Betrayed (17 page)

She used her shirt to wipe the interior around the passenger seat while he did the same with the steering wheel and the driver's side. Once they'd left the building, he closed the door behind him.

“The owner's a friend of mine,” he said. “He'll drive the car away from here and leave it in the woods.”

He ushered her to a small single-engine plane that sat with a number of others in a field to the left.

“That's yours?” she asked.

“Rockfort's. We're all experienced pilots. I'm going to do a preflight check before we take off.”

***

Shane focused on the checklist. He wanted to get out of the area, but he wasn't going to skip this important step, because if you took off without making sure everything was working properly, you could get yourself killed.

He started methodically, making sure the aircraft registration, certification, and other paperwork were in the cabin and up to date.

Next he turned on the master power switch and checked the fuel gauges, glad to see that the plane was gassed up. It helped steady him to focus on the plane and not his physical condition—or his relationship with Elena—or the surprise of finding out that Iverson was knee-deep in the S&D shit.

He pushed that out of his mind again as he listened to the sounds of equipment powering on. To his relief, everything sounded okay.

Finally he checked the flaps, landing gear lockdown levers, and other flight controllers for smooth, normal function.

When he was satisfied, he turned to Elena.

“All set.”

“Do you have to…file a flight plan?”

“I did when I was in the office.”

“Where are we going?”

“North Carolina. We have another facility down there.” He snorted, then fought not to wince. “Let's hope it's better hidden than the one up here.” He looked at her. “Buckle up.”

She did as he asked, but she looked jittery as he taxied down the runway.

“You've flown before, haven't you?”

“Well, we flew here from Mexico, but I've never been in a plane this small,” she said as he picked up speed and they sailed into the air.

“I'll try to make it fun,” he answered, then gritted his teeth against the pain in his side. He probably shouldn't be flying at all, but getting out of here was his first priority.

When they were airborne and he'd gotten his bearings, he looked toward her. “Thanks for your help.”

“I wasn't going to leave you in danger.”

“I wasn't going to leave you, either.”

He wanted to say a lot more, but he'd have to save it for later, because all he could deal with was flying the plane. He had to keep his emotions out of it until he got them to safety.

***

Elena had expected that once they were out of danger Shane might relax a little, but she didn't see any evidence of that. She wanted to touch him. Maybe put her hand on his arm, but distracting him now seemed like a bad idea.

Some of her own tension about the small plane dissipated as he flew south, staying along the coast, sometimes pointing out landmarks below them as they passed over.

Casting around for something to say, she murmured, “You said you filed a flight plan? Can't the men looking for us use it to find out where we went?”

He answered with a hollow laugh. “I guess they can try. They have to figure out we took a plane. And if they figure that out, the flight plan is false.”

She absorbed that information. “You can do that?”

“The guy who owns the airport has helped us out before. He'll cover for me.”

“Okay.”

He didn't say anything more, and she kept stealing glances at him, thinking that he wasn't in good shape. But she figured that if he'd wanted to tell her about it, he would.

A couple of hours later, he landed at another small airport near Elizabeth City, North Carolina.

“While I was in the office, I arranged to have a car waiting,” he said as he taxied down the runway, then pulled off onto a grassy strip similar to the airplane parking space where they'd taken off.

***

Elena followed Shane to a small office, similar to the one at the previous airport.

“Good flight?” the man behind the desk asked.

“Yeah.” Shane reached into his pocket and got out some of the money he'd taken from the killer.

“Thanks. Your car's right outside the fence.”

As Shane drove into the countryside, Elena watched his hands gripping the wheel.

“Do you want me to drive?” she asked.

“I'm fine.”

“I don't think so.”

“We don't have far to go,” he answered, and she could tell that he was determined to do things his way.

They turned off onto a secondary road, and he slowed as he came to a long driveway. Again he turned, then stopped at a gate and punched in a code. After driving inside, he waited for the gate to swing closed behind them, then proceeded to a house set well back from the road.

He took the driveway at a slow pace, then pulled up in front of another older house that looked like it had recently been renovated.

The key was under the edge of the front porch. Inside, the first floor was similar to the last safe house, with a comfortably furnished great room, a dining area, and a kitchen along one wall.

Shane crossed the room and sat down heavily on one of the couches. “I guess we made it,” he said in a barely audible voice.

He looked wiped out, and she had the feeling that he'd kept himself going on willpower. Now that he was safe, his energy had suddenly drained away.

When he threw his head back, his jacket fell open, and she saw the red stain that had spread across the side of his shirt. She ran toward him.

***

Lincoln Kinkead looked up as one of his aides came into the room.

“You find out what happened to Iverson?” Kinkead asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Without giving him any information, the aide stepped aside and a tough-looking man walked into the room.

Kinkead looked up at him, fairly sure that he knew who he was dealing with now. “And you are?”

“Detective Paul Raymond with the Maryland State Police.”

Lincoln had expected that the police might show up at S&D, although he'd been thinking it would be local law enforcement—not the state cops. The introduction immediately put Kinkead on edge. “What's this about?”

Without answering the question, Raymond asked, “A man named Bert Iverson works for you?”

“He's my assistant chief of security.”

“Did you send him out on an assignment?” Raymond asked.

Lincoln thought about that. He'd called Bert last night and he'd come in for a few hours. Then he'd disappeared. Like Shane had disappeared.

“He was here last night. Did something happen to him?” Lincoln didn't say that Iverson had been helping out with an emergency situation. He had learned that the less you volunteered to the cops, the better.

“He turned up dead at an estate on the Eastern Shore, outside St. Stephens.”

Thrown off balance by the terse statement, Lincoln stared at the man. Of all the things the detective could have said, that was the last one he'd expected to hear.

“How? When?” he managed to ask.

“He was found a few hours ago when the owner went down there to spend some time at his vacation house.”

Lincoln waited for more information.

“There was evidence that an intruder had been using some of the facilities at the estate without permission. Someone apparently spent the night on the owner's cabin cruiser docked there. And food was eaten at the guesthouse.”

“And you think Iverson was responsible?”

“We don't think so. We searched the property. There's evidence of a gun battle in the woods. Iverson was shot.”

“By whom?”

“We don't know, but we'd like some information on your chief of security, Shane Gallagher, the man who's wanted for questioning about a shooting at his apartment.”

Shane had gotten into trouble at his apartment—with Elena Reyes, who had been in the building after hours the evening before. Now there had been another gun battle today on an Eastern Shore estate. Both incidents had to be connected, but Lincoln couldn't put it together.

“Gallagher is missing,” Lincoln said.

“And Reyes was with him at the apartment.”

Lincoln sighed. “I called and asked him to come in, and he didn't show up.”

“We'd appreciate it if you would contact us if you hear from him.”

“Yes. Okay,” Lincoln answered because he felt like he had no choice.

“What's going on at S&D?” the detective suddenly said.

“What do you mean?”

“Your chief of security is missing. His second-in-command is dead, and Elena Reyes, one of your IT people, is probably with Gallagher.”

Lincoln nodded.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

Lincoln swallowed. “Not at this time. I'm conducting an internal investigation.”

“Of what?”

Wishing he hadn't given away that last part, Lincoln said, “Elena Reyes was in the building after hours.”

The cop gave him a hard look. After several seconds, when Lincoln said nothing more, the man turned and left.

Lincoln waited for long moments, debating what to do. Finally he picked up the phone and called Rockfort Security.

“Max Lyon here.”

“This is Lincoln Kinkead.”

“Right.”

“Have you heard from Shane Gallagher?”

“No.”

“Are you lying to me?” he snapped.

“We've been at the office all night, hoping to hear from him and hoping you might call with information.”

“He was supposed to come in. When I called to find out where he was, he said he was with Elena Reyes and that they'd escaped from thugs at his apartment. But you probably know that from the police report.”

“Yeah.”

“Apparently they went down to the Eastern Shore and got into some trouble again. My assistant head of security is down there—dead.”

Lyon dragged in a quick breath. “Who killed him?”

“The state police are investigating that. Why would Shane go down there?”

“We have a safe house in St. Stephens.”

“Did Shane call Iverson?”

“We don't have any information on that.”

“Well, if you hear anything, let me know.”

When Lyon was silent, Lincoln said, “I paid Rockfort good money to find out who was trying to steal proprietary information from me. Gallagher hasn't found out squat. And now it looks like he's gotten into bad trouble.”

“Or he's trying to stay out of trouble,” Lyon suggested.

Lincoln snorted. “If you hear from him, I expect a report.”

“Will do,” Lyon said, but Lincoln had the feeling the man was only saying what the client wanted to hear.

***

Max hung up the receiver, clicked off the speaker, and looked at Jack. “Kinkead's pissed off.”

“He has a right to be.”

“Which doesn't help Shane.”

“What do you think is going on?”

“No way to be sure.”

Max stood. “We're going down there.”

“In the helo. That will be fastest.”

They both checked their weapons, then headed for the safe house near Gaithersburg where the agency kept the helicopter.

Elena stared at the blood spreading across Shane's middle. “Shane. Oh Lord, Shane.”

When she reached his side, she pulled the jacket farther back and inspected the bloodstain. It looked fresh, like something that had just happened. But that wasn't possible, was it?

Carefully she undid the shirt buttons and looked at his chest, then farther down. When he'd been in the airport office, he must have wound a sheet around his middle and tied it tightly in place. It was soaked with dried blood, but more fresh blood had come through onto the shirt.

“When were you were shot?” she breathed.

“By Iverson.”

“And all this time you just…”

“Kept going—because I had to.”

“Where is the wound?” she demanded.

“In the side.”

She caught her breath. “The bullet…”

“Went through,” he finished for her.

Her frantic gaze darted around the safe house as she tried to find a phone. “If you're shot, you could have internal damage.”

“I don't.”

“How do you know?”

“First, because I would have bled to death already. And second, because the bullet only traveled along my side.”

“You can't be sure you're not badly hurt. You have to go to the hospital.”

That got his attention. He grabbed her wrist and held her in place. “I went to a lot of trouble to make sure those bastards didn't know where I was. They've already tried to kill me three times. I'm not going to check into a hospital where they can find me.”

She caught her breath at the blunt assessment. “Do you have to use your real name?”

“If I want them to treat me.”

She kept her gaze on him. “Then what are we going to do?”

“This place is equipped for medical emergencies. And back at the airport in Maryland, I washed and disinfected the wound.”

She winced.

“Maybe you can put on a real bandage. And I should take antibiotics.”

“Okay,” she whispered. Now that he knew he was safe, he had stopped trying to hold himself together. She could see that the effort to give her so much information had done him in. He closed his eyes again.

She wanted to lay her hand against his cheek, but she kept her arm at her side.

She could ask him where to find the first-aid supplies. Or she could go looking for them. She chose the latter, heading toward the kitchen area. In the other house, he'd kept pulling things out of kitchen drawers that you wouldn't expect to find there. Following that clue, she discovered the medical kit in one of the upper cabinets, with everything carefully labeled. A plastic box held an assortment of antibiotics, with instructions for various conditions.

One even said, “For gunshot wound.” Apparently the Rockfort men were prepared for that, she thought as she took the bottle out of the container.

She also got sterile pads and gauze, along with a pan of warm water and some towels she found in the upstairs bathroom. She took a quick trip around the upper story, seeing several bedrooms. Hoping she'd be able to help Shane up there, she turned down one of the beds, then hurried back to the first floor.

When she brought all her supplies back to the sitting area, Shane's eyes blinked open, and he reached for the gun that he'd taken from the man on the ground. Her breath caught, and she froze.

“Shane?”

She watched his eyes come into focus. “I thought…”

“That I was one of the killers.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

When he put the gun down, she relaxed. But she could see that he was on the edge of reality—ready to defend himself at a moment's notice. That made him dangerous if he truly did get her confused with the enemy. Moving slowly, she picked up the gun and put it out of his reach on the end of the table. When he didn't lunge for it, she relaxed a little.

“I've found the medical supplies, but first I've got to take off your jacket and shirt,” she murmured.

He answered with a small sound of agreement.

She sat beside him on the sofa and eased the arm on his good side from the jacket and shirt at the same time, then the other arm, trying not to hurt him as she worked. Relieved that his skin didn't feel hot, she removed the makeshift dressing he'd put on and saw where the bullet had cut a path along his side. The long, thin wound was oozing blood, and when she gently washed it off, he sucked in a sharp breath.

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

She kept working, cleaning his skin, then swabbing on antiseptic, which she could tell was worse than the water. But he didn't complain.

She finished by bringing him a glass of water and an antibiotic caplet, which he dutifully swallowed.

“Drink a little more,” she said, thinking that when she'd seen shooting victims being taken care of on TV, they often had an IV line in their arm to replace lost fluids, which she wasn't equipped to do.

He drank more of the water, then laid his head back again. Afraid that he was going to sleep sitting up on the sofa, she asked, “Can you make it upstairs?”

“If I have to.”

“You'll be more comfortable.”

He grunted and heaved himself up, then wavered on his feet. She moved in and caught him around the waist, being careful not to touch his injuries. He tried to stand up straight, then gave up the effort and leaned on her as they made their slow way across the great room to the stairs, which they took very slowly, his weight almost too much for her as he used her to stay upright.

She was glad she'd chosen the closest room when he plopped down onto the bed.

“Thanks,” he muttered as she swung his legs up and eased him back against the pillows.

She leaned over to unlace his shoes and take them off, then set them on the floor. He was shirtless, but his jeans were dirty from the fight in the woods.

When she reached for the button at the waistband, his eyes blinked open.

“Better if I get these off you.”

He answered with a small nod as she undid the button, then eased down the zipper. She'd made love with him the night before, but now she tried not to focus on the intimacy of undressing him. But that was difficult to do because, like her, he hadn't put back on his damp underwear. He was naked under the jeans, and she had a good view of his genitals as she eased the pants down his hips. Last night he'd been a magnificent lover. Today he was achingly vulnerable.

After she was finished, she pulled the covers up to his waist. When she looked back at his face, his eyes were closed and his breathing had changed. He was sleeping. Which must mean something about his state of mind, she hoped.

Before they'd had the encounter in the woods with Iverson and the two goons, she'd known that Shane didn't trust her. She hoped she had gotten his trust back. Or maybe now he was simply too worn out from the injury to stay awake.

She stood looking down at him, then couldn't stop herself from leaning over and laying her hand against his cheek. For medical reasons, she told herself. She was still concerned that he might develop a fever. But so far, his temperature seemed normal,
gracias
a
Dios
.

Her own outfit was a mess, and she opened the closet and some drawers, finding men's shirts and pants. Leaving Shane for a few minutes, she looked in the other rooms and found women's things in one of them. After discarding her clothes, she put on panties, a loose shirt, and sweatpants, then hurried back down the hall. When she saw that Shane was still sleeping, she made a quick trip downstairs to retrieve the gun, knowing that he'd want it close if he woke. But not right where he could reach it from the bed, she decided, thinking about the way he'd startled when she'd come back with the medical supplies.

After putting the gun on the dresser, she sat down in the chair across from him. But her eyes drifted closed, and she found herself jerking awake a couple of times.

Conceding that she needed rest almost as much as he did, she crossed the room and eased onto the bed beside him.

He didn't wake. But if he did and needed something, she was sure she'd know it.

***

Sometime later, Elena's eyes blinked open. It took a moment to remember where she was and why. The man beside her was moving restlessly on the bed.

She raised up, looking down at him. His eyes were still closed, but when she touched his cheek, he made a low sound.

“Glenda?” he asked.

“No.”

He ignored the answer, perhaps because he wasn't really awake. “What the hell are you doing here? You can't sleep with somebody else and then come back to my bed.”

She caught her breath, wishing she hadn't heard.

“I'm not Glenda,” she whispered, but she could tell that he wasn't aware of who was in bed with him.

“It's all right,” she soothed. “I think it's time for your antibiotic. I'm going to get you a pill—and some water.”

When she tried to ease off the bed, he closed his fingers around her upper arm.

“I trusted you,” he said. “And you didn't give a damn about that, did you? Or maybe I was just too stupid to figure out what was going on.”

She didn't want to hear what he was saying, but at the same time, she did, because it explained a lot about his closed-up emotions. It looked as though another woman had hurt him badly, and that had put his guard up.

Then he'd met Elena Reyes, and right from the start, she'd done things to make him suspicious. And she'd kept on doing them because of her brother.

She silently cursed Alesandro for getting her into this mess. And for getting Shane into it. If it was within her power, she vowed that she was going to get the two of them out again.

Shane's grip on her arm relaxed, and she eased her hand away. When she was free, she climbed off the bed, trying not to disturb him as she left the room. She used the bathroom, then went downstairs and looked at the food supplies in the kitchen. It was well stocked, considering that it probably wasn't used very often. There were several packages of milk that could keep in a cabinet until they were opened. Also coffee, cereal, and a number of canned and frozen foods ranging from soup to man-sized dinners.

She smiled when she found chicken soup. The universal medicine for convalescent patients.

She opened a can of vegetable soup for herself and took a mug of it upstairs, along with the antibiotics. Then she sat in the chair across the room, waiting for Shane to wake up. She was relieved to see his color was better, and she couldn't help watching him as he slept, taking in details she hadn't been able to study when he'd been watching her. She loved his thick, dark lashes and the curve of his well-shaped lips.

He slept restlessly for several hours, but finally his eyes blinked open, and he looked around, focusing on her.

She crossed to him immediately. “How are you?”

“Better.” He tried to push himself up and winced.

“You shouldn't get up.”

“I have to pee. You probably don't want to look around for a urinal.”

“I will, if you need it.”

“I'd rather you help me up.”

Because she knew that his dignity demanded it, she crossed to his side and helped him sit up, then held out an arm so that he could pull himself up. He slowly eased out of bed, and as the covers fell away, she realized he was naked except for the bandage around his middle. Following her gaze, he looked down.

“Sorry.”

“It's okay.”

She helped him slowly across the room and into the bathroom. He leaned against the wall, his face pale, and she had to bite her lip to keep from upbraiding him for getting out of bed.

“Close the door,” he said in a low voice.

She stepped out of the room, closed the door, and waited, listening to the sounds from inside. When he'd flushed the toilet, she knocked. “Okay?”

He managed a hollow laugh. “I wouldn't exactly put it that way.”

She stepped inside, and they reversed the process, the trip back to the bed even slower. She helped him under the covers, and he lay with his eyes closed. The walk across the room had obviously taken a lot out of him.

She thought he might have dozed off when he said, “I'd like some clothes.”

Arguing was only going to use up more of his energy, so she opened the closet and inspected the contents. “How about a long-sleeved shirt?” That would cover down to his hips, and they could worry about putting pants on him later.

“Yeah.”

She took down a flannel one and brought it back to the bed, where she helped him sit up and get his arms into the sleeves. When she was finished, she checked the bandage and was relieved to see there was no more blood oozing out.

Then she worked the buttons on the shirt and left him leaning against the pillows while she brought over antibiotics and a glass of water. When he'd taken the pill and drunk some water, she helped him ease down into the bed.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

“You should sleep.”

“Yeah.” She heard the exhaustion in his voice. Then his eyes snapped open. “Where's the gun?”

“On the dresser.”

“Put it on the nightstand.”

“I'd rather not.”

He gave her a sharp look. “And your reasoning is?”

“You were…upset about something…” she said, not wanting to go into details.

“What?”

“Someone named Glenda.”

“I was talking about
her
?”

“A little in your sleep.”

“That's great.”

Changing back to the main topic, she said, “I think it's better if you can't wake up and grab the gun.”

He considered that statement for several seconds, and she waited with her breath shallow. If he didn't trust her, he'd insist on having the weapon within reach.