Hot Pursuit (39 page)

Chapter Forty-three

Jack was running hard.

In front of him, the hearse swung sharply and swerved onto the main road along the river, the driver's face out of sight. Jack slid into a two-handed firing stance and shot out the right front tire.

The hearse fishtailed over the wet road, but kept on moving.

“Izzy, get me a rifle. I'm going after him.”

Izzy sprinted up with sniper gear, and Jack dropped to one knee, sighted, then took out two more tires. This time the big car shook, crashing through a row of oleander bushes.

“Remember, he's to be taken down alive if possible.”

“I'll remember,” Jack growled. “Get your people into position past the bridge. I'm stopping him there.”

Izzy burst into a hail of sharp orders as Jack sprinted toward the little stone bridge that crossed a branch of the river. By crossing the marsh, he made a shortcut that would put him at the bridge ahead of Lemka. A bullet whined past the SEAL's head as he zigzagged through the reeds and up the final slope.

The hearse rocketed toward him, Viktor Lemka's angry face glaring through the windshield.

Still moving, Jack shot out the last tire. The hearse slowed but didn't stop, momentum driving it straight toward the bridge. As bullets whipped past, Jack dropped, using the bridge for cover so he could shoot out the windshield.

The glass exploded into small chunks that blew back into the car. When the last fragments fell, Lemka emerged into view, shouting curses and firing over the wheel.

Suddenly the passenger door jerked open and a man rolled out, firing as he hit the grass. Instantly, one of Izzy's men took him down with a clean headshot.

Lemka turned the hearse sharply, nosing toward the water. Screened from Jack's view, he jumped clear, clawing his way along the steep bank.

Jack sprinted around the bridge and put a bullet in the Albanian's knee, then shot the gun from his hand while Izzy shouted and half a dozen men poured forward over the grass in pursuit. Jack was ahead of them, almost at the hearse when it struck a stone barrier at the water's edge, shuddered, then flipped to one side, rolling down the slope and pinning the Albanian against a row of boulders.

He screamed shrilly, then sobbed as his body was caught and slowly crushed, inch by inch, beneath the plunging steel frame.

Jack heard the distant wail of sirens as he hit the water. Seconds behind the out-of-control hearse, he fought through icy currents, thick with silt and reeds. Cursing the lack of visibility, he shrugged off his jacket and jackknifed down through the shifting darkness until he felt the outline of the hearse's back door.

A pocket of air had gathered inside, and Jack heard Taylor's muffled shouts carried through the silty water as he swam in closer. Barely able to see, he shattered the side window with a rock and found his way up into the precariously shifting pocket of air near the back door.

“I've got you, Taylor. Hold on.”

The lid shuddered. Her hand emerged from the open coffin. “H-help me.”

“I'm right here. Stay in the air pocket while I get the back open.”

“H-hurry. Not much left.” She was fighting to hold the coffin open as the hearse shook, nosing downward.

Jack took a breath and worked his way outside to the back door. After two tries, he freed the handle and wrenched open the door.

The hearse pitched forward sharply. Instantly, the coffin slid down, bubbles churning as the air pocket vanished. Still holding his breath, Jack found the top of the coffin and pulled it up, seizing Taylor's arm as icy water poured around them.

Suddenly she tensed, jerked from his arms. He felt her straining wildly, kicking against the water below him in a fury of small bubbles.

Her air was gone.

He shot to the surface, grabbed a breath, then dove down again, holding her head as he found her mouth and blew hard. Then he squeezed her arm and kicked downward, searching for the barrier that held her. Precious seconds passed before he felt one of her legs tangled in the curtain rope from the sinking hearse, dragging her down. He dug into his pocket for his knife, slashing at the heavy strands as she was pulled relentlessly to the muddy bottom.

Her moan was muffled in the cold currents.

Again he shot to the surface, where Izzy was waiting in a rowboat. He tossed Jack a big police flashlight. “What else do you need?”

“Get an ambulance up here with oxygen. Blankets, too.”

He wasted no more time, gasping as he dragged in air, then plunged down into the darkness again. When he found Taylor, she was drifting sluggishly, and he tilted her head to give her more air, then kicked down, holding the light as he hacked away the last cords of twisted silk. The deadly tendrils fell away like black wings, drifting in the murky light.

Jack caught Taylor's body, kicking furiously toward the surface until they finally broke free into dim gray light. Helicopters roared overhead while an ambulance screamed from the riverbank. Reporters, held back behind a hasty barricade, waved cameras while they shouted questions.

None of it mattered to Jack as he swam toward the shore with Taylor limp in his arms. He pulled her up onto the grass, checked her airway, then flipped her over and gave a sharp thump on her back.

Nothing happened.

He tried again, kneeling close and shoving hard along her ribs, pressing her whole body into the grass.

She shuddered, coughed hard, lurching in spasms that shook her whole body.

When she was done, Jack turned her carefully, angling her head and brushing the wet hair back from her face. “Can you hear me, Taylor? Come on, talk to me, honey. Give me hell.”

Her eyelids fluttered. She coughed painfully, staring up at the sky. Then her hands twisted, sliding around him. “You were r-right.”

He closed his eyes on a prayer of thanks, holding her as close as they could get in their wet clothes. “Take it easy, love.”

“Have to t-talk. So—scared. So cold.”

“Shhhh.” He kept stroking her hair, dimly aware of Izzy's shouts and the ambulance surging closer.

“He was too strong. He opened—coffin.” She coughed brokenly. “The Albanian. D-dressed as minister.”

“It's over. You're safe, Taylor.”

“S-sorry.” She clung tightly, shivering as Izzy put a blanket around her shoulders. “Sorry for Nancy Rodriguez.” She was crying in a ragged voice, her body shaking. “Sorry I was a fool. So—damned sorry, Jack.”

“Forget it.” Jack drew her closer, kissing her cold face and wet hair, shivering a little himself.

She looked at him, frozen, bedraggled, and beautiful as she managed the ghost of a smile. “Never apologize for t-telling the truth. Someone very smart told me that once.”

“Not so smart,” Jack whispered. “And he was terrified he'd lost the thing he valued most.” Then he gathered her in his arms and carried her up the wet, rocky bank toward the waiting ambulance and a circle of cheering agents.

Chapter Forty-four

“Captain Ryker, can you hear me?”

The big fishing trawler was quiet. No sounds drifted up from the engine room or from the deck as the woman in the Navy uniform flashed her light carefully through the hold, stopping on the small metal locker next to the wall. “Captain Ryker?”

She didn't really expect an answer. In cases of extreme trauma and extended captivity, victims lost the ability to respond, out of terror or confusion or both. It was her job to cut through that fog.

She checked the big metal door and saw that the lock was in place. Frowning, she pulled out a gun. She had heard that the trawler had been located thanks to a tip from an old man with serious mob connections, but Lieutenant Markowitz didn't believe the story. On the other hand, she didn't much care if the tip had come from the Kremlin, the Pope, or Mob Central. All she wanted was to find the Navy's top biohazard expert before it was too late.

“I'm going to shoot off the lock, Captain. It won't be long now.”

Did she hear something shuffling inside?

She took aim, fired, and tore away the lock, then carefully opened the door, gun at her side in case the kidnapped scientist struck out in fear.

The stench caught her hard, but she put it away, stepping back for a clear view. It still took all her training not to gasp when she saw the blood, saw the flies, saw the tortured face staring up at her.

“It's okay, Captain. We've got a car waiting. Water, food, blankets. You're going home.”

He didn't move, his eyes blind. Heaven knew how long he'd been stuffed in the metal locker, Markowitz thought grimly.

“Why don't you give me your hand?” She spoke softly. “Then we can go home. Your wife is waiting for you, Captain Ryker.”

He blinked, his face shifting as if he was using muscles that were unfamiliar. “W-wife?”

“That's right. Angela is fine. She can't wait to see you.”

“Didn't talk. Didn't help them.” He closed his eyes on a dry sound of pain. “The man—he's going to kill her. Have to stop him.” He hunched forward, trying to claw his way out of the squalid locker, and Markowitz helped him slowly to his feet. “Albanian,” he rasped. “Viktor, his name is. He's working with Harris Rains. Going to kill my wife if I don't—”

“There's no need to worry about Viktor Lemka or Harris Rains. They're dead, Captain. And your wife is just fine.” The lieutenant took his arm as they shuffled toward the stairs. “You can talk to her as soon as we get on deck. My phone is right here, and she's waiting for your call.”

He ducked his head, shaking hard like an animal pulled awake and tossed into icy water. Markowitz waited in silence, eyes averted until the low sobbing stopped. Then the scientist stood up tall. He looked down and tried to smooth his torn, soiled uniform, frowning when he saw the bloody bandage around his left hand. “Let's go—” He turned to her, eyes narrowed. “Lieutenant—?”

“Markowitz, sir. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Very pleased. Believe me, a lot of people want to welcome you home, sir.”

Ryker took a breath, blinking as she guided him to the open stairway. And he smiled awkwardly when he saw the sky for the first time in almost five weeks.

“So beautiful,” he whispered. “Alive. Going home.”

Epilogue

“
You
are a complete wreck.”

Taylor stared at her face in the mirror while the words echoed painfully in the quiet room. Her hair was a bright flow of auburn and copper, her dress a shimmer of black silk—and her hands were trembling.

Not because of the reporters camped outside her apartment building, harassing her whenever she went in or out. Not because of the mayor, who was waiting for her in the lobby.

Because of Jack. The man had her tied up in painful little knots.

She frowned at her reflection. “Okay, you're terrified. What if he doesn't come tonight?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What if he
does
?”

With a strangled sound, Taylor sank into a chair in the ladies' room of the exquisite downtown hotel. It had been almost six weeks since Candace's funeral. Six weeks since the underwater struggle that still woke her up sweating and terrified at night.

Martha Sorenson had been arrested that same afternoon, and once behind bars she had spun a sordid tale. As the manager of Rains' lab, she had been in a perfect position to report back to the South American crime syndicate hell-bent on acquiring Rains' new biological weapon.

Along with its vaccine.

Martha's contact had been Viktor Lemka, who had researched every detail of Rains' schedule, his lab projects, work habits, and all his contacts. When Rains vanished from the boat in Oregon, Lemka's search was stymied, and the Albanian had ordered his men to squeeze Candace for information in the belief that Rains would contact his lover for help, as he had in the past.

No one knew then that Martha and Candace were sisters, separated in their teens and shunted through a series of indifferent foster homes until Martha was old enough to support them.

Taylor closed her eyes, remembering Martha's face as she had filled in the details of the simple plan that had raged out of control, resulting in the loss of the only thing she'd ever loved—her sister.

It had been a simple matter for Candace to seduce Rains within days of their meeting at the lab. The affair had been strictly business for her, a means to keep Harris Rains under her thumb and open to her scrutiny. This part of the plan had been Martha's, conceived when she saw Rains' interest in her sister. But the climbing episode with Taylor had been Candace's brainchild, a risky but meticulously planned
accident
that would cast suspicion on Rains, who had begun to turn secretive and suspicious, even with Candace. Next had come the funeral wreath, sent to Taylor to reinforce the fiction that she was also at risk from Rains, who had tried to murder his lover but failed.

When the South Americans had cornered Rains on the street several days before the convenience store incident, they had warned him how completely he was caught in their web; if he decided to approach the police, Candace would produce her evidence about how Rains had engineered her climbing fall.

The Albanian had been insane with fury at any delays, knowing his employer would not tolerate mistakes. After Rains escaped from the boat, Lemka demanded that Candace contact Taylor, who was also unreachable, thanks to Jack. Trapped and cornered, with no more options, Lemka had seen his final chance to draw Taylor out of hiding—through Candace's death. Martha hadn't realized the connection until Taylor's comment at the funeral. Later Lemka had carelessly mentioned the bracelet Candace had worn the day she vanished. In the days that followed, guilt had driven Martha to the brink of insanity, but she had laid bare every detail of the long and secret dealings between Rains and his South American contacts.

Taylor felt a stab of pain. Her whole image of Candace had been false, carefully created to foster the web of lies meant to trap Rains. But somehow Taylor found it hard to think of Rains as a victim. His greed and arrogance had led him to ruin more effectively than any of Candace's manipulations.

Meanwhile, Martha faced years in jail, racked by remorse for the sister she had drawn into danger and ultimately to a brutal death. Neither of the women had expected Rains to be so resourceful—or Lemka to be so inhuman.

Taylor felt her knees go weak as she remembered how Lemka had cornered her in the church. She had come painfully close to death that day, probably as a captive in some isolated cabin or boat while Lemka exercised his unholy skills. Only Jack's bravery had saved her from that unthinkable ordeal.

As music drifted from the room next door, Taylor thought about her dead friend. Candace had been reckless, ambitious, and manipulative. She had betrayed Taylor and come close to causing Taylor's death. What if Taylor had seen through the betrayal. Sooner? Could she have changed the outcome?

It was a question Taylor would never be able to answer. That meant one more demon to add to her collection.

Outside, the music grew louder. Sixty of the mayor's handpicked guests were sipping champagne and dancing by candlelight, but Taylor couldn't summon up the enthusiasm to join them.

She looked up as the door opened. A petite woman with long brown hair strode inside, her eyes dark and very tense. Odd, Taylor thought. Why was she wearing a pantsuit and sandals rather than evening clothes?

“I've been trying to reach you, Ms. O'Toole.” She had the hint of an accent. Dutch? German? “Don't you ever return your phone calls?”

Not another journalist.

Taylor closer her eyes and sighed.

The danger was over, but she still felt no sense of relief or completion. She had lost a friend, had seen her sister threatened, and had nearly died herself, and all of these memories were as sharp as if they'd happened minutes before.

And the reporters were still digging, hoping for blood and secrets, because blood and secrets sold papers.

Taylor turned away. “Only when I like who's calling.” She started toward the door, but the reporter blocked her way.

“You're not slipping out so fast. A lot of people want to know what happened between you and Harris Rains after that convenience store robbery. The man was a hero, and now he's dead. Some people think you were involved.” Her eyes narrowed. “
Very
involved.”

“That sounds like a story for one of my books, Ms. Hall.” Taylor remembered the woman's name from the badge she'd worn during the press interviews after the robbery. Come to think of it, the woman had been there in the throng at Candace's funeral, too. “Maybe you need to rein in your oversized imagination.”

“Listen, Ms. Taylor—”

“No,
you
listen. Harris Rains and I had no connection, personal or otherwise.” Taylor kept to the story that Jack and Izzy had hammered out for her. “We were both in the wrong place at the wrong time during that robbery. That's the long and short of it.”

Taylor started toward the door again, and this time the reporter gripped her arm. “So you insist that you two weren't lovers?”

Who knew that the woman's attractive face and intelligent eyes hid such callousness? “Do you journalists take deaf lessons? The answer is no, we weren't.”

“And you also insist that you aren't involved with organized crime? That would be amusing, given that your friendship with Vinnie de Vito is a matter of public knowledge.”

Taylor had had enough. “Go away, Ms. Hall. Or maybe you want to spend some quality time inside a garbage bin?”

“Are you threatening me?”

“You bet I am.” Taylor's hands fisted. She was in the mood for some good, clean bloodshed. Taking on this reporter would be a pleasant exercise after all her recent sleepless nights.

Of course, fighting would only add to her problems.

That thought calmed her down before she could throw the first punch. “Look, there's no story here. Rains had a string of bad luck, and so did I. That's all I can tell you.”

Footsteps clattered outside, and the door banged open. Sunny de Vito burst in, her fuchsia silk tunic flying. “What's going on, Taylor? Everyone's out there waiting for you.”

Everyone? Did that include an incredibly sexy Navy SEAL named Jack Broussard?

Taylor pointed to her inquisitor. “Ms. Hall here is from the Oakland
Tribune
. Apparently, she believes that Harris Rains and I were lovers—and that we were knee-deep in organized crime.”

Sunny's eyes narrowed on the reporter. “What makes her think a crazy thing like that? Oh, right. Because you're a friend of mine. If someone has an Italian name, it means they must be in the Mob.”

The reporter frowned and took a step back. “You're Sunny de Vito. You're the niece of Vinnie de Vito.”

“That's right.” Sunny's voice was a rough purr. “That's d-e V-i-t-o. Be sure you spell it correctly. Of course, if you decide to write about me or my friend, it may be the last writing you ever do.”

The reporter shoved her notebook into her purse. “Is that a threat of bodily harm, Ms. de Vito? Maybe I can quote you on that.”

Sunny stepped in closer, right in her face. “Harass my friend again, and you'll find yourself scribbling obituaries somewhere in Kansas.”

The journalist clutched her purse to her chest. “But my story—my rights. The freedom of the press—”

“Ends when you harass and intimidate innocent people,” Sunny snapped. “When you invade a funeral and desecrate the memory of a friend.” She poked a finger at the reporter's chest. “I can find out where you live. Maybe I'll have a few of my uncle's friends camp out on
your
doorstep and take pictures night and day, the way you people do. No privacy, not ever. I wonder how much you'll like
that
?”

“You can't—”

Taylor glared at the reporter. “Direct any other questions to my lawyer.” She was rattling off the name of San Francisco's most prestigious law firm when her eyes narrowed at a delicious thought. “On the other hand, maybe I should put you in my next book. You'll be the reporter who stumbles on a hot tip from an ex-gangbanger in San Jose. While she's busy trying to figure a way to boost her career based on the information, four civilians and a police officer are shot, leaving her to answer why she didn't act sooner. Sorry to say, but her story ends badly.”

“You can't write that about me.”

Taylor raised an eyebrow. “I'd never be so stupid as to use your real name, for heaven's sake. But everyone would know it was you.”

The journalist looked uncertain. “My source told me—”

“Check again. Your source is all wrong this time.”

“My source is never wrong.” The reporter shouldered her purse and stormed to the door. “You haven't heard the last of me.”

Taylor watched the door close, shaking her head. “Is it just me, or are all reporters vultures?”

“Both.” Sunny patted her arm. “Now tell me why you're hiding in here, looking like death on a stick.”

“I do not look like—”

“Is something wrong between you and Jack?”

“What could be wrong?” Taylor said, wondering why her voice sounded shrill.

“Isn't he coming tonight?”

“Only if he can get away.”

“So he's doing something hush-hush.” Sunny studied Taylor. “And that bothers you.”

“First the reporter, now you.” Taylor dug in her evening bag, found a comb, and attacked her hair. “Okay, I'm nervous, and that bothers me. I'm not used to being nervous about men.” Sighing, she slapped her comb down on the polished marble table. “It's been two months, Sunny.”

“Two months since what?” Sunny looked mystified.

“Since I met Jack. And things are getting serious.”

Sunny still looked mystified. “Which means?”

“Which means it won't be long until we're at six months.”

Sunny ran her tongue across her teeth. “Do you turn into a pumpkin at six months?”

Taylor's face was pale, her voice shaky. “I've never made it to six months before. Not with
anyone
.”

“Not ever?”

Taylor shook her head.

“So Jack will be the first. Great. Enjoy it and stop worrying.”

“I can't stop worrying. Things are getting complicated, Sunny. Not that he's given me a ring or anything like that,” she said hastily. “Then I'd really melt down. But he's thinking about it. And I'm thinking about him thinking about it.”

“Now you've got me thinking about it.” Sunny's brow rose. “So what do we think about you and Jack and a ring?”

“On the one hand, it's amazing.” Taylor took a deep breath. “On the other, it's awful, agonizing, and completely out of the question.”

“Because you're afraid you'll screw things up,” Sunny said astutely.

Taylor covered her face with her hands. “It isn't as if I've shown great judgment about people, Sunny. Look at Candace and Martha.”

“We all make mistakes. Suck it in, O'Toole. You've got a great man who's crazy in love with you. Get out of this bathroom and go deal with that.”