the cage.

She didn't own a cat cage, which meant either Neil had bought one, or the cattery had loaned him the cage when he had taken Buster. The fact that the cage was open made her frown, although it was possible Neil had carried the cage inside the house before opening it. Feeling even more unsettled, she did a circuit of the garage and checked underneath the SUV, just in case Buster had bolted and taken refuge in the garage. She was tempted to call his name, but an inbuilt caution kept her quiet. Neil's cottage was giving her a definite creepy feeling.

When she had exhausted all possibilities in the garage, she did a circuit of the house. As she studied the silent cottage, the breeze lifted and a tree branch scraped over the side of the house. For a disorienting moment she had a flashback to Letty's house and the moment she had stepped into the hall and seen the old lady's body. Tension tightened down her spine and a small, inane fact registered.

Neil was a computer buff. On the phone he had said he had a
virus,
not a cold or the flu.