He gave a wry smile. ‘‘I know better than that with you, Annabelle. No, I think, knowing Stanhope, he’d prefer you didn’t see him this way.’’
Not chivalrous, but sensitive. And right. Rocky always tempered his language and maintained his privacy around the female members of the team. ‘‘I’ll head upstairs.’’
Brooke Mercer had given them the combination to Rocky’s safe and told them they’d find it in the attic studio behind a painting of Telluride’s Bridal Veil Falls. Annabelle climbed the stairs to a room brilliant with afternoon sunshine.
Windows lined both the eastern and western walls, offering views beautiful enough to give Hawaii a run for its money. Paintings filled the space on the north and south walls—landscapes, still lifes, portraits of both people and animals. Furnishing the studio were an antique chaise lounge, two ladder-back chairs, and a rocker. The air smelled of turpentine, and multicolored paint flecks splattered the wooden floor.
This was a side of Rocky Stanhope she’d never known existed.
Giving the walls a second look, Annabelle spied the painting of the falls. She pulled the slip of paper containing the combination from her pocket, but before she moved toward the safe, a canvas propped upon an easel set to catch the morning light snagged her attention.
It was a portrait of an infant—a fat little cherub with blue eyes and blond hair and a single tooth. Her heart gave a twist. ‘‘Oh, Rocky,’’ she murmured. ‘‘With all this talent, why did you ever join the army?’’
Next her gaze caught a stack of paintings leaning against the wall. They were the Fixer paintings the art dealer had mentioned, and they, too, diverted Annabelle from her task. There were five of them—three depicting incidents in Bosnia, one in the jungles of Brazil, one in the sands of Oman.
‘‘We need to take these with us,’’ she murmured. These particular paintings should remain classified for the time being.
That thought dragged her back to the business at hand, and she crossed the studio to the waterfall painting. Shifting one corner to see behind it, she spied the metal face of the safe. She lifted the painting off its hook and propped it against the wall at her feet. She double-checked the combination and reached for the dial. Mark’s sharp, urgent voice stopped her.
‘‘Stop! Don’t touch that, Belle.’’
‘‘What’s wrong?’’
‘‘I found another body. A woman. She’s in his bedroom. I think she had just finished showering before she died. She’s wearing a towel.’’
‘‘What? That doesn’t make sense.’’
His gaze met hers, his emerald eyes diamond hard. ‘‘It does if she’s the real Brooke Mercer, and you and I had tea with a killer.’’
Annabelle froze. ‘‘No.’’
‘‘The woman in the bedroom is the girl-next-door. Think about it, Belle.’’
Rocky’s type. Annabelle’s mind whirled and she spoke aloud as she thought it through. ‘‘That woman was the shooter? Why would the killer meet us? . . . Oh. All those questions. She wanted to find out what we knew.’’
‘‘That’s the way I see it.’’
Annabelle stared at the portrait of the child without really seeing it. ‘‘But why send us out here? She had to know we’d find the second body and figure her out.’’ Then, before he could respond, she made the connection. ‘‘She didn’t care. We’re not supposed to leave here alive.’’
Mark nodded toward the safe. ‘‘Remember the explosion in Russo’s shop.’’
‘‘You think the safe is rigged to explode?’’
‘‘It makes sense. This second body casts doubt on everything that woman said. Her call lured us to Colorado. Meeting us at the gallery to ask her questions, then sending us here gives her plenty of time to get away even if we did call the authorities before we opened the safe.’’
‘‘Which she set us up to do with her story about what Rocky said and did,’’ Annabelle mused.
Mark studied the safe. ‘‘Nothing is obvious, but then, it wouldn’t be. This operation isn’t being run by a fool—or fools. They’ve taken down at least four of us already—if not more.’’
Annabelle’s teeth tugged at her lower lip. ‘‘She could have some connection with the Fixers. It doesn’t have to be more than one person.’’
‘‘Or we could be under siege by a team. You know whose team I’d put at the top of the list.’’
She set her teeth against a sigh. She refused to voice Rad’s name.
‘‘Stanhope didn’t die yesterday, either,’’ Mark continued. ‘‘Neither of them did. The bodies aren’t that fresh.’’
‘‘We need to ID the woman we met today.’’
‘‘Yeah, but something tells me her prints won’t show up either here or in the gallery.’’
‘‘Unless we’re wrong and she really
was
Rocky’s girlfriend.’’ She looked into Mark’s troubled eyes. ‘‘We need to call the locals. They’ll know if this dead woman is Brooke Mercer or not.’’
‘‘Yep.’’
‘‘But if we
are
wrong, bringing them in before we’ve accessed the message Rocky supposedly left for you might cause us some grief.’’
‘‘I think that’s a chance we have to take. I also doubt any message from Stanhope exists.’’
Annabelle nodded her agreement as Mark pulled his cell phone from his pocket and checked the service. ‘‘Nothing. And the landline is out. Lovely. Just freakin’ lovely.’’
‘‘If we’re going back to town, let’s recon these first.’’ She gestured toward the stack of paintings that depicted the unit. Mark glanced through them, and whistled softly. ‘‘It’s like being there all over again.’’
He handed her a painting to carry, then took a second look as he picked up another one. ‘‘Whoa. This one’s not a canvas.’’ He checked the back. ‘‘No wonder it’s so heavy. Looks like steel.’’ Of the remaining three, one other was a painted metal sheet. He waggled his brows hopefully. ‘‘You want to carry them?’’
She rolled her eyes, knowing from experience that his Texas good-old-boy upbringing wouldn’t allow it.
He handed her the three regular canvases, then hoisted the other two and exited the studio. Annabelle detoured into the master bedroom to check the woman’s body for herself. Seeing the freckled-face woman—definitely Rocky’s type—who’d died wearing only a towel and an expression of surprise stirred her anger. ‘‘This just has to stop.’’
She continued downstairs, where she paused at Rocky Stanhope’s blanket-covered body. ‘‘We’ll find out who did this, Rock,’’ she said softly. ‘‘I promise.’’
Annabelle’s heart was heavy as she stepped out onto the porch and took a grateful gulp of fresh air. Mark set his burden down long enough to fish the keys from the pocket of his jeans. He let out a grunt as he lifted the paintings once again, then started down the porch steps. Annabelle followed behind him, slightly to the right.
The same instant she heard the gunshot, pain zinged across her left arm.
Even as he felt the round hit the steel plate in his hands, experience and training had Mark reacting instinctively. He processed their situation in an instant. Shooter in the trees to his left. The paintings shielded him, but Annabelle was vulnerable. He stepped between her and the line of fire.
‘‘Get down and stay behind me,’’ he ordered even as more shots rang out and pinged against the paintings. He couldn’t draw his weapon without dropping the shield.
Annabelle didn’t have that problem. ‘‘On your right,’’ she said, then fired a shot toward the trees. ‘‘Go go go!’’
She fired twice more as they dashed for the cover of the car. There, crouched by the front grille, he set down the paintings and reached for his own gun. ‘‘You okay?’’
‘‘Winged.’’
He whipped his head around. Red blood stained her white sleeve. He took it like a punch to his gut. ‘‘Goddamn . . . how bad is it?’’
‘‘Just a scratch. Did you see anything?
‘‘Not really. Trees are too thick. I placed one shooter at ten o’clock. You?’’
‘‘Same.’’ Annabelle touched her bloody arm and winced. ‘‘Do you think it’s her?’’
He knew she meant the woman from the gallery. ‘‘I don’t know. This is sloppy. Why would she follow us up here? Why didn’t she do us in the gallery? Hell, we were sitting ducks for her.’’
‘‘Maybe she wanted just one kill spot. As remote as this place is, it could be weeks before anyone found us.’’
Annabelle had a point. If he had been carrying regular canvases instead of steel ones, the shooter would have gotten her heart shot. Or if Annabelle had walked out in front of him, she would have suffered more than a graze.
Mark went cold inside at the thought. ‘‘Screw this. Cover me.’’
He started to rise, but Annabelle grabbed his shirt and held on. ‘‘Wait. Get a grip, Callahan. There could be a team out there. You could be right and Radovanovic could be waiting for you! Don’t be stupid. You’re never stupid. What’s wrong with you?’’
The feelings of frustration that had been simmering inside Mark ever since he’d received the phone call from Russo’s wife heated to a boil. ‘‘Be damned if you die on my watch, Belle.’’
‘‘Oh, for God’s sake.’’ She whacked him on the side of the head. ‘‘Don’t go Texan on me now.’’
Mark scowled at her. ‘‘Well, we can’t stay here like this. The murdering bitch is probably working her way through the trees for a better angle right now!’’
‘‘Then let’s get into the car and drive out of here.’’
Mark contemplated her suggestion. He hated running when he was the one doing the chasing, but maybe if they considered it a strategic retreat . . .
‘‘There is only one way down this mountain,’’ he mused. ‘‘We could pick our ground.’’
‘‘Now you’re thinking.’’
He readied the door key. ‘‘Cover me.’’
This time she didn’t argue. But even as she flexed her muscles to rise, another round of gunshots rang out. Six . . . eight shots from a position just to the left of where they had come from earlier. Mark and Annabelle glanced at each other, then smoothly switched into team mode.
‘‘One, two, three,’’ she said, rising and firing toward the spot where the shots originated.
Mark scrambled toward the driver’s-side door, noting the flat tire on the back wheel. Damn. He took half a second to check the other back wheel. Flat, too. Dammit to hell.
All right, change in plan.
His mind raced as he slipped the key into the ignition. They wouldn’t get far on two flat tires, but they could get out of range long enough to regroup and develop a strategy. He cranked the key and the engine fired. He motioned for Annabelle to join him.
Instead, she held up her hand, palm out. ‘‘Listen. That’s a car. She’s leaving!’’
Mark followed her lead and listened intently. Annabelle was right. Sound carried in the hills, and a vehicleof some sort was hauling ass down the mountain. Nevertheless, the moment still called for caution. ‘‘Go ahead and get in the car, Belle.’’
‘‘I think the tires are flat.’’
‘‘I know the tires are flat. We’re only going around behind the house.’’
Keeping low, Annabelle made her way around to the door behind Mark and climbed into the car. ‘‘I think she was alone. I think she decided that since she’d lost the element of surprise, she couldn’t take us out. She shot out the tires to give herself time to get away.’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ Mark agreed, dragging his gaze away from her bloody shirt as he put the car in gear. ‘‘Let’s give it a few minutes to make sure, though.’’
He maneuvered the car around behind Stanhope’s cabin, then switched off the engine. ‘‘Back door?’’
‘‘Sure.’’
‘‘Let’s go.’’ He exited the car and covered her while she dashed toward the cabin.
Annabelle tried the doorknob and found it locked, so she used the butt of her gun to break a glass pane, then reached inside and flipped the dead bolt. Seconds later, they entered the cabin’s kitchen.
Mark did his best to ignore the scent of death that hung on the air as silence settled around them. Slowly, the tension inside Mark eased and he let out a long breath.
He felt like an idiot for having walked into an ambush. Last time he’d managed that dumb move, he’d been in a jungle in Jakarta. ‘‘This is the craziest damned situation. . . .’’
‘‘My knees feel like Jell-O.’’ Annabelle smiled wryly and added, ‘‘It’s been a long time since I’ve been under fire.’’
‘‘Let’s have a look at your arm.’’
Annabelle glanced down at her left sleeve and winced. ‘‘It didn’t hurt until you reminded me of it, Callahan. Thanks.’’
She tugged at her sleeve, trying to yank it above the wound, but the cuff made that difficult. She hesitated, darted him a look, and muttered, ‘‘Wonderful.’’
She turned her back to him, worked the buttons on her shirt, and slipped it off. Mark couldn’t look away from the delicious sight of her peach-colored bra against the tanned skin of her long, lean back. He recalled smoothing his hand across that skin, trailing his tongue down the indentation of her spine. His fingers itched to touch her once again.
Then his gaze settled on the angry red slash across the side of her arm, and anger chased away the lust. ‘‘That’s ugly.’’
‘‘Gee, thanks.’’ She twisted her head to look as he stepped toward the cabinets and hunted in drawers for a clean dish towel. Finding one, he dampened it with water from the kitchen faucet, then gently took her arm. ‘‘C’mere.’’
He cleaned away the blood and his worry eased. ‘‘You were right. It’s just a scratch.’’
She scowled at him. ‘‘It hurts.’’
Her skin smelled of peaches and he wondered if she chose her lotion to match her bra. ‘‘You’ve had worse from a tree branch.’’ He touched an old scar on her shoulder. ‘‘Remember?’’
It had been the one time they’d crossed the line while teammates, an event they’d never mentioned even during the time they were together.
The insertion into Uzbekistan took place back in 2000. As they’d parachuted in on a moonless night, Annabelle got caught in a crosswind that carried her into a grove of olive trees. Ordering the others ahead toward the target, Mark delayed to cut her down. Upon hearing her suck in a breath, he’d discovered the wicked, two-inch tear in the skin above her collar-bone from a branch.