Rx Missing (Decorah Security Series, Book #10): A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel (6 page)

He barely knew her. Or was that even true? He wanted to ask what they had been to each other. But he wanted to kiss her more.

She made a small, needy sound that sent sparks to every nerve ending in his body. He angled his head, first one way and then the other, greedy to give and take.

He lay back on the grass, pulling her on top of himself so that her body sprawled along the length of his.

With no conscious thought on his part, one of his hands slid down to her hips, pulling her lower body against his erection, knowing that would only make his craving for her worse.

But he was beyond rational decisions. Way beyond. He was all raw nerves and desperate feelings that the crazy trip through the woods had unleashed.

In this out-of-kilter environment, he’d been hanging on to the shreds of civilization as he knew it. He’d lost that veneer in the forest when they’d been running for their lives.

Needing more of the woman in his arms, he clasped her more tightly, pressing her breasts against his chest.

They had just escaped from dangers beyond his wildest imagining. Now he needed to affirm their escape—in this place where he couldn’t trust his own observations or his senses—and where everything might change in an instant.

As they clung to each other, it was only a small leap to the next step. The need to claim her for his own, the need to be deep, deep inside her, erasing everything from existence except the two of them and what they could give each other.

He had forgotten where they were. Forgotten everything but the woman in his arms.

His hands stroked over her back, then down to her hips while he feasted on her, with an abandon that might have shocked him if he’d been capable of rational thought.

He worked his hand between them and cupped her breast, then glided his thumb across the beaded nipple.

Lord she felt so good, and the small sounds she made only fueled his passion.

He was about to pull up her shirt to give himself better access to her breasts when a bark of a laugh made them both go rigid.

“Is this what you consider exploring the hotel?” a voice said. “Looks like a more personal exploration to me.”

Mack knew instantly that it was Tom Wright, the smart-ass car salesman.

Lily gasped and pushed him away, her face flaming.

Mack sat up and glared at the jerk intruder. He wanted to punch him in his grinning mouth but couldn’t justify his outrage. He and Lily had been making a spectacle of themselves. But anyone else would have turned and walked in the other direction. They probably would never have known he was there.

Lily angled herself away from Mack. He saw her drag in a breath and let it out as she ran shaky fingers through her hair.

“Go back to the bar,” he said to the man standing a few feet away. “We’ll be along in a minute.”

“Are you sure you can be trusted out here?” Wright asked, a sardonic note in his voice.

“Don’t press your luck,” Mack growled, making it clear that if the jerk stayed around, he was going to get hurt.

Wright shrugged and turned away.

Mack waited until they were alone, then turned to Lily. “I’m sorry.”

“That will not happen again,” she answered, punching out the words as she climbed to her feet and straightened her clothing. Without speaking again, she started jogging back to the hotel.

He didn’t respond, because he would either be lying to her—or he would make her very angry.

Still he couldn’t simply let her go. He needed to ask the question he should have asked when they’d first made it back to the hotel grounds.

“Wait a minute.”

“No.”

He caught up with her and put a hand on her shoulder. When she tried to shake it off, he said, “We have to talk about what happened in the woods.”

She stopped, and he saw her face change when he asked, “In there—was something sucking at your mind—dragging out memories. And you couldn’t stop it.”

She clenched her teeth.

He squeezed her shoulder, then lessened the pressure when she winced. “This is important. Answer me.”

‘Yes.”

“So that dog and pony show in there was designed to distract us—so he could do it.”

She gave him a startled look. “How do you know?”

“I don’t know for sure, but it’s logical. I don’t think he was just doing it for fun.”

He kept his gaze on her. “And now? Did you lose those memories?”

She might not have understood what he meant, but her answer told him that she did. “I still have them.”

“What exactly?”

“I’m not going to share private thoughts with
you,”
she answered and started toward the hotel again.

But he wasn’t willing to simply let her walk away. “Stuff from long ago—and recently?”

“Yes,” she bit out without looking at him.

oOo

From his hiding place on the branch of a tree where he’d levitated earlier, Danny Preston watched the happy couple stride across the lawn as if a troupe of ugly little men were after them.

To be more accurate, Mack Bradley and Lily Wardman weren’t happy and they weren’t acting like a couple although they’d been about to fuck each other’s brains out when the other guy had walked up and impolitely interrupted them.

What a dork. Unfortunately he was too far away for Danny to have gotten into
his
mind.

Of course, Danny had also watched the sexually charged performance with interest. He hadn’t thought of himself as a sex therapist, but maybe he could sell his services to couples looking for a way to spark up their dull encounters.

He laughed, letting his imagination run with the idea for a few moments, then pulled himself back to the business at hand. His half-assed effects had lured Wardman and Bradley into the woods. With more time for research, he could have ginned up something from Hindu mythology that would go better with this place. But since he wasn’t up on the subject, he’d settled for what he knew. Computer game images.

He’d used the distractions to get into their brains, while they’d been busy dealing with the threats he’d thrown at them.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t dig deeply. But he knew that neither one of them was the person he’d been sent here to find and interrogate. Still, he’d eliminated two suspects. And he’d gotten some interesting information—particularly from Wardman.

Pulling out his cell phone, he punched the speed dial for one of his contacts. Not the guy named Smith. One of Danny’s people.

“You okay?” his colleague asked.

“I’ll be better when I know this thing is settled,” he answered.

oOo

During his years in the CIA, Grant Bradley had learned never to take an unsolicited offer of help at face value. Which was why he knew he couldn’t trust Colonel Jack Wilson.

No way was he walking into a twilight meeting with the colonel unprepared. The man might think that the drive to DC from Western Maryland would eat up the four hours before the rendezvous. Grant had other plans.

Starting with traveling light. As soon as he hung up the phone, he filed a flight plan, then checked out his Sig Sauer and slipped an extra clip into his pocket. His Cessna Skyhawk was in the hangar a few hundred yards across the landing strip from the house. He was in the air as soon as he’d gone through his flight check.

On the way, he thought about the layout of the meeting place. In addition to his wilderness outfitter business, he sometimes took small tour groups into the capital. If he had time, one of his stops was the Roosevelt Memorial.

He knew that the seven and a half acre site spread along the far side of the Tidal Basin was designed as a series of four outdoor rooms, each representing one of the thirty-second president’s four terms. The “rooms” were divided by bushes, small trees and stone walls that would provide excellent cover for an ambush.

But not if Grant got there first.

Avoiding the flight restrictions over DC, he landed at a small airport in Laurel, Maryland, rented a car, and drove into town, where he found a parking space on the narrow road behind the National Gallery of Art. From there, he took a cab to the vicinity of the Roosevelt Memorial, arriving an hour and a half before the scheduled meeting.

There were still a few tourists in the area, and he mingled with them, scouting out the location and looking for signs that Colonel Wilson had already stationed someone here. But as far as he could tell, the only people here were visitors to the nation’s capital.

When closing time neared and the Park Service officers began herding tourists toward the exit, he faded into the shrubbery, hunkering down until the area was clear.

Once he was alone, he climbed one of the artificial hills with a view of the entrance court and settled down behind a stone wall.

Twenty minutes after the Park Service rangers had left, two cars pulled up, and five men got out. Most looked young, with lean bodies and military short haircuts, wearing suits or sports jackets, presumably to conceal weapons. One of them had a fringe of dark hair surrounding a shiny dome.

After looking around the empty parking area, he called the group together for a conference. That had to be Colonel Wilson, if a colonel by that name even existed. Or maybe it was someone else entirely who had no connection with the U.S. government.

The leader moved cautiously toward the monument as his men fanned out around the area, except one of them who stayed with the Wilson character. His second in command or his bodyguard?

Grant studied their tense posture. It was clear this was no friendly meeting designed to reassure the grieving brother about Mack Bradley’s whereabouts.

A flare of anger lanced through Grant. First he’d thought his brother was dead. Then a kind of cautious hope had surged through him. Now he didn’t know what to think. Mack could still be dead, under circumstances that the brass didn’t want to admit or reveal. Like that former football hero who had been killed by friendly fire.

Or he could be in secret captivity. By our side? Or the enemy?

Grant gritted his teeth, ordering himself to put his emotions aside. They wouldn’t do him any good. Not when it was clear these guys were here to capture the nosy brother—or kill him to make sure his concerns about Mack Bradley went no further.

From his vantage point above the main tourist area, Grant watched the men take up positions around the monument, all of them facing the parking area. Their tactics confirmed his earlier assumption. It was clear that the team thought they had arrived first and were getting ready to give Grant a big surprise when he showed up.

Edging closer to the place where the leader of the operation was standing with his colleague, Grant strained to hear what they were saying.

“Do you think he’ll show?”

“He wants to know what happened to his brother.”

“Too bad he had to open that coffin. Who would have thought he’d do that?”

“Yeah, and if he finds out what’s up, he’d better not be in shape to share the info with anyone else.”

The pointed conversation confirmed Grant’s assessment that there was never any intention of making this a friendly meeting.

He strained to hear more, but the colonel lowered his voice, sounding like he was giving commands into a microphone, sending his words to the earpieces of the men who were spread out around the area.

If Grant wasn’t going to get any information from Wilson, who might or might not be working for the U.S. government, he had only a few alternatives.

Once again he surveyed the monument and the men who were settling in to surprise their quarry when he arrived. An excellent location for an ambush. Isolated and with ample cover.

The operatives faded into the underbrush, the way Grant had done earlier. But although they were concealed from the front, their backs were exposed. Like the French with the Maginot Line designed to repel a German invasion after World War I. All the guns faced East, with no way to swivel around.

He singled out the man who was closest to the Tidal Basin, and moved in that direction, avoiding detection as he zeroed in on his quarry.

The guy shifted his weight, his focus on the empty parking area, scanning for an approaching vehicle or perhaps someone on foot. Grant moved into position behind him, grabbed him by the throat and pulled him backwards. He used an illegal choke hold that would knock him out for a minute—or kill him if Grant had miscalculated. While the guy was out, Grant riffled through his pockets and took his wallet, which he slipped into his own pocket.

The guy was already stirring, and Grant grasped him by one shoulder and dug the barrel of his Sig into the man’s back.

“Wha. . .?”

“Take it easy. I just want information,” Grant said. “What the hell is going on here—and with my brother?” he demanded, pretty sure that the guy didn’t know the answer to the last part of the question. But he asked it anyway.

When the man didn’t reply, he punctuated the question with a jab of the gun barrel.

“I said what’s going on? Are you with the Navy?”

“I’m on assignment,” he answered, ducking the question.

“To do what?”

The man hesitated for a fraction of a second. “To bring in Grant Bradley.”

“Whose assignment?”

Before the guy could answer, Grant heard running feet and realized he had been too quick in his assessment of the situation. The guy wasn’t just wearing an earpiece to receive orders from Wilson. He also had a mike, and the brief conversation had gone out to the rest of the men, who were now converging on Grant’s location.

He stood up in the fading light, hauling the guy with him and using him for a shield as he faced the running men.

“Hold it right there, or your buddy gets it.”

As they took in his words, the men stopped short about twenty yards from Grant and the unfortunate guy who’d gotten caught.

Confidently, the one he’d fingered as the colonel stepped to the front of the group. “Take it easy.”

“Why the cloak and dagger setup?” Grant challenged as he took in the man’s confidence. The guy had no doubt he was going to come out on top in this situation—which didn’t exactly reassure Grant. Not to mention the guy Grant was holding who was now quivering in his grasp.

“We have to make sure you agree to keep your mouth shut.”

“And if I don’t?”

“That would be unfortunate,” Wilson answered in a level voice.

“Tell me what’s going on, and I’ll make my own determination,” Grant countered.

Several seconds passed before the colonel made a hand signal. Taking Grant completely by surprise, the other men began to fire the sidearms they carried, their bullets plowing into their comrade, who went limp in Grant’s arms.

His only alternative was to return fire, forcing the attackers to duck away. He seized the opportunity to slip behind the gnarled trunk of one of the famous cherry trees that ringed the Tidal Basin. With nowhere to go but into the water, he dashed across the open space and dove in, ignoring the shock of cold and kicking downward, swimming away from the monument as bullets hit the water around him.

He had always been good at holding his breath, and he swam as far as he could away from the memorial before surfacing to grab a breath. When no bullets hit the water around him, he risked turning toward the shore where he plunged in. There were no figures standing on the pavement at the edge of the water, and he realized that they had cleared out, probably when they realized that their shots would have attracted attention.

He guessed they were in their cars, heading for the other side of the Tidal Basin. Lucky for him that there was no straight highway to the heart of DC. You had to follow a circuitous route through the park to get out of the Roosevelt Memorial area. Still, he picked up his pace. When he reached the far shore, he climbed a flight of steps, startling a guy leaning on the balustrade and dangling a fishing line in the water.

Grant ran a hand through his hair to get rid of the water, then headed for the tourist vans near the museums, thankful that some were still doing business.

As he stepped up to one of sellers, the guy eyed him with interest.

“You go for a swim?”

Grant lowered his voice. “Part of an initiation. If anyone asks for a wet guy, say you haven’t seen me.”

As he spoke, he kept himself from thinking about the brutal attack because his only focus had to be on getting the hell out of here in one piece.

He bought a dry tee shirt with a tastefully silk-screened picture of the Washington Monument and Jefferson Memorial and paired it with Bermuda shorts that were neon green, the least offensive ones that the vendor had left in stock that day.

He debated driving away in his wet clothes, then opted for not taking a chance on catching a cold.

After a quick trip into the bushes beside the Museum of Natural History to put on the dry clothing, he stuffed his wet slacks and shirt into a trash can, then hurried toward the car he’d rented.

He didn’t feel like he’d made a clean escape until he was heading out of the city. As he drove, he was thinking he’d made a lucky escape and wondering what his next move was going to be.