Body Double (16 page)

The news kept getting worse and worse. “Where are they?”

“Next cabin over. I warned them to be ready. We don’t get to talk with each other much, but the guards were busy, and I took a chance. One of them was a pilot. They left him behind in case Kunz needed to evacuate. We’re too far out in the middle of nowhere to evacuate by ground.”

Harry?
Amanda’s heart raced. “Wait here,” she told Simon,
and then checked her watch for the placement of the guards. When she had clearance, she moved out into the long shadows.

Hugging the rough cabin wall, she heard voices and peered into the window. Two men—Harry and a second man she didn’t recognize—sat bound to chairs with ropes. Paul Reese stood in front of them, impeccably dressed in black, talking on a phone. She strained to hear him clearly.

“You pulled a visual check and you’re sure she’s in that bed?” he asked someone on the other end of the phone.

He paused to listen, and the tension loosened in the set of his shoulders. Apparently he was talking with Amanda’s guard and had been reassured that she was in her apartment and sound asleep.

Actually, the guard must have seen the body of Rosalita, Joan’s nanny, who wanted only for Jeremy and his family to get away from here and live a normal life. Amanda admired the old woman’s strength and sacrifice. She’d made Amanda swear not to tell Joan what she’d done to help them, and Amanda would keep that confidence. Joan would have refused to let Rosalita sacrifice herself, and knowing she had would only make Joan feel guilty forever.

Reese turned his back to the window. “Fine,” he said, his voice carrying through the window screen. “Make sure she stays there. Mr. Kunz doesn’t want any trouble tonight and I’ve given him my personal guarantee that there won’t be any.” He disconnected the phone, spoke to Harry and the other prisoner. “Well, it appears your guardian angel has taken the night off.” Paul smiled, lifted a hand. “No rescue.”

“Are you going to untie us?” Harry asked.

“No. No, I’m not.” Paul walked to the door of the cabin. “But I am going to leave you to the guards.”

A raccoon ran across Amanda’s foot. She jerked and bumped against the cabin wall.

Reese stopped in his tracks, looked toward the window. Amanda broke into a cold sweat, flattened herself against the cabin wall and prayed he couldn’t see her. She slowed her breathing, stood statue still, glimpsing the bandage on the side of Reese’s face at the window. He looked out, moved from side to side and listened intently. Amanda didn’t move, didn’t breathe, afraid he’d hear her.

Finally, he backed away and she dropped to the ground, hugged the dirt and slid on her belly around the cabin wall to the back, fully expecting Reese to come out and check around outside.

She took cover under a thick bush, took aim with the guard’s gun and waited. Seconds later, Reese moved through the grass, his footsteps heavy, crunching on leaves and twigs.

Amanda weighed her options. She could expose herself and take him down. But then the entire compound would be alerted. Paul Reese had to die for hitting her; that record
would
stay intact. Yet the timing was hers to choose, and killing him right now wasn’t in her best interests. Not if she wanted to get Harry, Simon, Mark, Joan and Jeremy out of here alive. And she did. So she stayed put, nestled the gun, saving it as a last resort.

Reese took the corner at the back of the cabin. Amanda put her nose down into the dirt to avoid any potential light reflection off her exposed skin. He moved cautiously, gun raised, sweeping the perimeter, stopped not a foot in front of her.

Her heart pounded against her ribs, but she didn’t move. He sensed her there—she could feel it—but he hadn’t pinpointed her location. She waited, sweat beading on her skin, adrenaline pumping through her veins. If he found her, great timing or not, she’d have to kill him.

The raccoon raced by, brushing against Reese’s foot.

“Damn it!” He jerked and jumped a foot off the ground, took aim at the raccoon. “Get the hell out of here.” He shouted, but he didn’t shoot.

Reese blew out a shaky breath and walked back the way he’d come, clearly convinced the raccoon had made the initial noise that had set him on edge.

Amanda watched him walk away, turn the corner and walk over to the guard’s cabin and close the door. Having no choice, she stayed still a long minute, in case he was baiting her to expose herself.

The clock ticked constantly in her mind, reminding her that for every second that passed, the danger and risk of them getting caught increased.

Reese didn’t come back out. The guards didn’t alter their routine. Convinced he’d blamed the raccoon, she moved.

Showing her face at the cabin’s window, she hissed.

Harry looked over. His eyes crinkled and he gave her a slight nod, and then looked at the man seated beside him and winked. When the man winked back, the cycle of messages had been completed. They knew she was coming in after them.

When the guards passed the cabin and walked on, Amanda let out a ragged breath. Soon, they took the next row, and finally disappeared out of sight. Amanda sneaked inside, eased the door shut and pressed a fingertip over her lips. Quickly, she untied Harry and then the other man and motioned them to follow her. Rather than going out the door, she led them to a window at the back of the cabin, popped off the screen and climbed out.

Harry followed her, and the second man brought up the rear. Amanda motioned and led them into the woods. When hidden by the dense leafy trees, she glanced back at the cabin. Two guards now stood watch outside at the bottom of the steps to the front door.

Paul Reese, damn him, had trusted his instincts. They didn’t have much time. At any moment, those guards would enter the cabin to pull a visual check and they’d sound the
alarm. “Hurry,” she whispered, leading them to the spot where she’d stashed Simon.

“God, I thought you’d never get back.”

“Later, Simon,” she said, heading to the golf course fairway—the closest route to the helicopter. She checked her watch. Mark should be in position now with Joan and Jeremy and ready to move in. “We have to move fast. They’re on to us.”

She and the three men cleared the woods and hit the fairway in a dead run.

Sirens blared.

Spotlights flooded the course with blinding light. “Get to the trees,” Amanda motioned, seeing half a dozen guards run onto the fairway and several others coming at them in golf carts from different directions. “Simon, take them to the safe zone by the hangars. Tell Mark to go on. I’ll hold them off for you.”

Harry frowned. “No, we’re not leaving you.”

“If you don’t, you’ll be dead,” she said bluntly. “And no one will know what Kunz is doing. The truth will die here, Harry. I won’t let that happen. Now haul your asses to Mark and tell him to get that chopper airborne and get you out of here.”

“Okay. Okay.” Harry frowned. “Thank you, Amanda.”

“SAIC Marcus Brent, ma’am.” The second man spoke softly. “I appreciate the assist.”

SAIC—Special Agent in Charge. FBI. Great. Just as Joan had said, Kunz had infiltrated beyond the military. Obviously, at least as far as the FBI. “You’re welcome.” Amanda nodded, seeing the golf carts and men on foot running closer. Pulling a quick count, she tagged about a dozen of them. They hadn’t yet spotted Amanda’s group, but it would be seconds, not minutes, until they did. “Go!”

Simon, Harry and Brent ducked into the trees, ran paral
lel to the fairway, heading to the helicopter safe zone. Amanda moved behind them, close enough to provide them cover but not enough to jeopardize them being caught if she went down.

A bullet whizzed past her ear. She dropped to a crouch, spotted the shooter and returned fire. The man fell to the ground. Amanda kept moving, clipped an ancient oak, bumping her winged arm. Pain shot through her, stealing her breath. She slumped against the rough trunk and waited for the initial streaks of pain to pass, then focused on burying the pain and getting a lead on her pursuers. Wincing, she leaned out to peer under a low-slung branch to see what was happening.

Oh, man.
Everyone was now speeding in her direction; the shooting had snagged their attention. She sank deeper into the woods. The carts couldn’t make it through the dense underbrush. That maneuver took out part of her opposition. Swinging wide, she worked toward the safe zone.

Lights swept the trees—ankle-and then waist-high, flooding through even the squatty bushes. She flattened her back against a tall pine. Her lungs air-starved, she drew in deep breaths, her mind racing. Enemy footsteps crept closer and closer.

She squeezed her eyes shut, determined not to fire unless absolutely necessary. They’d be all over her in seconds. Three men moved within striking distance of her.

One stepped in front of her, saw her. She chopped at his windpipe, and when he bent double, she followed up with a second blow with her foot. His knees folded, and she knocked him out.

Killing them nagged at her relentlessly thanks to Gaston’s “not of their own free will” comment. Everyone had breaking points and Kunz, the sadistic son of a bitch, was a master at exploiting them. Yet under these circumstances, how did she quickly determine who was here by choice or by force?

In a split second, she made an executive decision on pol
icy. Given the opportunity, she would let them live. Anyone who pushed to kill her died.

She wiped the sweat from her palm, freshened her grip on the pistol. A second man nearly stumbled into her. Amanda hit him from behind. He plunged forward into the dirt, not knowing what had hit him. Avoiding the third man, a burly redhead with shoulders the size of mountains, she moved again, closer to the safe zone.

Something flickered and caught her eye. A team dressed in covert gear was headed her way. She counted five of them, armed to the teeth with rifles with high-power scopes. Certainly they were night-vision equipped.

So much for lucky breaks. Her stomach knotted. She was screwed.

In the distance, she heard the plop of chopper blades. Mark. He’d gotten them off the ground. Relieved by that, Amanda focused fully on evading the approaching team. She couldn’t avoid them forever, but she had to avoid them long enough for Mark to clear out with the detainees.

Why weren’t Kunz’s men firing the Triple-A?

There could be only one explanation: they thought their own guards manned the chopper. They didn’t know yet that Mark had appropriated it. Nearly giddy that he wasn’t dodging bullets, she dived into a little ravine and hunkered down to catch her breath. She had a good two minutes, maybe three, before the covert team would get to her grid. They swept methodically, thank God. These guys were professionals. From them, she knew what to expect.

Breather time over, she moved again, using stealth tactics.

At first, she outmaneuvered them and made decent progress. But within minutes, the team began closing in on her, tightening the perimeter circle to the point that she had no safe out. She assessed her position on the run. Her best odds were to hit the fairway and run full out. That was her
only hope of evading them a while longer and keeping their focus off Mark and the chopper.

She took off like a shot, blowing past two men on foot and one driving a golf cart. Bullets fired behind her, speeding past her ear, lodging in tree trunks too close for comfort and raising stinging clouds of dirt and leaves. Dodging, she ran a zigzag pattern to up her odds of not being hit. The bullets kept coming, sending dirt flying near her feet, pinging dirt against her slacks legs and shoes. Close. Too close.

The sounds of the chopper grew louder and then deafening. What the hell was Mark doing? He was
supposed
to be headed
out
of the damn compound, not
into
it!

Mark swooped, dropping the chopper lower to the ground twenty yards in front of her. Someone—Harry maybe—dropped down a rope ladder. Glimpsing a slim shot at survival, she ran full out toward it, pulling on every ounce of reserve she could muster. Shots rang out from the chopper, aiming over her head at the men firing on her. Harry? Brent? Simon? Probably not Simon; she couldn’t see him with a gun in his hand. But Kunz had messed with his family. Probably Simon, too.

The covert team rendezvoused with the guards. Bullets cross-fired all around her. Pulling up her last threads of energy, she pumped her legs hard. Her muscles burning, throbbing, her chest threatening to explode, she extended as far as humanly possible and lunged for the ladder.

A rung slapped against her palm. Half-surprised, she grabbed hold, locking on, and looked up the rungs. Harry stood in the door, looking down at her. She signaled him to haul it out of there. He cupped his hand at his mouth, yelling something she couldn’t decipher, then whatever he was saying was lost under Brent’s rifle fire as he leaned farther out the door and blasted the ground steadily.

In a momentary pause, she heard Simon shout, “We got her, Mark! Go, go, go!”

Amanda looped an arm around the ladder and returned fire on the men shooting up at her. Men on the ground ducked for cover, lay belly down on the grass.

The chopper lifted with a swoosh and made a jerky, sharp turn that sent Amanda swaying in a wide arc and had dragonflies swarming in her stomach. Swinging wildly, dangerously close to the trees, she took the ladder rungs as quickly as she could, dived into the chopper then tugged the rope ladder up after her.

Heaped between Harry’s and Joan’s feet, Amanda caught her breath and then looked up and over at Mark. “Thanks.”

Mark smiled. “I never leave my partner behind.”

Amanda fought the urge to smile back. “Coming back for me was a stupid thing to do, Cross. I’m questioning your judgment again. You could have lost everyone.”

“Could have,” he admitted. “But didn’t.”

She grunted. He was adorable and incorrigible, and that was that. And as partners went, he was a pretty good one.

“Oh, hell,” Brent said.

“What?” Amanda moved to the front of the chopper. “Mark?”