Blank Slate (12 page)

“Do
you have her personal effects?” Stiver asked.

“Um,
yeah, just a second,” Erik replied, hastily turning away as Stiver put Clarissa
in the front seat of a nearby sedan. Erik had taken several steps toward the
SUV to get the two black duffels containing Clarissa’s things when a thought
occurred to him.

“Wait,”
he said, swiveling to stare at Stiver, who stood waiting. “I never said she had
anything with her.”

“It
was just a routine question, son,” Stiver replied easily.

Something
was off. Erik’s gut was telling him something very different than his head was
saying. He studied the marshal for a moment, trying to figure out what was
bothering him. Then he saw it.

US
Marshals carried Glocks, not Sigs.

Erik
reached for his gun an instant too late. Stiver had drawn and fired. Erik dived
for the SUV as Stiver threw himself into the sedan and took off, Clarissa
locked inside with him.

C
larissa was thrown against the door as the marshal gunned the car out of the lot. Her shoulder hit hard, and she winced. She twisted in her seat, relieved to see Langston getting up off the ground through the rear window. When she’d heard the gunshot, her heart had lodged in her throat.

“Who are you? What do you want?” she demanded of the man who called himself Stiver. If he was a federal marshal, she’d eat dirt.

He shot her a look before glancing in the rearview mirror. “I’m to bring you in, just not to the Feds.”

“Did Solomon send you?”

“Solomon ain’t the only one after you, sweetheart.”

The words sent a chill up Clarissa’s spine. Whoever she’d been before, it obviously hadn’t been a cashier at the Gap. My, what a dangerous life she’d led.

The scenery sped by as Stiver took her farther from the airport. Clarissa eyed the door. Stiver hadn’t buckled her in, so she could try to make a leap for it, but at this speed and with her arms pinned behind her, chances were she would not come out of it unscathed.

When trees began to thicken outside the windows, the calm Clarissa had forced began to waver. Nothing good ever came from an abductor taking someone into the woods.

Stiver cursed, his eyes on the rearview mirror. He twisted in his seat to look, then turned back only to speed up even more.

“What?” Clarissa asked, turning to look as well.

“That Fed is following us.”

Stiver was right. She could see Langston. Hope leapt as Clarissa saw his SUV barreling down the road after them. He was coming for her.

Clarissa lost sight of Langston as Stiver rounded a bend and she was again thrown against the door. Stiver spun the car around, skidding to a stop on the side of the deserted road. He pulled his gun from its holster.

“Time to end the Fed.”

Panic raced through Clarissa. Reaching behind her, she yanked on the handle, and the door popped open.

“Don’t even try it,” Stiver growled, leaping across the seat and jerking her back inside before Clarissa could get out. He grabbed the seat belt and started to buckle her in.

Clarissa seized her chance. She didn’t think; she just moved. If she did nothing, Erik might be killed.

That wasn’t an option.

She slammed her forehead down, cracking Stiver on the bridge of his nose. He yelped in pain as blood spurted. Before he could recover, Clarissa twisted, swiveling in her seat and wrapping a leg around Stiver.

His gun came up, and Clarissa kicked it out of his hand with her other foot. Stiver’s balance was precarious as he lunged for the gun, but Clarissa brought her knee up hard, hitting him on the chin and clamping his mouth shut. Stiver yelled again as blood trickled from his mouth.

Now both Clarissa’s legs were around Stiver’s neck. Crossing her ankles, she squeezed her thighs as hard as she could. Stiver clawed at her, the cramped confines of the front seat of the car working more to Clarissa’s advantage than his. His face turned a mottled purple, his eyes bulging in his head.

The muscles in Clarissa’s thighs screamed in protest, but she held on. Stiver grappled with something, she couldn’t tell what, until he pulled the switchblade.

Panic gave her another burst of strength, and Clarissa twisted, throwing her whole body into it and slamming Stiver into the dash. His head snapped backward with a sickening crack. His body jerked once, twice, then collapsed on top of her.

Clarissa fought to breathe, the weight of the dead body pressing against her chest. Her arms were pulled up behind her back, her shoulders wrenched into a painful position.

Suddenly, the door behind her flew open. Clarissa stared up into the barrel of a gun.

Erik was breathing hard from his race to the car and took in the scene with a glance. He quickly holstered his weapon before reaching down to shove Stiver off O’Connell. The body fell to the side, and Erik was able to pull her out of the car. Her face was bloodless, and she struggled for air, pulling in short, quick breaths.

“Slow down,” he admonished. “You’re going to hyperventilate.” A lock of her hair had fallen across her face, and Erik tucked it behind her ear before he even realized what he was doing. Once he did, he jerked his hand back, but if she noticed the touch or his hasty withdrawal, she didn’t say anything.

O’Connell closed her eyes, obviously making an effort to calm down. Her wrists were still cuffed behind her back, which bothered Erik. He couldn’t forget the sight of her facedown in the water last night with those damn cuffs on. Reaching into the car, he dug the keys off Stiver and unlocked the offending bracelets. Tossing them to the side in disgust, he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or horrified that O’Connell had managed to kill a man without the use of her hands or a weapon.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, anxiously watching as she rubbed her wrists.

She shook her head. “Other than the fact that I just killed someone, I’m hunky dory.”

“Did he say anything?” Erik asked.

“Just that Solomon wasn’t the only party interested in acquiring me.”

Sirens sounded in the distance. Erik made a decision, one that he should have made hours ago. He knew with a fateful certainty that there would be no coming back from the consequences. So be it.

Giving her a moment to collect herself, Erik searched the marshal’s car, taking two rifles from the backseat and another pistol. When he popped the trunk, he stopped dead.

“Well, I guess we know what happened to the real Stiver,” he said.

O’Connell peered over his shoulder, and they both stared at the dead body shoved into the trunk of the car.

Reaching into the trunk, Erik felt the man’s pockets until he pulled out a wallet. Flipping it open, he confirmed, “Yeah. This is Randy Stiver.”

“So who’s the guy I — ” She cut off her own sentence, asking instead, “Who’s the guy up front?”

“No idea.” The sirens were getting closer. “Let’s go,” he said, closing the trunk and taking the weapons to his SUV.

“Wait, what do you mean?”

Erik paused, glancing back to see that O’Connell hadn’t moved but was eyeing him suspiciously.

“The cops are coming,” he said. The sirens grew louder by the moment. “Do you really want to be here when they arrive?”

“But I thought you didn’t want to jeopardize your career—”

“I changed my mind,” Erik interrupted. “Now let’s get out of here before the cops haul both of us to jail.”

“We can call it quits right here,” O’Connell argued. “Dump the bodies, and I’ll take this car and go my way, and you go yours.”

“And what will you do then?” he asked. The thought of her on her own, with no one to help her, made him sick to his stomach.

She shrugged. “I’ll figure it out.” The bleakness and exhaustion in her eyes belied the casual words.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” Erik said. “I can help you. How far do you think you’ll get on your own? You know no one and have nothing, not even a memory.” More gently, he said, “Surely I’m a better option than going it alone.” He held his breath. He wouldn’t stop O’Connell if she decided to leave, but it would be a near thing. And not just because she was wanted by the FBI, but because he was afraid her life expectancy was growing shorter by the moment.

Erik’s gaze locked with hers. Her green eyes seemed unusually bright.
Oh God, please don’t let her be crying.
The thought made him panic slightly, though how she was holding it together after the past twenty-four hours, he had no idea. Any other woman of his acquaintance would have dissolved into hysterics long ago.

O’Connell cleared her throat, took a deep breath, and headed toward him. Erik let out his breath, relieved more than he wanted to admit that she hadn’t left. He’d just gotten her back, amazingly enough unharmed, and he’d be damned if he was going to let her be hurt or killed because he was too much of a dumbass to figure out what was going on, which was obviously a hell of a lot more than what he’d been told.

He held the car door for her as she climbed in, refraining from touching her only with difficulty, and he wasted no time in getting them the hell out of there.

The miles flew by as Erik tried to get his head together. He was committed to a course of action now, aiding and abetting a fugitive. A fugitive that too many people wanted for reasons unknown, even by O’Connell herself.

Who had that guy been, and how had he known where they were going to be? The only explanation was that someone had known who was being transported. Someone had talked, laying a trap for him and O’Connell.

Grabbing his cell phone, Erik dialed SAC Clarke directly. When the man answered, Erik didn’t waste time with preliminaries.

“Sir, this is Agent Langston—”

“Tell me you’re on a plane, Agent,” Clarke interrupted.

“Negative, sir. I regret to inform you that…well, sir, I believe we have a mole in the office.”

“Just…wait, what?”

Erik heard a door shut and assumed Clarke was trying to get some privacy, which was a good thing considering what Erik had to tell him.

“We were ambushed, sir,” he explained. “The marshal was a fraud. He killed the real marshal and impersonated him.”

“Did he get the girl? Is she hurt?”

“No, sir. I was able to prevent that from happening. He’s dead.”

There was silence for a moment before Clarke spoke again. “All right, good job, Langston, but just because you think there’s a mole here doesn’t make it true. The mole could be in their office.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Looks like we’re going to have to do this on the down-low. Let me get a map.”

Langston waited, listening to papers shuffle on the other end of the line.

“Okay, there’s a bit of nothing town in southern Colorado right near the New Mexico border, called Branson. They have a heliport there. I’ll personally arrange a transport for O’Connell.”

“Will I be coming, too, sir?”

“No. Get back to Denver once you drop off O’Connell and dig into the marshal business. I don’t want to think one of my agents would betray his own like that.”

That didn’t sit well with Erik. He was responsible for O’Connell’s safety, which had been precarious at best. While he didn’t want to suspect his former partner, Kaminski was the one who’d contacted the US Marshals’ office and the only one who knew where they were meeting. It was a bit too convenient to be mere coincidence, but he didn’t say that to Clarke. Accusing a fellow agent without any evidence was a serious charge.

“Yes, sir.”

Clarissa watched as Langston ended the call. “So what now?” she asked.

Langston pulled into a dilapidated gas station before answering, his thoughts busy contemplating his options. “My orders are to drive to a town close to the New Mexico border, meet up with a helicopter, and put you on it.”

With that he got out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him.

Clarissa sat, utterly dumbfounded. He’d lied to her. Even after what had happened with the marshal, he was still going to turn her in. She’d been so sure he was going to help her, so relieved that she wasn’t alone.

Though she had no memory, Clarissa felt that being alone was not a rare occurrence for her. You could only depend on yourself. No one could be trusted, not really. Wasn’t everyone out for themselves, anyway?

Well, it was high time she got on with the business of looking out for herself. God knew no one else gave a damn. She was an idiot not to have gotten in that marshal’s car and put the FBI agent far behind her.

Clarissa glanced around the gas station. It was empty of customers save for Langston. The windows into the building were dirty, and she couldn’t see through them. She’d just have to hope the person inside was bored and not paying attention.

Reaching in the back, Clarissa grabbed one of the rifles Langston had tossed in. Keeping an eye on Langston — his back was turned to the window as he filled the tank — she checked to make sure the rifle was loaded. It was.

Clarissa opened the door and slipped outside, shifting her grip on the rifle before rounding the car. Langston looked up, saw the weapon leveled at him, and froze.

“This again?” he asked, his voice cold. He turned away, putting the fuel nozzle back in the pump before screwing the gas cap back on.

Clarissa swallowed, licking her dry lips. “Give me your keys,” she demanded.

Langston crossed his arms, leaning casually against the side of the SUV.

“No.”

Clarissa gritted her teeth in frustration. “Give them to me, Langston, or I swear I’ll put a hole in you!”

Langston’s eyes flicked down to the rifle in her hand, then back up. His blue eyes were calm and his voice steady as he said, “You’re not running away from me.”

“You said you’d help me,” Clarissa fumed, hating the way her eyes stung with tears. She blinked them back. “You lied.”

Langston's body was a coiled predator feigning ease as he pushed himself upright and moved toward her. “I didn’t lie. I am going to help you.”

“By turning me in?” Clarissa’s voice was shrill, and her hands shook. She tightened her grip on the gun, taking a step backward as Langston slowly advanced.

“You’re a strong woman,” he said, eyeing her carefully, “but you’re inches away from losing it.”

Clarissa couldn’t stop the tears now, which only made her more furious, and she dared not loosen her grip on the rifle to wipe them away. “You would be too,” she spluttered angrily, “if you had no memory of who you were or what you’d done that had all kinds of horrible people wanting to capture or kill you! I’ve killed two people in as many days, done things, know things, that terrify me, and the one person I do know is hell-bent on turning me in to the cops so I can get sent to jail! So yeah, I think I’m entitled to be a little upset!”

Langston was blurry in her vision as he stepped closer until his chest was pressed against the rifle’s muzzle. His hand lifted, and Clarissa knew with a sinking sensation that it was over. She couldn’t shoot him, which was bad enough, but even worse, he knew it too.

To her shock, though, he didn’t try to take the gun. Instead his hand brushed her cheek, wiping away the tracks of her tears. Confused, she looked up at him. His brows were drawn; his lips pressed tightly together as his eyes, so startlingly blue this close, studied her.