Hot Pursuit (9 page)

Jack didn't move, just watched her. He felt his breath go raw and heavy with lust—and something more elusive. “Is it true what Mrs. Pulaski said? Only an occasional date?” His voice tightened. “And none of them spend the night?”

“I'm not sure that's any of your business.”

“Probably not. So is it true?”

She studied him warily. “That's still none of your business.”

He shrugged, all too aware that he was far too curious about her private life. “You're right. Sorry.”

But Taylor's voice caught him at the door. “Thanks for—everything. I'm glad you told me the truth about why you were following Rains.”

Jack winced inwardly. “Just keep it quiet.”

“Of course. Remember, I owe you coffee.”

He turned out the light. “It's a deal.”

Jack didn't look back, even though he wanted to. Near the front door he spotted a bag filled with ropes and climbing gear. He hesitated, but decided that taking the bag would raise too many questions. Taylor would never buy a simple explanation that he was having the things repaired as a gesture of his neighborliness.

That meant his inspection would have to wait.

He let himself out, closing her front door quietly. He could have used the key he'd been given to throw her bolt, but that would have been another dead giveaway to Taylor.
By the book,
he told himself sternly.

But somehow he couldn't shake the memory of her staring up at him from that blue sea of pillows on her bed.
She's getting to you,
a voice warned. Big mouth, big attitude and all.

Like
hell
she was.

The woman was major trouble, and nothing was going on here, even if she
did
have gorgeous legs and more courage than most men.

Back in his apartment, he set his unneeded sugar on the nearest counter. Now that he'd checked on Taylor, he had to shower, then phone in a report to Izzy. After that—

His cell phone vibrated in silent mode. “Broussard.”

“My office. Twenty minutes.” The voice was tight, just on the edge of anger.

Jack cursed silently as the line went dead.

Apparently his commanding officer had just seen the latest news footage about the convenience store robbery.

 

“I expect an explanation, Commander.”

Here it comes,
Jack thought.
Right between the eyes.

His gaze didn't stray from a spot on the opposite wall. “I was handling surveillance on Taylor O'Toole, sir. I saw Harris Rains enter a convenience store on Market Street without any Federal presence visible. When Rains and Ms. O'Toole didn't come out, I became suspicious.”

Admiral Reed Braden steepled his big fingers. Forty years of active duty had taught him how to make a man sweat by the simple force of silence. He tried to do it now, but Jack wasn't sweating.

After what seemed like a century, the admiral glanced down at the file on his desk. “What made you assume there was trouble inside, Commander?”

“I realized no one was moving around.”

“Did you see any actual signs of threat?”

Jack reviewed the afternoon's events to that point. “No, sir.”

“Were weapons drawn?”

“None in evidence, sir.”

“So you had no concrete proof that the men in the store were planning violence?”

“No, sir.”

“And yet you made that vast leap of intuition. Do you have mental skills you haven't told the Navy about, Commander?”

“No, sir.” Jack stood stiffly, controlling his anger. He'd used deadly force in a civilian situation. One man was dead, and the mission could have been seriously jeopardized, so his c.o. had every reason to ream him out.

“I see. What exactly
was
your mission, Commander Broussard?”

“To stand surveillance on Taylor O'Toole, noting all contacts and establishing a pattern of movement, sir. Especially in regard to Harris Rains and Candace Jensen, who is a friend of Ms. O'Toole.”

“I see. So you weren't assigned to go kill civilians in the middle of San Francisco?” The admiral's voice could have scored marble.

“No, sir.”

A chair squeaked. Admiral Braden tossed a photo across the table. “What do you have to say about
this
?”

Jack glanced down, wincing at his face caught in a grainy shot that appeared to be pulled from an amateur's video footage. Hell, he hadn't appeared on the six o'clock news, had he? There had been no TV vans in sight when he'd left the scene. “Nothing, sir.”

“No? In that case, let me fill in the words for you.
This
is a material breach of orders.” He jabbed at the photo on his desk. “
This
is grounds for pulling you off this mission and sending you up to Alaska to count Russian trawlers for the next eight years. If you were photographed on television, your usefulness would be nil. Is that clear enough, sailor?”

Jack didn't move. “Yes, sir.”

“It had better be. You won't get a second chance.” The file closed with a snap. “Dismissed. Report to the lab for a toxicology briefing. We just got data on a newly weaponized form of ricin hitting the streets.”

“Air or water dispersed, sir?”

“Air.”

Inhalant; the worst kind. A thousand times more deadly than botulin toxin.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Jack saluted and strode out, fighting to hold his anger in check. If he hadn't gone in, Rains would be in a black body bag right now, their one and only existing trail of evidence destroyed irrevocably. Admiral Braden knew that as well as everyone else on this mission. The only thing that kept Jack quiet was the knowledge that Rains' two Federal handlers had already received far more serious reprimands, followed by immediate transfer.

Not to Alaska, but somewhere damned close.

A body loomed up before him. Jack snarled when broad shoulders blocked his way. He started to shove past, but a hand gripped his shoulder. “You have a reception problem, Broussard?”

Jack relaxed slightly. “Sorry, Izzy. I didn't see you.”

“You didn't see anyone, ace. Was Braden that bad?”

Jack gave a dry laugh. “You don't want to know.”

Izzy's dark features tightened in annoyance. He dropped some coins into the coffee machine and watched a cup fill with tepid liquid. “I suppose he'd prefer that you let Rains take a bullet?”

“The alternatives didn't come up. But there was some discussion as to whether I had psychic abilities for predicting the robbery when it hadn't happened yet.”

“Ouch.” Izzy passed Jack the cup of coffee. From experience, they both knew the drink would resemble dishwater.

Jack studied the cup, frowning. “I shouldn't have gone in, not without clear sign of danger.”

Izzy said nothing.

“I could have blown the whole mission.”

Izzy stared back, still silent.

“Mission directives,” Jack said tightly. “Discretion. By the book.”

Izzy crossed his arms. “Discretion, hell. You exercised the judgment you've trained night and day to develop and you made a hard call. It's what they
pay
you to do, damn it.” He bought a cup for himself and then stood, coffee forgotten, glaring down the corridor. “You want to know about the first man you took down? According to my search, he had priors in six other states, three of them for armed robbery. Currently he has outstanding warrants in California and Arizona. The man you shot at the window? His specialty happens to be late-night assaults and taking hostages. He's been locked up four times before, but this time some lunatic let him out on parole. The fact is, all of those guys were highly dangerous, Broussard. You and I know that. So does Admiral Stiff-Ass Braden.”

Jack gave a crooked grin. “Anytime you want to argue my case, I'll sign you on.” He stared at the coffee, his smile fading. “But this time Braden's right. I should have found some other way.”

“Sometimes there
isn't
another way. Let me tell you about a man I used to know.” Izzy moved to the only window, framing flat fields and cold sky. “He was doing his job, minding his own business when he saw a truck pass. He followed because something about that truck didn't feel right, and a few miles down the road he saw a man being dragged out of the back.” A muscle moved at Izzy's jaw. “Then five other men appeared. They took out ropes. They were getting ready to nail the man to a wooden wall, and no one who saw them was going to lift a hand to stop it.”

Jack felt something twist at his gut. He'd seen the scars on Izzy's wrists, the old slashes of knives and deep rope burns. Izzy never explained, and after one look at Izzy's face, no one dared to ask. Was this his story? “Sounds like unfair numbers to me.”

“Not when the man I'm telling you about was done. He hosed down the scene by himself.” Izzy's voice hardened. “But they got to him later. He was minding his business then, too. But he ended up buried in a box cut into a hill somewhere in Thailand, and he stayed there while they tortured him.”

Jack felt the stab again. So this is what made Ishmael Teague hard and calm and the most dangerous civilian operative in the field, bar none. “A friend of yours?”

Both of them knew the question wasn't casual. Izzy looked at his coffee for a long time, as if remembering things he'd rather not. “Yeah. The best. He did the right thing, too, and it got him four years in hell. Sometimes it works out that way.” He drained his cup. “From where I'm standing, you did the right thing.”

“Thanks.” The anger in Jack's stomach slowly began to uncoil. “But if I say I'm going into a convenience store anytime soon, do me a favor. Just shoot me.”

Izzy smiled faintly. “My pleasure. Right now, you're wanted at the lab for a ricin briefing. And I just heard that Rains is on the move again.” He looked as if he were going to say more.

“Something else on your mind?”

“What about Taylor O'Toole? How is she taking all this?”

Jack shrugged. “Badly, the way any civilian would. I'll say this, she was one amazing sight, even in torn leather. Hell,
especially
in torn leather.” Jack shook his head. “One of the SWAT officers told me she picked up a brick and sucker-punched the driver. He was flat on the ground by the time the cops got to him. She even kicked his gun across the parking lot so he couldn't reach it. San Francisco's finest didn't have to waste a single bullet.”

Izzy didn't smile back. “The woman has a definite talent for trouble.”

“You know her pretty well?”

“Let's say we have mutual friends.” Izzy pulled out his cell phone, his face unreadable. “See you after you finish up in Toxicology.” He was already dialing as he started down the hall.

Jack wondered about those mutual friends, but when he took another look at Izzy's shuttered face, he knew there was no point in asking for details.

Chapter Nine

FROM TAYLOR'S BOOK OF RULES:
Most of the really interesting people are dead.

Harris Rains needed a drink bad.

He rubbed his jaw, staring at the pink phone messages on his desk. More reporters asking for interviews. What had possessed him to shoot off his mouth after the robbery? Why hadn't he just walked away, merging into the crowd? Publicity was the last thing he needed, especially now.

Two more stations were pleading for interviews. At any other time he would have wallowed in his new hero status—even though it seemed odd that the reporters hadn't gone after the hotshot with the gun instead of him.

And right now he needed to lie low, with interviews the lowest thing on his agenda.

His story to the press hadn't been a complete fabrication. He'd come close to protecting that woman from one of the thugs. At least he'd
thought
about protecting her. If it had been necessary, he probably would have intervened. That still made him a hero of sorts, even if the hothead had acted first.

Frowning, Rains glanced through the lab results on his desk. Right now he had more important things to worry about than news interviews. He pulled out the file that had arrived only ten minutes before. His eyes narrowed as he skimmed the lines of batch numbers.

When he was done, he skimmed the numbers again, then checked them against a different file.

The last lab results checked out perfectly. No loose ends. He'd planned damned carefully this time.

Too bad he couldn't tell anyone the details.

He walked to the door and locked it, then carefully drew a small silver cylinder from the heel of his right shoe. This was his future, his ticket to a new life. All he had to do was stay calm and hold off his new purchaser until the rest of the production was completed.

He relaxed slightly, sitting back in the big leather chair behind his expensive mahogany desk. Outside his door, visible through a small peephole, a dozen drones in white coats hunched over microscopes. Rains knew exactly what each one was working on, and he liked them to know that he was watching them.

One more week of this and he'd be ready to retire for undisclosed health reasons. Assuming he finished his work in time and turned over his sample product.

And assuming the buyers accepted it.

He looked down at his hands. They were shaking.

Danger was good, he told himself. Fear made you sharp.

But he didn't quite believe it. There had been one delay too many, one argument too many. Lately he'd even begun to suspect Candace, which was about as crazy an idea as they came. Hell, he'd produced in spades, but it wasn't enough for his Argentinean associates. They'd warned him that his time was up. If his friend from the mayor's office hadn't arrived, he'd be writhing under a knife somewhere in a deserted warehouse now.

Then had come the holdup this afternoon. The crazy, blinding panic. All that blood.

Rains looked at the photo on his desk. A smiling brunette with straight teeth stared back at him. They'd had some nice times, and he looked at her photo for a long time, trying to feel some emotion. His wife was pleasant, but she wasn't half as inventive as Candace. It was getting harder and harder for him to stay away.

His pager began to vibrate. Looking down, he read the number that no one else used. Another summons, he thought. This time they wouldn't waste time talking.

Maybe it was time to disappear.

He cleared his throat, wanting a drink. Instead, he closed his eyes, feeling sweat run down the back of his shirt. He realized he'd been a fool not to build more layers of protection for himself from the beginning. It was going to be hard now, when they had people following him everywhere.

They thought they were brilliant. They thought they had calculated all his moves. But maybe they were about to get a big surprise.

He jumped when his door popped open. His colleague, overweight and frowning in an unattractive Ann Taylor suit, strode inside with a sheaf of papers under her arm. “Something wrong, Martha?” With Martha, there was
always
something wrong.

“It's your corporate credit card, Harris. You've exceeded your account limit.” Her lips tightened. “Again.”

Stuff it,
Rains wanted to say. But not to Martha Sorensen, who ran the bookkeeping department with an iron hand. No point in raising any eyebrows when his work was within a few days of completion. The access to materials was damned useful, after all.

He sat back in his chair, making his face contrite. “Gee, I'm sorry about that, Martha. I can't imagine how it got past me. Of course I'll make up the difference with a personal check.” He treated her to his most boyish smile. “By the way, that's a great outfit you're wearing. Have you lost a few pounds?”

Her face filled with color. “Not really. But—thank you.” She gave him a tentative smile. “I know you've been busy with overtime, so I'll take care of this for you. Just leave me a personal check for $423.72 and we'll call it even.”

“No problem. You'll have a check on your desk first thing tomorrow.” His pager hummed for a second time and Harris shook his head. “Gotta go, Martha. It's the patent office again. Those guys in D.C. really know how to bust my chops. The paperwork never ends.” He waited politely. “Are we all done here?”

“I believe so.” She smoothed her suit jacket and shifted the papers under her arm. “By the way, I saw you on the news. You were very . . . heroic. How did it feel?”

“How did what feel?”

“To face down a killer that way. Weren't you frightened? I mean, the report told all about what happened, Harris.”

“Well, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, Martha.” Harris looked at his beeper and sighed. “Now if you'll excuse me,
this
man's gotta go five rounds with the midget bureaucratic minds in D.C.”

“Of course. Good luck, Harris.” Martha smiled shyly and closed the door, and he sat back, laughing softly. Being a hero definitely had its charms. Women could be so gullible, especially when you knew what buttons to push.

As he stared at the screen of his pager, he smiled. He needed to complete the batch of vaccine he'd been working on down in his secret lab in Mexico. Once that was done he could make the transfer, collect his money, then blow this job without a second thought.

But they wouldn't make it easy for him. He'd stalled them once too often. So now they were going to hurt him.

Unless he was smarter than they were.

And he was.

Because the best protection was the kind they'd never suspect.