Love Inspired Suspense May 2015 - Box Set 1 of 2: Trail of Evidence\Gone Missing\Lethal Exposure (51 page)

Jack handed the images to the professor, who sat at the table, laying them out before him. He was a lot younger than Rebecca had been expecting, with a smooth, fresh face and wearing modern, fashionable clothes—not as old as she had assumed a man of his experience would be.

“Please,” Professor Sears said, looking up at them over his glasses. “Help yourself to coffee while I make my assessment.”

Jack lifted the white china pot from a desk in the corner and poured two cups, handing one to Rebecca. She took it with a smile.

“It feels like we're finally getting somewhere,” he whispered in the quiet room. “Now that we have an expert on our side, we'll have something to hand over to the FBI when they review our case. This could be the start of the trail that leads to the thieves.”

Jack took a gulp from his cup and exhaled like he really needed the shot of caffeine. “You got me wondering whether that trail will lead to Darius Finch,” he said. “I just don't know who to believe anymore. Except you.”

“Either Darius or Simon is lying,” Rebecca said. “Which one do you trust?”

He lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “By my reckoning, they're both capable of dishonesty. Darius doesn't seem to have a friend in the world, and Simon would sell his own grandmother for a decent story.”

“What do we do now, Jack?” she asked. “It isn't safe to have Darius around us.”

“Leave the chief to me,” he replied. “Once we leave here, I'll make sure he doesn't come within a yard of you. Once the police interview Simon and his alibi checks out, they'll be certain to want to quiz Darius about his story again. The truth will come out.”

“I hope so,” she said with a sigh. “I really want to bring the girls home.”

Jack's face fell. “Yeah,” he said. “I miss them, too.”

Rebecca moistened her lips, realizing how selfish her actions must appear to him. “I'm sorry, Jack. I know you must be hurting, too.”

“You've been treating me like a stranger today,” he whispered. “It's like you shut me out completely.”

She closed her eyes and creased her brow, gripped by an unexpected pain. “It's better this way,” she said.

“Better for who?”

“For both of us.” She placed her coffee cup on the desk and crossed her arms, creating a barrier that put a little more distance between them. “We've gotten way too close to each other, Jack. I didn't see it until it was too late.”

She saw his breathing change rhythm, becoming quicker. “What do you mean, Bec?” he asked. “Too late for what?”

She looked down at the floor. “Too late to go back to being friends.”

He nodded. His brown eyes blinked slowly, and she wanted to melt into him and forget everything around them. He could even make her forget her own name sometimes.

“Actually,” he started to say, “I've been meaning to talk to you about that.” He looked a little nervous. “I don't think I want to go back to being friends anyway...”

Professor Sears suddenly looked up from the table and removed his glasses, interrupting Jack. “These items in the photographs are not a match to the items in the auction house brochure.”

Rebecca gripped Jack's sleeve. “No!” she exclaimed. “Are you certain?”

The professor rose from his chair and approached them. “Quite sure,” he said. “I'm afraid you've wasted a trip.”

* * *

Jack stood in disbelief. He had been so certain that the professor's findings would back up their claim. “What makes you draw this conclusion?” he asked. “Is there anybody in the museum who can give us a second opinion?”

“There are tiny, subtle differences between the items that a layperson wouldn't be able to see with the untrained eye. Any qualified person in this museum will tell you the same thing.”

“Can you show me an example?” Jack asked, picking up one of the photographs. “I'd like to understand it for myself.”

“There's little point in doing that,” the professor said with a wave of the hand. “As I said, an amateur like you wouldn't be able to appreciate the very tiny differences.”

Jack felt a sense of irritation. “I understand that you're the expert here,” he said calmly. “But I'd like to be in possession of the full facts before we leave. You have no idea how important this is to us.”

“Very well,” Professor Sears said, taking the photograph of a clay vase from Jack's hand. “This vase is typical of early Islamic pottery and is one of the oldest pieces from the Al Faw Palace collection.”

Jack felt his stomach drop away. “Hang on a minute, professor. I don't recall ever telling you where these items originated.”

The professor looked up. “Oh, I'm sure you mentioned it on the telephone,” he said. “Yes, I'm certain you did.”

“No,” Jack said strongly. “I most certainly did not.”

The professor fell mute.

“When I spoke with you on Saturday, you told me you'd been working at the museum for over ten years,” Jack said, trying to draw him in.

“That is correct,” the professor said.

“Wrong,” Jack replied. “I spoke to the professor yesterday morning, and he told me he had just transferred here from the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.” He pushed Rebecca behind him. “You are
not
Professor Sears.”

“That's ludicrous,” he replied, faltering slightly. “I've never been so insulted in my life.”

“Jack! Look!” Rebecca's voice behind him was shrill. “I heard noises in the closet.”

He spun around to see her holding open the door to a large closet filled with cabinets. In the center of the floor, bound and gagged, was a middle-aged man tethered to a shelf, unable to move or speak.

Jack acted in a split second, pulling his gun from its holster beneath his jacket and turning to face the imposter. The man was fast, darting for the door as quick as a flash.

“Stop,” Jack shouted, but it was to no avail. The phony professor was gone in an instant, racing down the short hallway and around the corner. Jack considered pursuing, but there were two people in that room who needed his protection. He rushed to the real professor and released him from his restraints.

“What on earth is going on?” Professor Sears asked. “Who is that man?”

“We'll explain on the way, sir,” Jack said, lifting him to his feet. “For your own safety, I recommend you come with us. We'll call the police in a more public place.” He looked up at Rebecca. “We're too isolated here. Let's go.”

No sooner had he opened the door than one of its glass panes shattered like pieces of ash rising from a fire. Someone was firing on them, and there was no way out.

THIRTEEN

R
ebecca ducked as glass rained down on her.

“Jack,” she shouted. “We're trapped.”

“Go back into the closet with the professor,” he said. “Use your cell phone to call the police, and barricade yourself in like you did in your bathroom on Friday night.”

“Okay,” she said breathlessly. “But what about you? You can't stay out here.”

A shot pinged against the door frame, and she let out an involuntary scream. “Go,” Jack urged her. “Keep the professor out of sight. I'll hold them off.”

She backed into the closet, pulling the startled professor with her, and closed the door. The space was dingy with a low-strength bare bulb swinging overhead. Turning to Professor Sears, she quickly assessed that she might be the stronger of the two and handed him her cell phone. “Call the police,” she said. “And I'll move these cabinets in front of the door. Don't be afraid if you hear shots. Jack is a retired navy SEAL.”

The professor took the cell phone with trembling fingers. Another shot rang out, causing him to drop the phone to the floor, where it split apart, sending the battery and SIM card clattering across the boards. Rebecca dropped to her knees and fumbled with the pieces to put it back together again.

“I'm so sorry,” said the professor as more shots filled the air with violent explosions. “Is it broken?”

Rebecca's hands didn't seem to work properly, and she struggled to prevent a sense of dread from overtaking her ability to think straight. She mistakenly put the battery in backward, and it became jammed in the slot.

“No,” she muttered to herself. “Lord, please help me.”

“Give it to me,” the professor said, taking the phone from her grip. “I have something that will help.” He took out a small penknife from his pocket and used a blade to pop the battery out. Then he slotted it easily back into its correct place and switched the cell phone on. There was an agonizing wait of a few seconds before the display lit up, casting a blue glow on his weathered face.

“Thank You, Lord,” she said, raising her eyes toward the ceiling. “Now please help us all get out of here safely.”

The gunshots outside the door stopped without warning, and an ominous silence descended in the closet. The professor looked at Rebecca with worried eyes, no doubt wondering the same thing as she—was Jack incapacitated? A loud thud on the door made them both jump with shock.

Rebecca called out, “Jack. Are you there? Are you hurt?”

His reply was filled with pain. “I'm fine. Have you barricaded the door?”

He sounded wounded. She knew his voice as well as the voices of her own children, and he was hiding his discomfort.

“Call 9-1-1,” she said to the professor before turning the handle of the door to go to Jack's aid. The door wouldn't budge. She pulled harder. It still wouldn't move.

“Jack,” she called. “The door is jammed. I can't get out.”

“I locked it behind you,” he said. “Stay where you are. I got this covered.”

“You never were a good liar,” she replied. “You're hurt. I can tell.”

“I'm reloading,” he said. “And while we're on the subject, you're not such a great liar yourself. You can tell yourself a million times over that we're not meant to be together, but it'll never make it true.”

“Let me out of here,” she demanded. “Stop trying to distract me.”

She heard him laugh, but it quickly turned into a low, guttural growl, as though he were gritting his teeth against pain.

“Jack,” she shouted again. “Let me out.” Her voice took on a note of desperation. “Please.”

The sound of gunshots once again filled her ears.

“Please Jack,” she shouted, knowing he would never hear her above the cacophony of noise. She banged on the door, noticing a tiny, dark trickle weaving its way under the crack and pooling in a dip on the floor. She touched it with her index finger and smoothed it together with her thumb. Blood!

“Open this door right now,” she commanded, using the most authoritative voice she could muster.

The professor rested his hand on her shoulder. “The police are on their way,” he said. “We should do what Mr. Jackson asked and block the door. Just in case.”

The gunshots were becoming more sporadic, ricocheting through the air from directions she couldn't gauge. When a patch of silence presented itself, she called out.

“Jack, are you still there?”

“I'm not going anywhere, Bec.”

“The police will be here soon.”

“Did you barricade yourself in there nice and tight?”

“We're doing it right now,” she said, working with the professor to heave a heavy cabinet onto its side to slide it across the floor. “Promise me one thing, Jack.”

“How could I refuse you anything?” he asked. She heard the click of his gun. He was out of ammunition.

“Stay alive,” she called out, stifling a sob in her throat.

He didn't reply for a little while, and she grew concerned. “Jack! Did you hear me?”

“Yeah, I heard,” he said. “I got no plans to die anytime soon. But you gotta promise me one thing in return.”

Hot tears fell down her face. “Sure.”

“Don't give up on me.”

She wiped her cheeks with the cuff of her sweater. “I haven't given up on you, Jack.”

“Yes, you have,” he said without a pause. “You didn't even give me a chance.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but a sea of shouting voices drowned her out. She put her ear to the door, trying to make out words, but the sounds were too chaotic to distinguish. She didn't know if she was hearing the police or the attackers. Jack was already wounded and out of ammo. He was utterly powerless. His last words rattled around in her head—
you didn't even give me a chance
. It was true. She had never given him the opportunity to prove to her how different her life could be if only she let go of her fears. And even now, her fears refused to relinquish their grip.

* * *

Jack clasped his hand over his arm as tightly as he could, trying to stem the flow of blood and stop the agonizing pulse that was pounding through his muscles. This kind of pain wasn't new to him. He'd been shot before: twice in fact. But he had always been backed up by a team of trained men who had his back. This time, he was on his own.

Through the broken door pane, he could see two police officers treading carefully down the corridor, weapons raised, shouting at him to stand up. He had thrown his gun across the floor and was sitting, propped up against the closet door, head resting on the wood. He felt tired and emotionally drained. Until he had been faced with the very real possibility of seeing Rebecca hurt, he hadn't been able to admit to himself just how much she meant to him. He smiled thinking of Sarah and her perfectly accurate assessment of his feelings for Rebecca. Why had he denied his emotions all this time, pretending he was happy with the situation as it was? He was simply too tired to pretend anymore.

The aggressive shouts of the officers brought his mind back to his current predicament.

“On your feet please, sir!”

Jack took his hand off his upper arm. The bullet wound looked to be a straight through and through. He used his good arm to push himself to his feet and grimaced as he lifted his hands into the air.

“Are you injured, sir?” an officer called out.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I took a bullet in the arm. There are two people sheltering in the closet—a woman and a professor.”

The officer came closer and kept his gun trained on Jack. “An ambulance is on its way. We got a gunshot victim in the corridor.”

Jack's heart leapt into his mouth. “Is he dead?” The thought of killing a man sat uneasily on his shoulders, no matter how much the man might have deserved it.

The officer frisked Jack and indicated that he could lower his arms. “No, he's not dead. Not yet, anyway.”

“Thank God,” Jack muttered, realizing that he actually felt the meaning of the phrase. It was the first time he had understood the sentiment behind these often used words. He really
was
grateful to God. A sudden well of emotion bubbled up inside him as he thought of a higher being protecting him from danger. It gave him goose bumps.

“Step aside from the door,” the officer said, “and we'll get those people out.”

Jack moved away from the closet and caught sight of other officers bending over the imposter professor. The officers were stemming a flow of blood from his abdomen, and the beige carpeted floor was dark with the sticky fluid. The smell of blood invaded Jack's nostrils, and he was mentally transported back to Afghanistan, remembering the last time he had encountered this distinct odor. Then Jack did something that took him totally by surprise—he bowed his head and prayed. He prayed for the life of a man who had only moments ago been shooting to kill innocent people.

It was then he knew that his life had changed forever.

* * *

Rebecca clicked the switch on the coffeemaker in her kitchen and watched the moist vapor fill the air. She looked to the doorway that led from her kitchen to the living room and saw Jack sitting with Cole and Dillon, deep in conversation. She knew the subject matter without needing to ask: Darius Finch. Earlier on, when Jack was led to a waiting ambulance from the museum, the chief had vanished entirely, along with her minivan. The police put out a stolen vehicle alert, but Darius had no doubt fled the state by now.

The only good thing to come out of their experience at the gallery was the fact they had captured the attention of the FBI, who were sending an agent to meet with her immediately. The War Crimes Unit had halted the auction sale and, until they could ensure her safety, a patrol car was posted outside her house to watch over them. A panic alarm had been installed by an engineer under the watchful eyes of Detectives Harman and Smith, who were also responsible for her round-the-clock protection. Darius Finch and Claire Monaghan were now persons of interest to the FBI. Simon had been released without charge, having had a watertight alibi for the time of the attack, and the police concluded that Darius had attempted to set him up. Peter Allen couldn't be tracked down and, therefore, his role was uncertain. Nobody knew how, or if, Darius, Claire and Peter were connected, but the police suspected a link between the three somehow. And all of them had vanished without a trace.

The police had driven Rebecca and Jack home after he'd gotten his gunshot wound dressed in hospital. Jack had been quiet in the patrol car the whole way back to Bristol, occasionally glancing over to her with a look of peacefulness on his face. He looked different somehow, like the stress of the last three days had been lifted from his shoulders. He hadn't mentioned his feelings again, and she hadn't dared to ask. She needed time to assess her own feelings before she heard Jack out.

Jack entered the kitchen, his arm resting in a sling tight against his chest. Rebecca smiled at him, feeling a mixture of awkwardness and embarrassment.

“How's the injury?” she asked. “You didn't say much on the way home.”

He sat at the table. “Surprisingly okay. I'm fortunate it didn't hit a bone.”

She turned to the kitchen window, maintaining a distance from him, gripping the edges of the counter tightly. She took a deep breath and steeled herself to ask Jack some questions that had been burning in her heart for over a year, and she finally felt ready to voice them aloud. She lifted her head and watched the birds in the afternoon sun, crowding on the feeder in the yard without a care in the world.

“Jack,” she said. “What happened the day Ian died?”

She waited for his reply, but it was slow in coming. She suddenly felt his breath on her neck, and she knew he had moved close behind her. He put his hand on the counter next to hers, and his arm skimmed hers the whole way down.

“It was dusk, with very little light left in the day,” he said. “Dark Skies was our mission code name because all activities took place under the cover of darkness. I was the leader of the team, scouting the Tora Bora cave complex in the Nangarhar Province. The terrorist leader we were searching for was known to be using the caves as a hiding place, trying to evade capture.” She noticed Jack ball his fingers into a fist as he spoke. “And we wanted this particular commander really bad.”

Rebecca listened intently, conjuring up images of the scene in her head. “Why?”

Jack swallowed hard. “He had been responsible for ordering the destruction of girls' schools across the region. We came across so many buildings that had been torched. Teachers and children were driven out.” He stopped briefly. “We saw things that I don't want you to know.”

She turned around to face him. “You already told me the mission was successful,” she said. “You got him, right?”

Jack's brown eyes were wide and intense. “Yes. He engaged us in a gunfight, and we took him down.”

She breathed out. “Then Ian helped to stop more children being hurt.” She felt herself being unburdened and rolled her shoulders so that they felt looser and freer. “That means a lot to me. His death had purpose.”

“His whole life had purpose,” Jack said. “It was an honor to serve with him.”

She looked at the floor, unable to meet Jack's eyes, unsure if she wanted to see the story unfold in them. “Did he die quickly?”

Jack took a deep breath. “It happened very fast. I heard an explosion as we were leaving the caves, and I instantly knew it was a land mine. I found Ian lying on a hillside with injuries that he knew were fatal. Me and the guys tried to save him, but it was futile, and Ian asked us to stop. He used his last moments to ask me to take care of you and the girls.”

She looked up into his face. “And you made good on that promise, Jack,” she said. “Ian chose you precisely for that reason.”