To Die For

"We're in Tulsa for the night, but we'll head out early in the morning. I've got to figure out some way to get Rachel to the bank in Chicago and get the papers out of her lock box before anyone knows we're there."

"Fat chance of that happening. I've heard it through the grapevine that people are expecting you to show up here eventually. You'll have to be a ghost to get past Angelo's men, not to mention the FBI alert that's out on you."

"I don't suppose you'd be inclined to help an old friend?" Shane asked.

"What, and risk losing this glamorous job? I could probably be persuaded to help you out. But it'll cost you. And you might not like the favor when it comes down to it."

"You always were a perverse b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Shane said. "But you leave me with no choice but to agree. And look on the bright side. If you get fired I'll even find a place for you on my staff. My secretary is getting close to retirement. How are your typing skills?"

Shane smiled as Jones laughed and uttered a crude suggestion. "In all seriousness, Wildcat, I really appreciate your help. You don't owe me anything. I haven't exactly been the greatest friend over the last couple of years, but I'm grateful all the same."

"What the h.e.l.l kind of Dr. Phil psychobabble is that? I expect a man is inclined to go off on his own every now and then. There are some things in the world that change and some things that don't. Try to remember that. Now tell me what you need me to do."

Shane felt the grip of guilt release around his heart. He'd been afraid his lack of interest in his friends, h.e.l.l, his lack of interest in life after his wife's death had screwed things up with Wildcat past the point of no return. But Wildcat was acting like the years hadn't pa.s.sed at all, and Shane was grateful.

"Well, for starters, I need guns and plenty of ammunition. I'll also need a couple of Flak jackets and infrared goggles. You know what I prefer. And I need enough cash to buy basic supplies and get us where we need to go."

"Anything else?" Jones asked.

"I need to take a look at the files you've collected on each agent working the Valentine case. The insider is there somewhere, and Rachel will never be safe as long as that person is running around. I also need a safe house if you've got one available close enough to Chicago so the trip can be made in less than an hour. It'll give us a place to stay until I figure out what the h.e.l.l we're going to do."

"If anyone finds out about this you know my a.s.s is gra.s.s," Jones said, "but I'll see what I can do. Give me till noon tomorrow. You should be able to make it to St. Louis, Missouri by then if you leave at dawn. I'll meet you in the parking lot of the Galleria just outside of Nordstrom. They're doing a lot of construction and the lot will be crowded. I'll be in a black Tahoe."

The line went dead and Shane slipped the phone into his pocket. Rachel took her seat across from him and he could tell by the look on her face that she still hadn't been able to get in touch with her friends.

"No luck?" he asked. Nadine took that moment to deliver their cheeseburgers and refill his coffee.

"No, just an answering machine at both places. I didn't leave a message."

Shane took a bite of his food. Grease dripped onto his plate, and he watched Rachel try to avoid the same problem by cutting hers in half. Grease dripped down her chin and onto her arm at the first bite.

"I don't want to hear a word," she said, laughing. "I'm hungry enough to not care about what's in this burger."

When they were finished Shane pulled out his wallet and left enough to cover the check and a tip. "Let's see what our neighborhood motel has to offer."

They walked outside to the Explorer and drove around the diner and the motel to the front office. The city was silent and the streets empty. Cars were scattered sporadically in the parking lot, enough to tell Shane that Jake's otel probably did a lot of business by the hour. A lone streetlight glowed yellow in the parking lot, and a flas.h.i.+ng neon sign declared vacancies.

Lightning streaked across the sky and the first rumbles of thunder grumbled in the distance.

Shane opened the cracked gla.s.s door of the office and ushered Rachel in front of him. The smell of stale cigarettes and burnt coffee was overwhelming. A small black and white T.V. sat in the corner with foil wrapped around the antennae and the volume turned all the way down. A man sat in a threadbare recliner and didn't take his eyes away from the screen as the bell rang above the door.

"Excuse me," Shane said as the man continued to sit in his chair and stare at the T.V. "We'd like a room for the night."

"It's thirty-seven fifty for the night. Twenty for an hour. Sign your name in the book, and take a key off the hook. Checkout's at eleven."

Sometimes things worked out the way they were supposed to, Shane thought. He wouldn't even have to bribe the man to keep their names out of the register. Shane left two twenty's on the counter and didn't bother signing the book. He took the key off the hook for the room at the very end on the bottom floor. Room number twenty-three. It was hidden behind two large dumpsters and would give them a little coverage if they had to make a sudden exit.

Shane didn't bother to thank the guy as they left the musty office. He left the Explorer parked where it was so as not to give their room location away and grabbed a small sack of toiletries and two clean s.h.i.+rts (one in each of their sizes) he'd bought when he'd stopped at the Wal-Mart in Texas to buy clothes for Rachel.

"I don't suppose you've got clean sheets in that little sack, do you?" Rachel asked.

"Nope. Toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap, shampoo, a hair brush, deodorant and clean s.h.i.+rts. No sheets."

"Darn. I hate to tell you this, but I don't think I'm brave enough to stay in Jake's otel. Maybe we could find a nice cardboard box in an alley somewhere."

"Think of it as an adventure. If you can survive the night here, then you can survive the mob." Shane stuck the key in the lock and pushed open the door. The air inside the room was stuffy and stale. He flicked on the light switch and immediately wished he could take back the action.

"I've always thought hot pink and turquoise compliment each other," Rachel said.

Shane shut the door behind him and immediately locked the deadbolt and put on the chain. He pulled the curtains closed so no outside glare from the street lights was let in. "What about the brown and orange bedspread. What does that compliment?" he asked.

"I'm not sure that bedspread would compliment the flames I'd like to burn it with."

The room was barely large enough to hold the furniture inside. A large king-size bed dominated the room and a small table and chairs sat in the corner. A small door led into a closet-sized bathroom and there were hooks on the wall to hang clothes instead of a closet.

Shane went about turning the fan on and putting the toiletries in the bathroom, noticing that Rachel still stood in front of the door chewing on her bottom lip. She was staring at the king-sized bed like it was leading her down the path to h.e.l.l, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing when she spotted the circular mirror on the ceiling.

He knew exactly what she was feeling because the bed had given him more than a moment of concern, but as long as he remembered that she was a client and he was being paid to protect her, all thoughts of wanting to make love to her disappeared. Or at least mostly disappeared. He'd have to be dead not to think of it a little.

"Why don't you go ahead and take the first shower? You look dead on your feet," he said while he unhooked his ankle holster and put the.22 on the nightstand closest to the door.

"Yeah, okay," she said, still staring at the bed. "So I guess you're planning for both of us to sleep there."

"Unless you want to sleep in the tub. Don't worry, your virtue will stay intact. I never take advantage of a client."

"So I guess the kiss you gave me earlier was saying

"Just take your shower. We've got to be up at dawn and on our way to St. Louis."

"I take it your friend has agreed to help us?"

"Yes. He'll have everything we need and give us a place to stay for a couple of days while we're trying to figure out the mess of how to get you to Chicago in one piece. Don't use all the hot water," Shane said and lay back on the bed fully clothed.

Rachel went into the bathroom and grimaced at the avocado green fixtures. At least the color probably hid the mold well. A dingy shower curtain hung limply from a tarnished rod and she jerked it open quickly, expecting to see either a knife-wielding maniac or a spider the size of her fist. She blew out a breath of relief when she saw neither.

Rachel took her clothes off in the tub so she wouldn't have to stand in her bare feet on the grimy tile and folded her ruined clothes over the back of the toilet. She turned the water on and was thankful that at least the hot water worked and came out of the shower nozzle in more than a trickle. If she closed her eyes, she was pretty sure standing in the moldy shower of Jake's otel was the best experience she'd had in a long time.

Fatigue was starting to take its toll, so she washed her hair and body quickly and then turned the water off. A rod on the wall held two paper thin towels, so she grabbed one and dried her body quickly and then wrapped the towel around her sopping head. She washed her underwear in the sink and hung it to dry over the rod and slipped on the plain white t-s.h.i.+rt Shane had bought her. It barely covered her backside, but it was the only thing she had to sleep in. Sleeping next to Shane was enough temptation in itself. What she really needed was full body armor and a chast.i.ty belt.

Rachel left the light on in the bathroom and made her way to her side of the bed quickly, slipping under the covers before Shane had a chance to glance in her direction. She didn't know that Shane had noticed everything about her-how the s.h.i.+rt clung to her damp body or how long her legs were.

She fell asleep blissfully unaware that she was torturing her protector.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

The late afternoon sun baked the city and tortured pedestrians as they scurried to their destinations. Was.h.i.+ngton was in the middle of a heat wave, the hottest the city had seen in years, and beads of sweat ran down Shane's temples and into his eyes-the salt stinging and the sun glaring.

The Federal Reserve Building on Const.i.tution Avenue was full of people just after lunch-tour groups, employees and government officials. He was positioned on top of the Roosevelt building across the street. Black tar from the roof stuck to his clothes and his rifle was set on a tripod stand aimed at the building. He had a perfect view to the inside of the building through his scope.

The gunman had gathered all of the hostages and made them sit in the center of the room, legs crossed and hands flat on the floor. It had only taken a glance through the scope to see the people were terrified-children from a tour group sat huddled in fear and the men and women around them tried to offer comfort and dry their tears.

His wife stood out like a beacon. An authority figure who was in complete control, though he could tell by the way she rubbed her hands on her black skirt that she was nervous. But she didn't show her captor fear. Her posture was straight and defiant and her expression angry as she followed the gunman's every movement.

A negotiator was called in to speak with the gunman, but the standard tactics weren't working. The gunman was becoming more agitated with every call. He paced back and forth across the marble tile like a caged animal, the people at his feet forgotten and his demands growing stronger. Minutes turned into hours and the heat intensified as the sun crept higher.

A car alarm blared from down the block and a chopper circled overhead. The smell of hot tar and exhaust made the inside of his nose raw as he looked through the scope of his rifle. The streets were cordoned off around the building. The gunman had asked for an armored truck to load gold bars into, and it sat big and black and s.h.i.+ny in front of the Federal Reserve Building. The gunman picked hostages to load the truck and then had them return to the bank and sit back down on the floor.

The gunman grabbed a woman from the floor and used her as a s.h.i.+eld as he began to leave the building. From all appearances, it looked like he was going to let the other hostages go.

"Fire when ready," Director Hudson ordered Shane. "I don't want the b.a.s.t.a.r.d to step foot outside of that building. We don't need any more of a media circus than we've already got."

"What about the hostage?" Shane asked, his voice hollow.

"Take the shot, Quincy," Director Hudson ordered again, and Shane knew the life of the woman wasn't as important as the bigger picture to a man like Hudson.

But Shane followed orders. His finger was steady on the trigger as he slowly pulled it back. The rifle jerked in his arms and the bullet cut through the waves of heat pouring up from the pavement as if it were in slow motion. The gunman was unsuspecting, his focus on the struggling woman and getting them both to the truck.

The other hostages were restless and beginning to stand, relieved the ordeal was over. The crack of the rifle firing was delayed, the bullet faster than the speed of sound, and Shane watched as it sliced through the gla.s.s doors of the Federal Reserve and into the gunman's heart, missing the woman by only a fraction of an inch. But in the end it hadn't mattered. She'd died anyway.

Real time whooshed back in an instant as the man fell to his knees. The city was still, a void in s.p.a.ce, and then all h.e.l.l broke loose. The explosion rocketed through the front of the building, engulfing it in black smoke and flame. Debris rained from the sky and large chunks of concrete catapulted into the street, damaging cars and breaking the windows of the surrounding buildings. The lives of so many people had meant less than 400 ounce rectangles of metal.

Shane's life as he'd known it had ended in an instant.

He woke gasping for air and his skin slicked with sweat. He was disoriented and cold and his muscles cramped in fear. And when a soft hand touched him on the shoulder he had to fight to keep from jumping out of the bed like a coward.

"Shane?" Rachel asked.

He didn't answer her. Couldn't answer her. The soft hand began rubbing slow circles over his back until his breathing slowed. Rain pounded against the window and thunder cracked loudly, shaking the gla.s.s.

"Shane? Are you okay?" she asked again.

"Yeah, just give me a minute." The dream was always the same. He'd killed his wife. Killed all of those people. The children. Despite the higher ups who had given him the order to fire, it had been only his finger on the trigger. Not theirs.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Shane laughed sardonically and rubbed his hands across his face. "h.e.l.l, no. I lived it. Why would I want to talk about it? You sound like one of the FBI shrinks."

He was churned up, feeling mean and nasty, and he desperately wanted a bottle of Jim Beam. But he'd given up the hard stuff and taken up running instead. And now he was stuck in a motel room with a woman who made him crazy and neither of his vices were available.

Shane lay back down and turned onto his side, facing away from Rachel. The sweat on his skin was drying, leaving him clammy and cold. Rachel's fingers were driving him to distraction. He'd never considered s.e.x as a way to chase away the bad dreams, but he was beginning to think it might not be a bad idea to take up a third vice just in case he was ever in a situation like this one again.

He hadn't touched a woman in two years, and the need rose up in him swiftly, hardening him to the point of pain. His senses were heightened-the smell of her skin and the way her breath feathered across his cheek. She snuggled up close behind him, her hand continuously soothing, while his body coiled with tension. Would she continue to soothe him if he decided to use her body and pound away his frustrations? He couldn't do that to her. Couldn't do it to anyone. No one deserved to be treated that way. Which led him back to running or Jim Beam. He choked on a laugh, but it was a sob that caught in his throat.

"I always hear you leave your apartment in the middle of the night," she said, breaking the silence. "Where do you go?"

"Running through the city. It's beautiful at night," he said, trying to think of anything but the touch of her hand or her softness pressed against him. "I tried drowning myself in alcohol for a few months, but I didn't like that version of me when I looked in the mirror any more than the version I see now. So I poured the bottles down the drain and stopped looking at myself in the mirror altogether. I didn't realize my sleep habits kept you awake."

"I'd try to stay awake until you came back, just so I could listen to you play the piano for awhile. Such sad music comes out of you, Shane. Sometimes it would make me cry."

"Well, the blues isn't meant to be happy."

"No, I suppose not, but I enjoyed hearing you all the same. You have strong hands," she said, running her fingers down the length of his arm to the tips of his fingers.

His hands were rough and his fingers calloused, but she was right. They were strong. If only the rest of his body and mind could live up to the potential. The tension slowly drained from his body with every gentle stroke of her hand. It was a comfortable feeling to wake up beside a woman in the middle of the night. He'd forgotten the intimacy, the feeling of knowing a lover's touch or the sighs that said they were dreaming peacefully. The vise around his chest loosened and he was able to breath easier. And before he could help himself, the words started pouring out of his mouth.

"I killed my wife," Shane said, expecting Rachel to distance herself from him. To slap him or gasp in horror. She did neither. She just listened.

Rachel felt sick inside. What kind of horrors had Shane been living with? She didn't believe for a moment that he'd killed his wife. He was too honorable, too loyal. He was a protector of the innocent, and his basic characteristics would never let him be anything else.

So when he dropped the bombsh.e.l.l about his wife, she listened with an open mind while her heart broke over the tragedy. He told her of his nightmares, and how he relived those last moments night after night, shouldering the blame for something he'd had no control over. And she listened with envy as he spoke of the woman he'd loved-her beauty, her strength and her faith in him that he was making a difference in the world.

"I've spent my entire adult life obeying someone else's orders-in the Marines and then again in the FBI," Shane said. "I've always been a p.a.w.n in someone else's game. What does that say about me that I never stopped to think for myself? That I just followed the orders of others so blindly without first thinking of all the consequences?"

"I'd say it made you the best person to do your job. The job does not define the man, Shane. You're still your own person, with your own beliefs and priorities. And no one can fault you for doing what you had to do in those last seconds."

"Well, they did fault me. And I can't blame them."

"Trying to relive history, to rethink the outcome of situations will never give you peace. You can't say for certain that he wouldn't have detonated the bomb strapped to his chest anyway. He was a sociopath. It was he who was responsible for the loss of all those lives. Not you. There are a hundred different scenarios that could have played out that day, and they all could have ended badly. From the way you described your wife I'd think she wouldn't be too happy with the way you're blaming yourself. What would she say?"

She'd probably tell him to stop moping and get the job done. "I don't know, but every day I pray that she would have forgiven me if she was still alive. She was strong. Stronger than me. Everything was black and white with Maggie. Right or wrong. There were no gray areas to get lost in. It seemed I was always skirting the gray areas in my line of work, and she'd just give me that look that said, 'Suck it up and do what's right.'"

"She sounds like an amazing woman," Rachel said.

"She was. A day doesn't go by that I don't think of her. She's my conscience. And loving her taught me something very important. That emotions always cloud the issues. I'll never let myself love anyone as whole-heartedly as I did her. The body's not meant to withstand that much torture, that much loss. It's okay to put yourself into work and relations.h.i.+ps, but there's no reason for them to matter too much. It can only lead to disaster."

The first tear snaked down Rachel's cheek before she could stop it. Her hand had stilled on his and her breath was caught in her throat. What had she been thinking, dragging Shane into a mess of her own making and then becoming attached to him? He was everything a real man should be-honorable and trustworthy and honest. And he continued to be that way despite the pain that weighed him down. She was past the point of where she could lie to herself. She was already in love with him. How could she not be?

"Maggie would have forgiven you," she said softly, but he didn't hear her. His breathing had steadied under her hand and she realized he'd fallen asleep, the nightmares purged from his soul with his confessions. But Rachel was wide awake. And more alone than she'd ever been. She rolled away from Shane and curled into a ball, letting the tears fall silently. It was the first time she'd cried since she was a child. And all because she was in love with a man who would never love her in return.

She'd stay with Shane Quincy until the papers were safely in the possession of the FBI, and then tell him goodbye with a confidence and bravado that had come from years of practice and guidance from her father. And then she'd never look back.

CHAPTER EIGHT.