The Edge of Trust: Team Edge (13 page)

His face went to stone.  “At least tell me where you’ve been.  And I damn well want to know who hurt you.”

She stared at him for a long moment.  Thinking, measuring.  Then she walked to the couch and opened the nylon bag, looking first doubtful, then resigned.
“This should answer some of that for you.”

She placed a folded piece of paper in his hand.  When he unfolded it, he finally understood her reluctance to explain and his blood went cold.  On the paper was a map.  But
not just any map.  Oh, hell no.  This was a map of every drug lab and warehouse, with distribution points, drop and delivery areas, between here and Colombia. 

He didn’t react.  Didn’t blink, didn’t move.  He simply sorted through his thoughts as he’d been trained to do, with calm, cool precision.

Shooting Sara a steady look with raised eyebrows, he waited for some kind of explanation.  Not that it would be simple or easy.  No, his wife had yet to learn those words. 

“Earlier, when you asked who else knows I’m alive--”

“Sanchez.  Sanchez knows.”  When she flinched, a cold chill slithered up his spine.  When the implications set in, he damn near went to his knees.  Dear sweet Christ.  “Did he…Jesus, Sara, were you--?”

“He hit me.  Nothing more.”  She wrapped her arms around her middle, cradling herself, offering herself the comfort he should be giving.  He took a step forward.  She raised a staying hand.  “I got away before anything else happened.”

Relief that she hadn’t been raped rolled through him.  Then fury that Sanchez had dared to lay hands on her, had obviously beaten her.  And finally frustration that Sara wouldn’t let him comfort her had him snapping, “How the hell did you get this map?”

He knew by the way she avoided his gaze that she was going to dodge the question.  His gaze narrowed.  “I can’t help you if you’re not straight with me.”

Her face closed and she looked right through him.  “I never said I wanted your help, just some clothes and
…
maybe some money to get by on for a while.”

“Sanchez is going to come looking to get his map back.  That means you’ve got a target on your forehead the size of Mexico.  If you think you can just waltz out the front door and nobody’s gonna notice, you’re wrong.  You’ll be dead before sunup.” 

He’ll kill you, Sara, and holy God, I can’t lose you again.  Not like that. 

Her expression shifted and he knew he'd scored a direct hit.  Not one he felt good about. 

“I
know how to make myself invisible.”

Her words shouldn't have surprised him--hell she'd been a ghost for twelve damn months.  “Really?  Then how’d you end up beaten and half drowned on the beach?
 
My
beach in particular?
 
If you're looking for praise on your evasive skills, you've come to the wrong place.  He found you once, he’ll find you again.” 

Dillon saw the fear she was trying to hide, the anxiety, and dammit, he wanted to pound something.  Wanted to offer comfort he knew she’d refuse.  “I know you think you can’t trust me, but you’re going to have to if you want to stay alive.”

“How much do you know?  Sanchez’s name came to you awfully fast.”

“He’s the only one who’d have a map this detailed.”

“I know I was obviously at the wrong place at the wrong time twelve months ago, but you’ve never worked in the states before.  Sanchez was there.  So, my question is, why in the world didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t tell you.  Not then.”  He glanced at his watch.  “Time’s up.  We need to go, get you to a safer location.  Sanchez will be hunting.”  For both of them.  “We’ll discuss this later and I’ll explain.  For now we need to leave.  Let’s get your things.” 

Spinning on his heel, he gestured toward the bedroom.  “Everything is where you left it.  Save the shower for later.  While you change, I’ll get what I need.”

After Sara grabbed some clothes and disappeared into the bathroom, Dillon retrieved the duffel bag he kept ready, stuffed with clothes, his weapon, and some extra ammunition.

He knew his wife, and damned if there wasn’t a whole lot more to this than a map from Sanchez.  A map, Dillon knew, Sanchez would come looking for.  Maybe if he got the map to Craig, got Sara out of the country…

Right.  And maybe Sanchez would go all soft while hell froze over and not put a bullet through both their heads just for spite. 

As Sara came out of the bathroom, the phone rang.  Dillon grabbed the cordless off the bedside table.  “Caldwell.”

He listened for a long moment, his entire body rigid.  “What?  Where is he?”  His fist clenched around the phone.  “I’m on my way.”  He slammed down the cordless handset and the expletives that came out of his mouth were harsh and ugly and right now he just didn’t give damn.

Sara froze mid-step.  “What?”

Dillon reacted the only way he knew how.  He went into combat mode.  Locked down all emotion.  Then he grabbed his bag, the nylon pouch, snagged Sara’s wrist on his way toward the door and answered, “Craig Duncan’s just been shot.”

CHAPTER NINE

This night just got weirder and weirder. 

This shooting had to have something to do with Sanchez.  Craig was DEA, and it was too damn coincidental that all this was happening at the same time.

All Dillon could think of as he pulled Sara through the hospital corridor was that life gave with one hand and took away with the other.  It was a sorry ass thing to think at a time like this, but right now he just didn’t give a shit.   

He didn’t stop walking until he reached the double doors leading to the ICU and spotted Craig’s fiancé and her fall of long red hair through a glass panel.  Stacy’s head was bowed, her hands clasped tightly together against her forehead.  Despite the long, thin length of her, she looked small.  Frail.  Very much alone.  He let go of Sara’s hand to usher her through the swinging doors.    

Two armed federal agents looked up as he and Sara entered.  Dillon ignored them.

“Stace?” 

Relief raced across her tear-streaked face and he drew her into his arms.  “I--I can’t believe it…we were at a ballgame getting hotdogs, joking around…just a ballgame…and…and then…Craig, he just sort of fell backward.  I’ve never seen so much blood.  All the screaming, the panic…I don’t know who…why--” She broke off, pressed her face into his chest, breath hitching, struggling for control.

“Shh.”  Dillon tightened his arms around her.  “We’ll find out.  But first, I need to know,” he hated the way his voice sounded too controlled.  “Is he, is Craig--?”

“Alive.  He’s alive.”  She stepped back, took his hands, held them tightly.  “Stable.  The doctor said the surgery went well.”

Dillon exhaled the breath he’d been holding.  He hadn’t realized how tense he’d been until he actually heard the words.  “And you?  How are you holding up?” 

“You’re still always taking care of others.”  She gave him a small smile.  Squeezed his hands, let go.  “I’m tired, but Craig’s going to be okay, so yeah, I’ll be fine.  Doctor said I could bunk here overnight.”  She stepped back, just a little.  “Craig came out of the anesthesia about thirty minutes ago and he’s starting to unfog.  He’s giving the staff a hard time--wouldn’t let them give him anything more for pain until you got here.  Said he had to talk to you, tell you something.”  She raked her hands through her hair.  “Must be important.”

“Well, I’m here now, so I’ll find out soon enough.”  He reached up and tucked a wayward strand of soft, cinnamon hair behind her ear. “Don’t worry, Craig’s tough.”  Tough and crazy and not someone Dillon would enjoy crossing. 

Sara had been lingering behind them, and turning toward her, he introduced the two women, then gently guided them both toward a couple of chairs.  “Both of you need to sit.  Try to relax.  I’ll check on Craig, and hopefully, won’t be too long.”

He gave them a soft smile and started toward Craig’s room, but two armed federal agents stopped him at the door.  “Sorry, sir, you can’t go in there.”

Dillon was ready to argue that not only could he go in, but he’d plow through both agents if he had to, when a voice he hadn’t heard in a long time spoke up from behind him.  “Go ahead and clear him.  Five minutes.”

He looked over his shoulder to see Craig’s not-in-the-direct-chain-of-command boss, Senator Richard Cummings.  Craig must’ve been into something pretty damn deep for a senator to be hanging outside his hospital room.  Cummings was trim, average height, mid-fifties and just starting to gray.  The grapevine said he was being groomed to become the next president elect.  Dillon didn’t much care for the man--Cummings liked to play God and too often stuck his nose where it didn’t belong--but since Cummings was apparently on the same side as Dillon as far as Sanchez and the SBC went, he gave him a nod.

The two men guarding the door moved aside and let him pass. 

As he entered Craig’s cubicle, the first thing he noticed was all the wires and tubes sticking out from the bed, connected to a million different machines.  “What some guys won’t do for a little attention.”

Voice weak, Craig muttered, “Piss off, spook.”

Dillon almost grinned.  “That’s an insult that would have me shooting you myself if you didn’t already look so pathetic.”

Craig was covered up to his waist with a white sheet, his chest plastered in bandages.  He wasn’t just pale, he was gray and obviously in a lot of pain.  Yeah, getting shot was a real party.

Dillon pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed.  “Why the pow-wow?”

“I needed to see you before they hit me with more drugs.”  He closed his eyes and Dillon could tell from the white lines around his mouth what it had cost him to wait.

“Any idea who shot you?”

Craig shook his head.  “Not sure.  But the hit has the SBC’s name all over it.”

With everything else that had happened tonight, Dillon had thought the same thing.  Still, he wanted to hear Craig’s take.  Wanted to know what Craig knew.  “How so?”

“Sanchez is after something.  He might think I have it.” 

“Something as in, oh say, a map that the DEA would love to get its hands on?” 

Craig raised a startled gaze toward Dillon.  “How’d you--?  Did Sara--?”

At the mention of Sara, betrayal punched Dillon in the gut.  “You knew Sara was alive?  All this time?  And you didn’t tell me?”  Head buzzing, he stood.  Words razored up his throat.  “Mother of God, I’ll kill you myself.” 

Craig’s voice sounded resigned.  “Where is she?”

“I’m sorry for your loss.  You said that.  Those words.  To me.  I’m sorry for your loss.  Only you weren’t sorry for any fucking loss, you son of a bitch.”  Dillon leaned over, deliberately pressed his elbow, along with significant pressure, onto the wound in Craig’s chest.  “You knew.  All this time, you knew.  Sara was alive and Sanchez was still in play.”

Sweat ran down Craig’s face.  “Yes.”

“Where is Sanchez now?  Why the hell was I kept out of the loop on this?”

“Someone’s feeding Sanchez information.  Someone from your office.”  Craig gave him a hard look, tried to muscle Dillon off him.  “Now get the fuck off me.”

“I know about the leak.  Have known.  But from my office?  That’s bullshit.”

“How do you think your cover was blown?  Look at everything that’s happened!  It’s all coming from inside.”

“The admiral didn’t get where he is now by being an idiot.  And he sure as hell isn’t going to share everything he knows with the DEA.  Your division only knows what he wants them to know.”

“How many people at EDGE do you trust?”

“Every single one of them.  With my life.  I’m telling you, you’re looking in the wrong damn place.  How many people with the DEA do
you
trust?”

When Craig didn’t answer, Dillon said, “Exactly my point.  Now why wasn’t I told about Sara?”

Craig shook his head.  “If you love her, truly love her, walk away.”

Dillon dug his elbow in until Craig groaned, panted with pain.  “Bullets can do a lot of damage.  They don’t always make a tidy hole.  Most of the time, they jigsaw around or fragment and I’ll just bet this bandage,” he pushed a little harder, “is covering up a real mess.” Just before Craig screamed, Dillon clamped a hand over his mouth.  “One chance.  You have one chance to tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right here, right now.”  Dillon moved his hand.  Backed off a couple PSI and waited.

“She saw too much.  We had to protect her.  Had to make it look like she’d died.  For her own good.  And yours.”  Craig tried for a deep breath, winced.  “Jesus, you’re a prick.”

“Yeah.  Same goes.”  Dillon clenched his jaw until it ached.  He was angry, damn near ballistic in fact, and he wondered how much hell one man was expected take in the course of a couple of hours without losing his mind.
 
He gave himself a moment to regroup and then sighed and let up on Craig’s chest.  Craig might be a wildcard, but if he, being DEA, was keeping secrets, there had to be a good reason.  A reason Dillon desperately needed to know.  “Sara’s safe.  Now tell me what the hell’s going on.  Where’s Sanchez?”

Craig closed his eyes.  When he opened them, he looked like he wanted to go fetal.  Sweat pooled around his neck.  “I don’t know anymore.  My guess is he’s close.”

“What about Sara?”

“When she came through surgery we were going to tell you, but Christ, man, everything changed.  The bounty on your head, what happened to your family.  You were unhinged.  We felt it was safer if everyone, including you, thought she was dead.  If you’d known she was alive, you’d never have stopped looking for her and you’d both be dead now.  It was the only way to keep you both safe until Sanchez was caught.  Edge kept you secure, I kept Sara as safe as I could.  I don’t know how Sanchez found her.”  Craig shifted, tried to sit up.  Dillon firmly pushed him back down.

“Walk away from her now, Dillon.  Put her in custody.  WitSec, a safe house.  She’s as good as dead if she’s with you.  Someone on the inside is feeding information to Sanchez and Sanchez won’t stop this time.”

“This time?  Sanchez never stopped in the first place, you stupid fuck.”  Dillon had heard enough.

“And Vega.  You need to get Vega--”