The Evasion (7 page)

Plus, there were other perks. Standing back like this gave her an exceptional view of Gabe’s equally exceptional jean-clad butt. Not to mention the way his rock hard shoulders angled into narrow hips and long legs. She focused on his right shoulder. Hidden under his shirt was the tattoo of an eagle, wings spread, holding a submachine gun in one talon and a lightning bolt in the other—the unofficial S.W.A.T. insignia that members of Specials Operations Groups often wore. They were a proud bunch, and no matter how they ribbed and argued, they always took care of their own. In many ways, they were a family.

He shoved the door open and stepped in to do his little surveillance sweep.

“There’s a king bed. As they say in the South, ‘thank you, Jesus!’”

She entered the room, spotted the brick fireplace first, then the huge sleigh bed. And lucky her, or depending on how one looked at it—unlucky her, there were no posts to cuff her to. “You’re safe, sergeant.”

Gabe didn’t fuss over much, but not having the right bed did him in. In his line of work, the man needed solid sleep. Thankfully, it seemed he’d get it in this room.

If she didn’t distract him, which she’d most certainly do.

He tossed her suitcase on the bed and swung around. “Nice room.”

She waited, as she always did, for him to complete his inspection. The law enforcement officer in him wouldn’t let him enter a room without giving it a visual sweep. Instinctively, she never moved, preferring to stand just inside the doorway until he finished.

His gaze slid to the fireplace, then to the tall dresser, the cute drum table in the corner where a large gift bag sat. There, he halted.

“What—the hell?”

He rushed to the bathroom, cleared it and then went to the table. Angling his head this way and that, he checked either side of the bag before peering inside.

Jo huddled beside him. “What is it?”

“Can’t see. There’s a load of tissue paper. Were you expecting something?”

“No.”

She reached for one of the handles and he stopped her. “Don’t touch it.” After snagging latex gloves from his go-bag, he inched the mouth of the bag open. “Son of a bitch.”

“What is it?”

He turned back. “Well, shucks, honey, it looks like a knockoff Barelli bag.”

“Stop it.”

Crowding even closer, she looked in the bag. “Is there a note?”

“In addition to the knife rammed through the purse? Yes, there’s a note.”

Sharp, spidery pricks traveled up her neck. “There’s a
knife
?”

How could this have happened? The only people who knew they were down here were the sheriff and the other task force members. Could they have a leak somewhere?

Gabe held the bag wider, gestured with his chin for her to look. “Got tweezers? I’ll dig the note out.”

“In my toiletry bag.”

Tweezers retrieved, he lifted the note—a flat piece of stationary folded in half—out of the bag and nudged it open.

The message couldn’t have been more simple.
Welcome to South Carolina.

—:—

Gabe hauled ass down the creaky wooden steps leading to the lobby-slash-parlor below.

Don’t yell, don’t yell, don’t yell.
But—
son of a bitch
—this asshole Martinson was not going to terrorize Jo. And if someone’s ass needed to get kicked to make that happen, well, Gabe would get the job done. No question.

“Don’t start yelling,” she called from somewhere behind him.

At the landing, he strode to the giant reception desk and banged—
ding, ding, ding—
on the obnoxious bell.

“Gabe, calm down. You going off won’t help us.”

He held his hand up, shushing her, knowing goddamned well that she’d hate that and give him an earful, but he’d deal with it later. More pressing matters to handle now.

Hello?
Was no one going to answer this fucking bell?

He smacked it again just as Jo came up beside him and set her hand over his. “Please calm down.”

No. He would not calm down. Not when someone got into their room and left a taunting message. And the only person who supposedly knew their true identities was that backwoods sheriff. From this moment he’d been renamed Sheriff Dead Meat.

Dead. Meat.

Mrs. Jenkins, the hotel’s owner, entered the reception area from the door on the far corner. “Is there a problem?”

“You bet there is,” Gabe said. “There’s a bag in our room. A gift bag. Who put it there?”

The woman slid her eyes to Jo and back. “I did.”

She did. Terrific. “And you got it where?”

“Um…” She looked at Jo again. Came back to Gabe. “It was delivered earlier.”

“By who?”

“Whom.”

What. The. Hell.
Harsh, brutal pounding filled his head, the strain so intense his eyes might be bleeding. He turned to Jo with his—
is-she-fucking-kidding-me
?—face. Jo grabbed his wrist and squeezed—code for
don’t yell—
and that small touch, the connection of warm skin, released some of the pressure.

“Mrs. Jenkins,” she said her voice even and direct, “was it a messenger service that delivered it?”

The woman glanced at him again, then shifted her body to Jo. “In a way.”

Right there, Gabe thought his head would shoot straight off. Just bam! He clenched his muscles.
Don’t yell, don’t yell, don’t yell
. Jo squeezed his wrist again. He inhaled a massive breath, hoping the overdose of oxygen would settle his temper.

“It was little Timmy Thompson,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “Though, that boy isn’t so little anymore. No, sir, he’s a grown man now. Got a baby on the way too.”

Gabe slapped his hand over his face and the sound cracked the air.
Don’t strangle her
.

“Is there a problem?” Mrs. Jenkins asked.

He dropped his hand. “Big problem. I need to talk to Little Timmy.”

“It’s rather late now.”

Nine o’clock?

Done deal. Time to go to guns. He reached into his front pocket, slid the leather case out and flashed his badge.

The woman’s eyebrows shot high.
Yeah, thought so.

Jo cleared her throat and gave Gabe the stink-eye. “Mrs. Jenkins, would you please get us Timmy’s phone number? We have a quick question.” She pinched her thumb and index finger together. “Teensy question.”

After eyeballing that badge, the woman checked the phone book she kept behind the desk. “If you’re sure it can’t wait—”

“It
can’t
,” Gabe half hollered.

The woman dialed the number, spent a good two minutes on the hello-how-are-you routine—apparently with Little Timmy’s wife—before turning the phone over to Gabe.

“Calm,” Jo said.

Sure. Right. On it. “Timmy, this is Sergeant Gabe Townsend from the New York City police department. You delivered a gift bag to the hotel this afternoon. I need to know who paid you to deliver that item.”

“Yes, sir. I understand. But I’m sorry, I can’t share that with you. It’s confidential.”

Oh, Timmy
. Gabe cracked his neck. Organized his thoughts. “Do you have a lawyer?”

“Sir?”

“Preferably a criminal lawyer, because by the time I get through with you, you’ll be walking into a prison shower. Alone. Are you getting my drift? You
feel
me, dog?”

Beside him, Jo threw up her hands.
Sorry, babe
.

“Sir?” Timmy said again.

What was with this kid? “You want to stay out of jail, right?”

“Uh.”

“That bag contained an illegal item. Are you an accessory to this crime?”

“Oh, shee-it,” the guy said, his voice high enough to crack glass.

“All I need is a name. Give me that name and I don’t call the sheriff. Or a prosecutor.” The threat couldn’t hurt.

“Okay, okay. No need for that. I was hired to deliver it by Thelma.”

“Thelma who?”

“I don’t know. She has an office on the edge of town. I do deliveries for her every now and again. Just local stuff. She called me tonight, maybe six-thirty, paid me double to deliver the bag ASAP.”

“What’s Thelma’s address?”

“I don’t know the exact. It’s at the corner of Chamberlain and Hedge. The Canary building.”

“The
Canary
building?” Gabe shot a look at Mrs. Jenkins, who nodded. “Thank you, Timmy. That’s all for now.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“If this turns out to help apprehend a fugitive, probably not. I may need to talk to you again.” Gabe handed Mrs. Jenkins the phone and started for the stairs. “Chamberlain and Hedge,” he said to Jo. “The Canary building. I need car keys.”

Her heels clacked against the wood as she ran up the stairs behind him. “You didn’t need to scare the crap out of the poor guy.”

“Yeah. I did. Chamberlain and Hedge, babe. You stay here.”

“Wait. Chamberlain. The address Sherry gave me is on Chamberlain.”

“There you go. How convenient.”

She tugged on the back of his shirt. “I’m coming with you.”

“No. I’m not screwing with you on this. I don’t know what’s in that building.”

“Yeah, but then you have to leave me alone here. After someone left that threatening package.”

He reached the hotel room, shoved the key into the door—he sure as hell wasn’t gonna leave that door unlocked after their delivery—and pushed.

She’s got a point there
.

“Fine. Let’s go. But you do exactly as I say.” The minute the words left him, he held his hand up. “Scratch that. You won’t agree to it anyway. I know this. Why do I bother?”

He grabbed his sidearm and holster out of his duffle and shoved them both under his T-shirt.

“We should call the sheriff,” Jo said.

“Sure. From the car. I want to get there before he does. If he even decides this is worthy of him rolling out of bed.” Gabe stopped, heaved a breath and looked down at her. “I don’t trust that guy.”

Chapter Five

The cruise around the Canary building—aptly named for its neon yellow color, turned out to be a bust. And not the kind of bust Gabe liked.

All they’d found was a locked, two-story unit that, in his citified opinion, didn’t measure up to being called a building. That thing was no wider than a convenience store. Half of it was occupied by an insurance guy and the other was marked TBR industries.

TBR Industries, whatever the hell that was, had him all kinds of pissed off. And when he got pissed, he didn’t sleep. Thus, he’d spent the last minutes ripping off pre-dawn push-ups beside the bed where Jo slept, her soft breathing timed perfectly with every other push-up. After this, he’d do crunches, maybe some squats. A few pull-ups if he could find something in this room to hang from.

He’d love a run. A body-pounding, mind-numbing one that would clear him of the mutilating rage. But after finding that knife in the Barelli bag, leaving Jo alone down here, maybe anywhere, would never happen. He pushed up.
Not
. Lowered himself.
Gonna.
Pushed up again.
Happen
. It would be a debate, as usual. As convincing as she could be, the idea of that knife sticking out of her chest, which Gabe felt one-hundred percent, rock-solid sure, was the implied message, rocked him like nothing ever had. Even seeing her trapped in a burning building hadn’t ignited this fury in him.

That was weeks ago. Before they’d spent nearly every free moment of their time together. Then was then, now was now. He loved this woman and with all his experience, he’d repeatedly failed to control her, to keep her safe.

“Hey, Mr. Atlas,” Jo grumbled.

She rolled to her side, rested her head and the wild blond hair against his pillow, and that same fire he’d felt the moment he’d first seen her tore into him.
Should have known then she’d drive me bat-shit.

Gabe busted off the last push-up and switched to crunches. “Morning. Sorry to wake you.”

“You were muttering. Something about a dumb ass. What’s on your mind?”

“Aside from that knife sticking out of you?”

“Don’t get dramatic on me.”

He stopped mid-crunch, gawked at her and went back to burning through his anger. “Maybe someone needs to get dramatic. In a few hours, we pay Ellie another visit.”

“The sheriff said he’d talk to her.”

“Great. Then we both can. Either way, Ellie will tell us who her supplier is.”

Jo propped her head on her hand and the sheet slid off her bare shoulder. “You think Ellie is involved in the knife thing?”

“Don’t know. We’ll find out.”

“How long are you going to be killing yourself here?”

He glanced up at her as he crunched. “As long as it takes for me to not feel homicidal.”

“Ooh, given your foul mood that might be a while. I’m going back to sleep. Unless there’s anything I can do for you.”

Ha. Sex with Jo didn’t take a lot of convincing. “Twenty more crunches. I’ll need a shower. We always have fun in the shower.”