The Warrior (13 page)

There was a sudden knock on the door.

Alicia stifled a scream, clapping her hands over her mouth as John motioned for her to get back. She ran toward her bedroom, then stood in the doorway, just out of sight of the entry.

John looked through the peephole, saw a bellman's uniform and relaxed.

“It's just a bellman,” he said, and opened the door.

“Good evening, sir. I've come to pick up your food cart.”

John frowned. “I didn't ring for a bellman. We're not even through with our food.”

“I am,” Alicia offered, then knew she should have kept her mouth shut when the bellman's focus suddenly shifted to her. Before she could say
I'm sorry,
he reached behind his back and came out with a gun.

She screamed and dived toward the floor as John went for the bellman. The gun popped. She screamed again, glimpsing a tangle of arms and legs just before crawling into her bedroom and locking the door. Seconds later she was scrambling, trying to find something to use as a weapon.

Suddenly she heard a deep moan, another pop, then silence. She staggered back against the wall with her hands over her mouth, her gaze fixed on the doorknob. A faucet dripped in the bathroom behind her. Outside, the distant sound of sirens could be heard. She wondered if they were coming here—if someone had already notified the authorities. Obviously the bellman had recognized them and wanted the reward money for himself. This was a nightmare that kept getting worse.

Then she heard John's voice.

“It's me. Open the door.”

Muttering a swift prayer of thanksgiving, Alicia leaped forward and unlocked the door. When she saw John still in one piece, she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him fiercely.

“Thank God you're all right,” she said, then saw blood on the front of his shirt. “Oh no! Are you…?”

“It's not mine,” he said gruffly, trying not to think of how right it felt to be holding her close, and gently pushed her aside. “Get some towels and wipe up what you can of this blood. I've got to get rid of the body.”

John had moved all the food trays off the cart. The bellman was lying belly down across it. He wasn't moving.

She shuddered. “At least it's him and not us,” she said, then grabbed a handful of hand towels and some wet washcloths, and began scrubbing at the blood splatter, only to realize she was making it worse. “He recognized us, didn't he? He must have been after the reward money.”

“The reward hinges upon your safe recovery, remember? So why point a gun at you and not me, the accused kidnapper?”

“I don't know…. Maybe—”

“There are no maybes. He's not a bellman. That gun had a silencer. He was a pro. Someone knew we were here, all right. Someone who wanted you dead.”

Understanding dawned. “Daddy?”

“That would be my call.”

“Son of a bitch!” she said, and threw down the towels.

Anger was the last thing he'd expected. Maybe panic, surely fear, definitely tears. But anger? There was more of the warrior in this woman of wealth than he would ever have imagined.

“This blood isn't going to come up,” Alicia said. “But we have to hide it. If only…” Her gaze fell on the complimentary bottle of wine that had been in their suite
upon arrival. “You get that out of here,” she snapped, pointing to the dead man. “I'll handle the blood.”

Yet another side of Alicia Ponte was revealed. She couldn't fix her own breakfast, but she sure knew how to deliver orders. And she had a point. They needed to get the body out of the suite. Thanks to the silencer, the gunshots would have gone unnoticed, but John was guessing there was a dead bellman somewhere in the hotel who was missing his uniform. When that body was found, the manager would lock the place down. They needed to be out before that happened. So much for their best-laid plans.

He went into his room and pulled back the bedcovers, then pulled off the top sheet, folding it until it fit over the body, sort of like a tablecloth. They weren't too far from the stairwell. If he didn't come up with a better plan on the way, he would push the cart out onto the landing and leave it there.

“I'll be right back,” he said. “I'll knock once so you'll know it's me.”

Alicia was in the act of removing the cork from the wine bottle as John opened the door. He paused long enough to make sure the hall was empty, then shoved the cart forward. Blood was beginning to drip from beneath the sheet. He had to hurry.

The exit to the stairwell was four doors down. He passed the first two without a hitch, but when he heard the ding of an approaching elevator down the hall behind him, his heart skipped a beat.

“Shit,” he muttered, and kept on pushing, afraid to stop, afraid to look back.

He passed another doorway. The exit sign was in sight,
but now he heard voices. Any second, the people who'd been on that elevator would turn the corner and see him.

It was the sign, Employees Only, that altered his course. Taking a chance that the doors would be unlocked, he turned the knob. It gave. Without a wasted second, he pushed the cart inside, shoving it all the way in to rest by a bank of electrical boxes and two wooden worktables. The door swung shut behind him as he stood inside, waiting until the hall was clear. He glanced around, seeing mop buckets and vacuum cleaners, and breathed a sigh of relief. No witnesses in here, either.

The voices quickly faded. They were going up the hall instead of down this way. He'd been lucky. He glanced down at the blood on his shirt, then frowned and pulled it over his head. He knew enough about DNA not to leave it behind, but he didn't want to be caught wearing it, either. His skin cells would be on it, along with the gunman's blood. A deadly combination. Then he grabbed a cleaning rag from a shelf and went about wiping his fingerprints off the doorknobs, the walls, the cart and the buttons on the dead man's uniform. Anywhere a print might stick, he scrubbed.

As soon as the hall was empty, he slipped out of the storage room and hurried up the hall with his shirt wadded in his hands, thumped once on the door and when it swung inward instantly, realized Alicia had been waiting.

He strode in, then froze as the door swung shut behind him.

“What in hell did you do?” he asked.

Alicia was a bit startled by the fact that he'd left the room dressed and come back half-naked. She was trying to focus beyond the bronze six-pack on his belly and the myriad scars.

“Umm…we had a drunken orgy, and we are very sorry for the mess,” she said. “I left a note of apology and asked them to charge the cleaning costs to the credit card.”

“Looks like we had fun,” John muttered as he eyed the carefully placed wine spills now concealing the blood, and the empty glasses and the overturned bottle. It was genius. Once again, he was forced to view her in a different light.

Alicia was still rattled from the sequence of events but was doing her best to stay calm. “It's all a bit fuzzy to me, but then, I can't hold my liquor, you know.”

John rolled his shirt in the hotel's plastic laundry bag, to keep the blood off everything else, tossed it into his open suitcase, then turned and looked—really looked—at her.

She was pale and shaken, but her head was up and her eyes were clear. Her actions showed someone with the ability to stay calm in the face of danger. Someone who would always have her partner's back. It was a whole new way of thinking about her.

“So I guess my plan to ply you with drink to have my way with you is out now?” he said.

Alicia blinked. Then she realized he wasn't angry with her.

“So you do you have sense of humor,” she said.

John grinned slightly as he dug through his suitcase for another shirt.

“I have my moments,” he said. “Pack your stuff. We've got to get out of here.”

“I'm already packed, although I don't believe there's a place on earth that we can get to where my father won't find us.”

“He probably traced the chopper by my flight plans.
It would be simple enough to do. I can't hazard a guess as to how he located our hotel so quickly, but a lot of money can turn the best of intentions into a crime.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Give me a couple of minutes, then I'll tell you,” he said.

He pulled the clean shirt over his head, then sat down on the mattress and took out his phone. He punched in the numbers, then waited, wondering if, when the man he was calling saw his name on the caller ID, he would still answer. To his relief, he did.

“John?”

“Corbin. I wasn't sure you'd still talk to me.”

“What's going on?”

“I take it you saw the big press conference.”

“Yes. Listen…if you're in trouble, maybe I can—”

“It's a cover-up, Corbin. And when you hear what Alicia Ponte has to say about her father, you'll know why he said what he did.”

“She's with you? Now?”

“Yes, but by choice. We came across each other by accident, but I'm with her now to the end.”

Alicia stood silently by, listening to John weave his tale, knowing he was leaving out his own agenda, but it no longer mattered. A few minutes ago he'd saved her life. She owed him a little leeway.

“So what's the scoop on her mental status?”

“Damn sharp, and right now? Mad as hell.”

“Are you referring to the press conference?”

“Not entirely. We had a visitor in our hotel room a bit ago. He was a pro. Silencer and all. Her old man doesn't want her back alive. He wants her stopped before she can get to the authorities with what she knows.”

“What happened to your…visitor?”

“You don't want to know.”

Corbin's silence worried John, but only for a moment. Within seconds, he was right back to asking questions.

“So what's the big scoop?” he asked.

“It's her story to tell, but because of the recent turn of events, there's no way we'll still be around tomorrow to keep our appointment with you. So what I'm asking is, will you take my word for it that she has something vital to tell involving national security? Look at this from Alicia's standpoint. You saw the press conference, so you also saw the man standing beside Ponte. If the deputy director of the FBI is her father's college buddy, he's not going to believe anything negative she has to say about her old man. She doesn't know who to trust. That's why I suggested you.”

“Ah…I get it. A journalist would be interested in the scoop rather than the cover-up, or something to that effect.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay. If you can get here without being seen, I'll talk to her. What I would suggest is that you effect some kind of disguise, especially for her. Her face is being plastered all over the television.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“We'll be there within the hour.”

“I'll be waiting.”

“Corbin?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“No. If she brings me a big story, it's
me
who'll be thanking
you
. Take care.”

John disconnected, pocketed his cell, then finished throwing the rest of his stuff in the suitcase.

“You need a disguise,” he said. “Corbin said they're broadcasting your picture.”

“I hope it's a good one,” Alicia said, and opened her suitcase back up. She stared at the contents for a couple of seconds, then pulled her sweater over her head and dropped her slacks around her ankles.

“I'll just be—”

“Oh, get over it,” she snapped. “You paraded in front of me in your freaking birthday suit and dared me to care. My lingerie is as modest as a two-piece swimsuit.” Then she added, “As long as we don't get anything wet.”

Once again, his perception of her underwent a change. He watched as she put the sweatpants back on, as well as the blue T-shirt, then put on the only pair of high heels she had with her. She took the hem of the T-shirt, twisted it around and around until it was tight against her body, then tied it in a knot beneath her breasts, leaving her midriff bare. Then she grabbed a comb and a hank of her hair and began back combing it like crazy, until she had a passable imitation of a rocker's mohawk. She sprayed it stiff with hair spray, then grabbed her makeup bag and dashed into the bathroom.

Past curious, John followed, intrigued by the ongoing transformation. He watched her draw huge black eyebrows over her own delicate arches. After that she added layer after layer of mascara, then painted an enormous red pout onto her lips.

“How do I look?” she asked as she turned to face him.

“Like I should be asking what you charge.”

“Depends on what you want,” she fired back, and tossed everything back into her suitcase. “I'm ready when you are.”