Lost in Shadows Page 5

  “You do know what you’re doing?” she asked, peering over his shoulder.

  “Trust me, you’re working with the best demo guy around. Bombs are my life.”

  “Give me a heads up before you blow everything to kingdom come, will you?” She moved back to the rear of the Forester and continued packing the gear they would need. “Won’t the fire bring them here all that much sooner?”

  He grunted as he lowered himself to the ground and hooked the wires to the metal of the door. Had to get this right the first time. One spark and they were toast.

  “Nothing’s going to happen until they open this door,” he said, hauling himself to his feet and starting to shut the door to set the trap. This should work, but he was used to design and repeated analysis before he ever built a device—all in the safe confines of his lab. He held his breath and oh so gently edged the door shut.

  Yes. Finally something had gone right today.

  He returned to the rear of the car and looked through the gear she had discarded. No way he was leaving those roadside flares. Magnesium fire stick, that could come in handy. Jackpot, another canister of white gas. Some of the rope might make for a good fuse. He scooped the items that interested him into a pile.

  “These need to come with us,” he said, turning to face her.

  She had stripped down to her silk long underwear top, showing no modesty although the thin material clung enticingly to her well-formed breasts. Lucky tried to pull his eyes away, but primal instinct prevailed over civilized manners.

  He watched as she re-dressed in a fleece pullover followed by a zippered vest. She kicked her shoes off, pulled on two layers of socks, then did a shimmy out of her khakis that had his blood roaring.

  He’d been right about her ass. Her Lycra tights revealed every sinuous curve of her hips down to her calves. Muscled but sleek, well rounded, just like the rest of her.

  Lucky swallowed hard against the impulse to lean her back against the bumper and let his fingers peel the layers from her, revealing the woman beneath. He imagined her moving beneath his body, graceful, matching him pleasure for pleasure as they explored each other.

  She seemed oblivious to his lustful flight of fancy as she bent over to pull on ski pants over top of her tights, giving him a glimpse of Nirvana.

  Smokey Bear his ass. If it weren’t for the blizzard, being stuck out in the middle of nowhere with no room service or any semblance of civilization, and the men trying to kill them, this could be fun. He grinned. What the hey, carpe diem and all that.

  He sighed as she finished dressing, lacing up a pair of well-worn hiking boots and standing before him, hands on her hips, a look in her eye that he didn’t like.

  His mother got that same look every time she visited his apartment. That “we can do better than this” look. Usually followed by some kind of hard labor on his behalf.

  “I don’t suppose you even have gloves or a hat?” she asked, her doubt at his abilities to dress himself clear in her voice.

  Lucky looked down at his leather car coat and jeans. This was what he always wore in the winter; he’d never had any problems before.

  “I was on my way to a wedding,” he reminded her.

  “Right. Who’s the lucky girl anyway?”

  He smiled. Was that a hint of interest in Smokey’s voice?

  “Her name’s KC—you’d like her, she’s one tough babe. Kick ass looker, too.” The glare she sent his way could have started a forest fire on its own.

  “Is that how you think about women? Maybe this girl should be thanking me, it might be her life I’m saving by keeping you from the wedding.”

  They both knew it wasn’t Ryan keeping either of them out here, but it was a nicer image than that of The Preacher’s men chasing them, guns blazing.

  “I wasn’t going to marry her. Well, I might have if my best friend hadn’t asked her first. I was supposed to be the best man.”

  She helped him shrug into a nylon poncho and rain pants. He tried to shy away from her attentions. It was galling to be so helpless, but then she looked up at him with those large dark eyes, eyes he could melt into, and he lost his train of thought.

  “I can’t keep calling you Ryan,” he said when he found his voice. She’d turned away to add his collection of demolition supplies to her backpack. “And I refuse to call you VD.” The glare she sent his way told him that not many who did would live to tell the tale. “What’s the V stand for? Vicky?”

  “Nope.” She handed him a pair of neoprene gloves, thick wool mittens, and a fleece balaclava. “Put these on. What’s wrong with Ryan? It’s my name.”

  He tugged the hat on, but left the face mask part folded up, watched as she tossed some clean socks, a couple of garbage bags, a topographic map, a few bandages, a knife, a small Maglite, a Ziplock bag of matches, and a few MRE’s into a waistpack. She added a water bottle and handed it to him.

  “Too heavy?”

  “No. Ryan’s your husband’s name. You’re obviously not Irish. It doesn’t fit you.”

  She bristled at that, cutting him a sharp look as she fastened the waistpack around his hips. Then she effortlessly shouldered her own larger and he was certain, much heavier pack. “Ryan fits me fine.”

  “Okey dokey, Smokey.” Damn, the woman was touchy. “Don’t forget the computer.”

  His gaze lingered as she leaned into the car and retrieved it from the passenger seat.

  “Ready?” she asked, her hand on the door.

  He took a few steps. It felt off balance to have his left arm out of commission. “As I’ll ever be.”

  She hesitated, then reached into the car for one more item. “Here, this will help.”

  She handed him a beautifully carved walking stick with a wicked looking point on the end, designed to bite into the ice and snow for added traction. From the way she avoided looking at it, he knew it had to belong to her husband. The late husband, dead cop.

  He wrapped his hand around the thick grip and wondered if he really wanted to carry a souvenir of a ghost. But one step through the thick snow and he knew he needed the walking stick almost as much as he needed her. The thought galled him.

  Before he could thank her, she slammed the door shut, and they stood in complete darkness and silence.

  As if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Chase Westin,” KC said as she entered the dining room, pulling her robe around her, hair still wet from her shower, “who taught you to set a table? The forks go on the left, not the right.”

  Her husband-to-be straightened from his position bent over the china and silver, his tuxedo pants were on, sans cummerbund, held up by suspenders. His shirt hung open, revealing his well-muscled chest.

  “Don’t mess with me,” he said. “I’m on the edge here, woman. First those damn studs that came with this monkey suit and now you’re telling me I’ve got to start all over again? Look, I’m right-handed, when I dig into my food I don’t want to waste time with a cross draw. The forks should be on the right.”

  He turned to her, planted his feet and waved a fork in defiance before placing it on the right hand side of the next place setting. KC let her gaze range over him, six feet of former Marine, still in fine fighting shape, with thick blonde hair that begged to have a woman’s fingers run through it, dark blue eyes and large, strong hands that could make her melt with the slightest touch.

  She squared off with him, hands on her hips, tilting her head back to look him in the eye. “What about the lefties? Rose is left-handed and so is Marion.” Their small wedding party was composed of Jay, Chase’s younger brother who was to stand up for her, and Lucky, Chase’s best friend as his best man.

  The rest of the guests were Chase and KC’s colleagues at the Special Threats Response Team. Including Rose Prospero, their boss, and Billy Price, the ex-Delta Force member who was Rose’s second in command. As the new kid at the STR, KC was anxious to have everything go smoothly.

  “M
arion doesn’t mind a cross draw and Rose will rearrange everything to suit herself anyway,” he said with a smile. He threw the rest of the silverware onto the table with a clatter. “Hell, let ‘em all suit themselves.”

  He reached for the belt of her robe and drew her close.

  “We don’t have time for this,” she murmured as his hands slid beneath the terrycloth to glide over her still wet skin. “You’re not even dressed.”

  His mouth found hers, immersed her in a heated kiss, then moved down her throat. “You’re not either.”

  “Seriously, Chase, I’ll help you with your studs.”

  He shook his head. “I decided on a new fashion statement. I call it the Fabio look. How do you like it?” She giggled as his tongue found a sensitive spot. “I’m the only stud for you,” he said in a fake accent that sounded more Schwarzenegger than Fabio and lifted her onto the table.

  He straightened, and KC didn’t like the gleam in his eye. She had the feeling she’d need another shower soon.

  “Wait, I have a present for you.” He reached behind him to the buffet and took a small flat box with a bright red ribbon from it. “Here, open it.”

  KC pulled the ribbon off and raised the box lid. Two pairs of fur-lined handcuffs lay inside.

  “You like?” he asked with a gleam in his eye. “Pink for you, blue for me—his and hers.”

  “You’re a wicked man with a perverted mind,” she told him. “Where’d you find these?”

  “Yesterday morning, Lucky and I found a little shop—”

  “Yesterday morning when you and Lucky were supposed to be getting haircuts?” She wound her fingers through his long, shaggy hair that curled just below his shirt collar.

  “Hey, I shaved didn’t I? Anyway, this was more fun. Wanna try them out? It’s your turn.”

  “Last time I had you in restraints, I was arresting you, Westin. I am not,” she emphasized the last word, “going to participate in any of your childish fantasies.”

  “Really?” He leaned forward, his body pressed between her legs.

  As he whispered his ideas into her ear, his hands ranged over her body, knowing just where to caress and stroke for maximum effect. KC had to laugh.

  There were advantages to being in love with a man who not only loved her in return, but who also wanted to spend every waking moment with his hands on her, finding new ways to give her pleasure.

  “Yes, to one and two, maybe to three—if it’s dark chocolate, and,” she gave a shiver of anticipation, “definitely number four.”

  “Your wish is my command,” he said, kissing her once more. Then he scooped her into his arms, ready to carry her to the bedroom.

  The doorbell rang before he got two steps. “Damn, who the hell could that be?”

  “Probably Lucky or Jay. I told them to come early if they needed help with their tuxes.”

  “They’re grown men,” he groused, “let them dress themselves.”

  “Chase, it’s ten degrees out there, go answer the door.” He spun on his heel, taking her with him as he moved to the foyer. “Put me down!”

  She barely had time to close the robe when he didn’t comply. He shifted her weight higher into his arms, freeing one hand, and opened the door with a fake growl, “Come back later!”

  He froze when he saw Rose Prospero and Billy Price standing on the stoop. Both wore serious, mournful expressions.

  Chase released her, and KC dropped to her feet. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  She wrapped an arm around Chase, felt his body stiffen with fear.

  “It’s Jay,” he said, “something’s happened to Jay.”

  “No,” Rose assured him. “Your brother is fine. Can we come in?”

  KC ushered them inside. Both were dressed for the ceremony, Billy in a tux she was certain was custom tailored and Rose in a long, crimson dress that suited her exotic coloring. The STR leader was a mysterious figure. The only things KC knew for certain about her new boss was that she was ex-CIA, had roots in the now-renegade country of Razgravia—where KC’s grandfather had known Rose—and that anyone on the Team would willingly lay down their life for Rose.

  Chase closed the door, but the room still felt chilly. KC wrapped her arms around her, snugging the belt on her robe tighter. Chase moved to stand behind her, his arms over hers, sharing his warmth and support.

  “It’s Lucky,” Rose said. “He’s missing.”

  KC’s fingers coiled into tight fists.

  “Damn it, I told him not to leave the Team,” Chase said. “He’s too vulnerable at ATF.”

  “The Preacher has him?” KC asked, preferring facts over speculation.

  Every federal agent now carried a copy of the computer generated image of The Preacher that Lucky had helped to create after Lucky had been captured and tortured by The Preacher last month. And lived to not only escape, but tell the tale to his fellow law enforcement agents. Even though the damage was done, they all knew Lucky was at the top of The Preacher’s hit list.

  Billy answered. “We don’t know. He and another ATF agent went out to set up a buy and they haven’t reported back.”

  “Why would Lucky go out on an undercover deal? That was the whole reason he left our Team, he wanted to work in his lab.”

  “Seems the rest of the agents available were out securing the stadium for the game today. Lucky went in on his day off to check on some projects he was overseeing and,” Billy shrugged, “I guess he couldn’t say no.”

  “Have you told his family?” KC asked.

  Billy and Rose exchanged glances.

  “Not yet. We thought we’d get the Team working on it, see what we’re up against so that we can give them some meaningful information,” Rose answered. KC saw the muscles around her eyes tighten and knew that Rose dreaded facing the Cavanaughs.

  “I’m in,” Chase said, “just let me grab my coat and shoes.”

  “Give me five minutes to get dressed,” KC said, moving to the bedroom. “Call Jay and the minister, will you, Chase?” she shouted over her shoulder.

  Chase stepped into a pair of Timberlands that sat beside the door. “Helluva day for a wedding.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Lucky and Ryan hadn’t taken two steps when he stopped. “Damn, my gun.”

  He couldn’t believe he’d almost left the Glock behind. He had his backup piece still in his boot, unfired, but if they encountered any of The Preacher’s men, they’d need all the firepower they could get. He opened the car door, grabbed the forty caliber semiautomatic.

  “You know anything about guns?” he asked Ryan who stood beside him, looking down at the semi as if it were a snake or something worse. “I need to clear the chamber, see how many rounds I have left, but I can’t do it with one hand.”

  Wordlessly, she took the Glock from him. Keeping the muzzle aimed away from them, she ejected the magazine, popped the round from the chamber and counted the bullets left after she replaced the solo round. “How many does it hold?” she asked, nodding to the magazine.

  “Seventeen.”

  The light of the interior lamp clouded her face in shadow. “There are six rounds missing.” She looked up, a question in her eyes.

  Lucky met her gaze. She was a cop’s widow, he knew what she wanted to know.

  “There were four of them, three with guns. They killed Tillburn right off the bat, he didn’t even have time to draw. I hit one of them, saw him go down, don’t know if he’s dead or not. I think I grazed another—there was some blood on his shirt sleeve—but it didn’t slow him down much.” Ruined Whitney’s fancy silk polo, though, he thought with satisfaction.

  “Michael never had to fire his gun outside of the range,” she said, re-inserting the magazine and handing the Glock back to him. Her hand was shaking. What did he expect? He kept reminding her of her dead husband.

  “Thanks.” He swallowed hard. “This was the first time I ever had to shoot at anyone. But I’ve had people shoot at me before and I killed a man, last month.�
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  Lucky couldn’t believe he was talking to her about this. He hadn’t even told Chase the whole story about what happened to him Christmas Eve when The Preacher held him captive.

  They made him go see a headshrinker down at Quantico before they let him come back to work, but he’d given the guy a watered down version, just enough to get him cleared for duty.

  None of his family ever killed anyone in the line. Kevin once shot a man in the leg, that was the most violence any of the Cavanaughs ever had to perpetrate. Until last month.

  She closed the car door, and they were alone in the dark again. They began walking down a trail, at least she seemed to think it was a trail, to Lucky’s eyes it was just a few feet of clear space between some trees.

  “That must have been difficult,” she said. “Even with all your training, nothing can prepare you for the real thing. The shock, the adrenalin, the lingering doubts and guilt mixed with the feeling that you’re glad to be alive even if someone else is dead.”

  He looked up at that. She did understand. “Last month, my cover was blown. The Preacher and one of his men took me from my bed at night, questioned me, they wanted to know who I was working with.”

  Lucky didn’t go into the details of how they questioned him, tortured was the more accurate word, but it didn’t matter what you called it. What mattered was the end result. He hadn’t broken, hadn’t betrayed Chase. And, although his heart had stopped and he’d been clinically dead for several minutes, he had survived.

  “When they were finished, ready to kill me, one of them came to…” He trailed off, remembering the sour taste of fear and the fierce determination to live that had consumed him during those awful minutes. “I fashioned a homemade knife, and I used it to kill him.”

  She didn’t need to know how he’d taken the boots from the dead man’s feet, it was either that or make his way through the snow, down a mountain in nothing but his boxers. “I escaped,” he finished. “But so did The Preacher.”