Last Chance To Run (5 page)

She made a half pivot away, foot lifted to take off.

A thick arm clamped around her chest and jerked her back against a hard-as-concrete wall of body.

“No!”  She choked the word out before his hairy-knuckled hand cut off her next breath. Kicking frantically, she fought to break loose. The stench of nicotine on his fingers gave Vic away. He ran Mason’s Jacksonville division.

He dragged her backwards.

Angel dug in her heels to slow him down. Muscles contracted in her chest. She couldn’t breathe. He got her to the nose of the yellow airplane, but no farther.

Vic made a gurgling sound,
then
his hands jerked away.

She spun out of his grasp.

He struggled in a headlock of Zane’s powerful arms.

“You know this guy?” Zane barked, clearly in control of the situation.

“He jumped me.” 

A strangled noise wheezed out of Vic. Zane wrenched a little tighter. “Go call the police.”

“No!” 

“
No?
”

Angel silently pleaded for him to understand, glad that Zane had the upper hand and Vic had come alone. “Thanks for the ride. I’m sorry.”

She turned and ran.

Chapter 5

“Who are you?”  Zane loosened his grip enough to let the mugger speak. He had a
Keltec
.32 stuffed in his boot, but hadn’t taken the time to pull it out when he’d had the opening to grab this guy in a chokehold. His captive reeked of cigarette stench and heavy aftershave.

How did this goon know Angel?  

The stocky bruiser, a head shorter than Zane, appeared neither threatened nor concerned. “Take your hands off of me, you fool.” 

Shouldn’t he be concerned since I have the clear advantage?
Of course, back in his special ops day, Zane had known guys on the team who were much shorter than him that he never wanted as an enemy.
Silent and deadly.

But this guy was nothing more than a thug.

Zane ground his teeth at the absurdity of all this. Angel might have done him a favor by not calling the police. High Vision had made it clear they did not tolerate unnecessary media attention, regardless of the reason. They had enough bad media with PETA groups.

And the DEA wouldn’t be any happier to see Zane’s face in the news either.

No problem. He preferred a low profile for his own reasons.

His chin-high captive warned, “You’ve got maybe ten seconds to let me go.” He sounded annoyed and impatient, not the least intimidated.

The idea of turning this scumbag loose was a piss poor option. Amused by the guy’s show of bravado, Zane started to ask, “Or what, Shorty?” when he heard the distinctive “click” of a gun hammer cocked next to his ear.

“Turn him loose,” a baritone voice ordered.

Zane dropped his arms and backed away, hands in the air.

Smoothing back his slick black hair, the cocky mugger jerked away from Zane’s grasp. He spun around and straightened his Indigo silk suit with a look of pure hatred on his dark, Mediterranean face. He threw a short chin jerk up as some signal to his gun-toting partner.

“Turn around,” the partner demanded. The tap of cool metal on Zane’s cheek accompanied the terse order.

Zane shifted slowly with deliberate movements to face the owner of the suppressed 9mm Smith and Wesson pointed at his head
.
A faint light cast by the distant halogens outlined the mahogany-skinned gunman’s stern features. He stood inch for inch as tall as Zane and outweighed him by
twenty pounds that looked put on by steroids. The mountainous body filled out a dark, tailored suit no CEO would refuse to hang in his closet.

That suppressor was an expensive toy. These two were high-priced hired guns. What had Angel gotten mixed up in? Was she some mob leader’s babe?

“Where’d she go?” Shorty asked, evidently the one in charge.

Zane thanked his Air Force Special Ops training for being able to read people and adapt at lightning speed. He affected his best rendition of a confused look accompanied by good old boy repertoire.

“Hey, man, I don’t even know the broad. I take off with some maniac driving down the
fuckin
’
runway,
get up to ten thousand feet and she climbs out of the cargo hold. Says some guy doesn’t want to let her go.
Must be a hell of a lover’s quarrel.
She
belong
to one of you?”

The two best-dressed henchmen in Jacksonville exchanged unreadable looks. 

But Zane had picked up just enough hesitation on their parts – combined with the suppressor on the weapon – to figure out these guys were expected to operate below the radar, draw no attention. Or he’d be dead right now.

He continued, “I don’t fly passenger charter. She said she’d pay me to drop her off here for a little vacation, but she didn’t flash any cash. You got an address where I can send a bill? I’ve got to make this month’s lease payment.”

Shorty stepped up close. An ugly smirk on his face matched the evil coffee-bean eyes. He flipped a switchblade open, the sharp tip nicking the underside of Zane’s chin.

Several possible reactions came to Zane. Snatching away that knife and shoving it into Shorty’s throat while disarming his sidekick topped the list. But that would leave a body to explain and blow his good old boy routine.

“Listen closely,” Shorty warned. “You mention this little event to anyone and we’ll be back to see you. And if you
ever
touch me again, I’ll cut off your hands.”  He snapped the knife shut, threw a “let’s go” head jerk at his towering sidekick and stalked off toward a black sport utility thirty yards away.

Walking sideways, the big guy kept his gun leveled on Zane until he reached the driver’s door.

Zane squinted to see the emblem on the door. He saw a flash of gold as the door opened, but in the low light the markings were impossible to make out. Gravel crunched as the driver backed up fast, spun around, and
tore out of the terminal.

Too far to get a tag number.

He let out a pent up breath. Lethal encounters still played through his nightmares, years after he’d been rescued from enemy territory in a country where US forces were not welcome – the longest fifty-four hours of his life as a prisoner.

He never gave up a lick of
intel
.

When he left the military, his best friend Ben Trenton and another buddy from his military days, Vance
Dern
, were already working with the DEA. Ben and Vance had convinced Zane to consider an offer from the agency as a paid informant with Vance as Zane’s handler.

His answer?
No, no, and by the way, no.
Zane had a business to build and no time to play spy games.

Then Vance laid out a cherry deal that included the DEA paying for Zane’s Titan, even signing it over to him, and saying they
wanted
him to build his charter business. 

All he had to do was fly the runs they needed and feed them info when he got it. Go after charter accounts “of interest to them.”  He kept everything he made in bona fide charters and got paid for his undercover work.

Money from both ends, without being on the DEA’s official payroll.

Sweet.

He needed the unofficial side work to pad a special account he’d set up to help his sister’s new business get off the ground.

Any real criminal involvement would put his charter business – and his DEA gig – at risk.
Bottom line?

He shouldn’t get involved in someone else’s troubles.

Okay, that might be logical, but it didn’t do a damn thing to shut up his conscience that hadn’t stopped yammering about Angel’s fate. He’d put his life on the line for people he didn’t even know almost daily in his former life.

More than his duty, protecting the innocent was in his DNA.
He could not turn his
back on someone in need, especially a woman.

Just who in the hell
was
Angel, and where had she gone?

Black night wrapped the airport. He scanned the direction she’d run as if he expected her to be waiting within sight. Had she made it to the road and flagged a vehicle?

She could be a stone’s throw from him or traveling seventy miles an hour in an over-the-road transport truck right now.

One look at those legs would bring any eighteen-wheeler to a screeching halt.

An hour later, Zane checked the Titan, disappointed to find it empty. His analytical mind flipped through what little he knew. Those goons had found her quickly, suggesting they were local. They couldn’t have made the trip by car.

Hack didn’t have Zane’s flight plan.

That meant one of two things. Either those guys had a contact where the flight plan was filed or Angel was tagged with a tracking device.

If she still had the tracker on her, they’d find her again. This time she might not have someone willing to save her.

He mentally kicked himself for worrying when he had no idea how to find her.

The woman had shared only her first name and she was tangled up in something that smelled suspicious.

Forget about her and deal with your already loaded plate
.

If only it were that easy.

Terrified eyes and a battered body kept flashing through his mind. Something more tugged at him, but he was too tired to figure it out and unwilling to analyze anything else right now.

A hint of dawn lightened the skies enough to see clouds moving off to the east. Zane checked his watch. It had been a hell of a start to Wednesday morning. Most people were on their way to work as his day wound down.

Climbing into the cockpit to prepare a flight plan for home, he glanced over at the cup holder and grinned.

Maybe he
could
find out who Angel was after all.

He dug out a small plastic bag from a pocket next to his seat. He put the bag over his hand like a glove and used it to pick up the cup, then turned it inside out so the cup was inside.

It paid to have friends in the right places.

Ben was a forensic science specialist for the Miami DEA division. The man could process fingerprints and track the DNA of a gnat. He was the only person Zane would trust with Angel’s prints right now. Ben and Vance would be very interested in the high-priced thugs after Angel, no doubt, but they didn’t need to know that yet.

Zane froze. What the hell was he doing, holding out on his two best friends – men he’d trust with his life – because of a woman he barely knew?

Should he tell them? If he did, Vance would have to follow procedure and report everything to the proper authorities, which might end with Angel surrounded by law enforcement.

His mind clicked through that scenario. She’d escaped someplace dangerous and stowed away on an airplane without a clue where she was going or if she could trust the pilot.

That was desperate.

Zane couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t add to her problems by sticking law enforcement on her when he had no evidence she’d committed a crime, and neither would he put Vance or Ben in the middle of this.

Was he being a fool?

Probably, but he couldn’t forget the way she’d looked at him as if he could protect her from the world. Then he’d touched her and forgotten there was a world beyond the two of them.

She’d gotten to him.

Did she belong in jail?

Maybe or maybe not.
But until he found out for sure, he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone hurting her any more than she’d already been abused.

His gaze landed on that coffee cup in the plastic bag. First he had to find out the identity of the woman who had his insides tied in a knot.

He sure as hell hoped Angel wasn’t running for the wrong reasons because if she was, Ben was sworn to act on what he found and Zane couldn’t ask him not to. 

And damn, he’d hate to see the doe-eyed girl go to jail.

Chapter 6

Food.
Water.
Now.
Or Angel wouldn’t make another mile.

Not after making a twelve-mile run from the private airport where Zane had landed to reach downtown Jacksonville by daylight.

What had Zane done with Vic?

She hoped he’d turned Vic loose and hadn’t called the police, but right now she needed to worry about getting her hands on some cash.
Then water, and food, if her stomach could take it.

As hiding places went, this one stank.
Really.

But this narrow cut between a high-rise building and a dumpster had been her best option at daybreak. Based on the smell of rotten food, the dumpster probably belonged to a restaurant in the brick building she leaned against. Tuesday morning workers would be showing up soon and she didn’t want to be standing here when someone came out to empty the trash.

Mason had an office somewhere in this city.
Could be here in downtown Jacksonville.

Every black Range Rover that passed by sent her diving out of sight.

As if that didn’t look suspicious? But the last black sport utility she’d seen half an hour ago had the
Lorde
Industries logo on the side.

A wave of dizziness assailed her. She breathed through her mouth. If she passed out, she’d put herself in a vulnerable position that could bring in the police.

Late August heat rose with the morning sun. She licked her dry lips and swallowed against a debilitating thirst. Her stomach rumbled in spite of the nauseating stench from the dumpster. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. 

Sweat trickled from under her ball cap, stinging her eyes. She flipped it around backwards to peek beyond the corner of the building and check the sidewalk.

A steady flow of cars tried to beat the red lights, the drivers trying to slide into work before nine. Dehydrated or not, Angel still wanted one of those coffees cruising by in the hands of pedestrians just a few feet away.
Smelled heavenly.
She lifted the damp tail of her T-shirt and used it to wipe perspiration burning her eyes.

Keep procrastinating about stepping out in the open, and dehydration would get her before Mason did.

She lifted her foot to take a step. 

A loud
boom
shocked her.

Angel jerked backwards against the wall and scratched her shoulder in the process.

Grinding gears echoed loudly in the canyon of tall structures. She glanced at the dilapidated pickup truck that rolled by. The boom had been a backfire.

Calm down.
She’d be hallucinating giant rabbits soon if she didn’t get food and water. She took a couple of deep breaths.

Where was her white knight now?

Home safe in Ft. Lauderdale, she hoped.

Ebony hair, eyes the color of dark tea, and as imposing as a house, Zane Black might have championed her, but he was not some fairytale knight. He was someone far more deadly. There’d been a dangerous glint in his eyes when he’d had Mason’s man in a headlock. Zane handled himself like he’d been in a tight spot with an enemy before.

Guilt still punched her over abandoning him.

For a minute, just a brief flash in time, he’d sent her heart tripping. Had made her feel warm and protected, cared about. She rolled her eyes. Timing was everything and hers had pretty much stunk since the day she fell from the womb.

But her rogue pilot had all the makings of Mr. Perfect. Too bad she’d never have the chance to enjoy him beyond a fantasy. And even if she had that chance, no decent and honest man would want a woman with her past.

She swallowed and inhaled a fortifying breath, determined to get moving. 

With a quick glance each way to check pedestrian traffic, Angel veered from the alley and merged into a mixed group of business people and teens moving at a steady pace. She slowed her steps until she ended up near several young people wearing stylish grunge. Hanging with one wave of humans after another, she kept walking when she wanted to lie down and sleep.

Toying unconsciously with the ruby heirloom ring on her right hand, she lifted her finger and gave the ring a hard look. Her dying mother had passed the cherished possession to Angel at twelve. She had no siblings to squabble over the gift.

And she had nothing left as a memory of her mother, except this ring. Her mother hadn’t been perfect, but who was?

At least she
had
loved Angel. Now no one did.

Her ring probably had little value beyond the sentimental, but the idea
of giving up her only connection to her mother twisted a knife in Angel’s stomach. How much would she have to sacrifice just to live a normal life? Her mother had been a survivor and would expect Angel to do whatever it took, even if that meant trading this ring for food.

But she also needed to change clothes and find transportation.

Her throat tightened at forfeiting the ring. She clenched her eyes shut to stem any ridiculous tears.

Life had taught her not to covet anything more than survival. And she’d learned her lessons well.

She had to find a way to that marina in Ft. Lauderdale where the coins were headed. Mason’s gold compass would have brought more than this ring at a pawnshop.

If she hadn’t lost the shiny little ball.

Even if she still had the coins and was willing to sell them, she couldn’t take that risk. Any dealer would know they were stolen. Losing even one coin would jeopardize her chance at staying out of prison.

The ring was her only hope and not much of one.

If someone would give her money for it.

Suck it up and deal with the situation.

She’d heard that mantra enough to last a lifetime.

The foot traffic thinned outside the central business district. She went on alert as the area went downhill. Small independent stores with expanded metal doors and steel bars over the windows filled the lower levels of shabby buildings.

She held her breath as she passed a longhaired man in baggy clothes
who
hadn’t seen a bar of soap in a while. On the opposite side of the street, a woman pushing a banged-up grocery cart full of junk.

Would that be me some day?

A faded banner in the lower corner of a discount shoe store caught Angel’s attention, forcing her feet to stop.

She recognized the event’s insignia.

In two months, the Tamarind International Triathlon would be held in Colorado. Elite competitors would travel from all corners of the world.

Last year, the event had been in Greece.

She’d trained for the last sixteen months straight for that race – to prove to the world and
herself
that she was still a competitive athlete, not a criminal. Every waking minute not spent working to feed herself, she’d pushed her body to the limit. Her running times in particular had
improved, making her a contender. Or she
would
have been one, if she hadn’t been so set on proving she was a conscientious employee.

When she’d informed Mason about finding the stolen painting, he’d just chuckled and said, “Welcome to the
family
, Angel. I chose well in hiring you. Just the person I wanted on my personal
acquisition
team. You’ll need some training, but I’ll handle that myself.”

Refusing to join his band of merry thieves hadn’t gone over well to say the least.

“Be a better person” had been her motto after her release from prison.

She’d always believed she could overcome the problems dealt her, but right now, being a better person had her running for her life and trying to avoid being locked away.

When a shop front with burglar bars on the door and windows came into view, she knew what she had to do. Twisting off her mother’s ring, Angel stepped through the door of Quick Deal Pawnshop.

But would she walk out with enough money to reach Ft. Lauderdale?