Blue Blooded (4 page)

As soon as they drove away, leaving Rinaldi's body behind, Rachel broke out of Logan's arms and took a deep breath, blocking out the emotions threatening to bring her to her knees. Now that the imminent danger was over, it was time to get to work, fear be damned.

Calling to Logan over her shoulder, she began the short trek back to the club. “Let's go. I've got a story to report.”

I
N THE TWO
hours since she'd watched Rinaldi's brain matter splatter onto the ground, Rachel had run the gamut of emotions, and right now, she was pissed. She should be on television reporting the crime instead of drinking tepid tea from a foam cup as she and Logan sat in the interview room at the local police station waiting for Officer Hanover to finish his questioning. He'd left the room about twenty minutes ago to take a phone call and hadn't returned. Rachel hated to be left waiting. The police were reviewing Benediction's video feeds to determine if the murder had been caught on tape.

“Are you okay?” Logan asked from across the table, his voice laced with what she recognized as sympathy.

Why was he being nice? Despite what had happened between them at Benediction, Logan despised her and the feeling was mutual. Since the first time they'd met, they'd argued every time they were in a room together. It was as if she was dynamite and he was the fuse. What Gracie called “sparks flying” was more like a violent explosion. They simply tolerated each other for their friends' sake.

Which is why tonight had thrown her for a loop.

She lifted her cup and unnecessarily blew on the cooled liquid. “Sure. I've been around dead bodies before.” In her profession, a trip to the county morgue was a regular occurrence. There wasn't a week that went by she didn't have to report a story on a child shot by a stray bullet or beaten to death by a parent. If she could handle seeing that firsthand, she could certainly handle seeing a murderer get his just deserts.

Logan reclined in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing on her. “But you've never seen someone killed before, have you?”

“No.” She took a sip of her tea, taking the time to gather her thoughts about where these questions were leading. She didn't like the way he looked at her as if she was a witness on the stand. She'd seen him in the courtroom and this was definitely his defense attorney cross-examination mode. As her nana had taught her, the best defense was a strong offense. “You have though. In the military. You must be used to it.”

“It's not something you ever get used to.” He leaned forward in his chair, his hands steepled on the table and his shirt riding up, giving her a glimpse of the golden skin above his jeans. “It's okay if you need to cry.”

She stared at him, wondering if he was serious. When his expression didn't change, she burst into laughter. “Are you kidding me? You think I'm going to break down?”

He gestured to her hands. “You're shaking.”

She glanced at her fingers wrapped around the cup of tea. Huh, he was right. Still, that didn't mean she was a shrinking violet in need of a big, bad Dom to come to her rescue. This flower knew how to rescue herself. “Adrenaline.” She set the cup on the table and dropped her hands into her lap. “When the police finish questioning us, I'm going out there to give my live firsthand-witness account on television. This exclusive will make my career.”

His lips curled into disgust. “I don't believe you. A person is dead.”

Antsy, wondering what was taking Officer Hanover so long to come back, she pushed back from the table and stood. “Anthony Rinaldi was a dangerous combination of psychotic, powerful, and wealthy. If he got the court to drop the thirteen murder charges of those women who were found buried on his property, then nothing short of death would stop him.” She rounded the table, stopping next to Logan. “He's hurt people you and I care about. You can't say you're sorry he's dead.”

Logan scowled. “No, I'm not sorry, but that doesn't mean his death should be used as fodder for your career.”

Why shouldn't she benefit from it? She'd watched those men execute Rinaldi in cold blood. Surely there was a reason she was there to witness it. Why else would fate have placed her there?

She didn't bother arguing with Logan. He'd made it clear he held no regard for her career or for her advancement in it. Most people didn't understand what it was like for her. Maybe that's why she'd become such good friends with Kate and Lisa. They were both strong, capable, determined career women like herself and they let no one stand in their way. Even as Jaxon's collared submissive, Kate had created a successful law practice with Logan, and Lisa had started her own public relations firm that now represented half of Detroit's hockey team members. Of course, Lisa didn't date, so she didn't have any men trying to hold her back.

Rachel paced to the door, twirling her raven hair around her finger. “What do you think is taking Hanover so long to return?” As witnesses, they were free to leave whenever they wanted. It wasn't as if they'd been arrested. Hanover was probably outside the police station, giving her competition all the details of Rinaldi's death while she was stuck inside. No way was she going to miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

She creaked open the door and peered out into the hallway.

Empty.

“Rachel, do you ever do what you're told?” Logan asked, now standing right behind her.

She gave him a smile and wiggled her eyebrows. “Only if I would do it anyhow.” With him or without him, she was getting out of there. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she started down the hall toward the lobby, but before she reached the end of it, she spotted Hanover coming into the lobby from a different hallway. He walked up to a couple of men, but their identities were blocked from Rachel's view by the cops eating donuts.

She clenched her teeth. Those two could be reporters. Hanover was probably going to give them an exclusive on the Rinaldi murder. Well, she certainly wasn't going to stand for that. Prepared to give the officer a piece of her mind, she squared her shoulders and took a step toward the lobby. An arm snaked around her waist and dragged her backward until they were out of sight of everyone in the lobby.

“Slow down, Tiger,” Logan whispered from behind. “Didn't you notice who Hanover's talking to?”

Keeping her body hidden behind the wall, she stretched her neck forward and peeked out into the lobby. Standing in the center of the room no more than twenty feet away from her, looking as if they had nothing to fear, were the two men who had gunned down Rinaldi in cold blood.

The hallway seemed to shrink and close in around her. She couldn't breathe, her lungs paralyzed from the shock of seeing the murderers here at the station. Why weren't they wearing handcuffs?

A lead weight lodged in her stomach, the nape of her neck prickling with intuition. No mobster would willingly walk into a police station and pal around with the cops. “Who do you think they are?”

The men turned toward Officer Hanover, flashing their badges and credentials.

The smaller man shook Hanover's hand, his nasally voice loud enough for her to hear. “Agent Seymour Fink from the county's FBI resident agency.” He motioned to the larger man standing beside him. “And this is my partner, Agent Richard Evans.”

Logan grew rigid. “Shit, they're FBI. I don't know what's going on, but if they killed Rinaldi, they're obviously dirty.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her down the hall toward the back of the station. “We need to get out of here.”

For once, she didn't argue, allowing him to lead her down another hall while fleeing as quickly as she could in three-inch heels. “How? We're literally surrounded by cops.”

He tightened his grip on her hand. “There's got to be another way out of here.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than she spotted another exit. Warnings affixed to the door declared it as an emergency exit and restricted for police personnel, and an access control pad was located on the wall to the right of the door like the one they used down at the news station. “You need an ID card to exit,” she said, motioning to the pad. “If we set off the alarm, we won't get out of the parking lot.”

“Not a problem.” He whipped out his cell phone and toyed with it, swiping through several pages of apps. She'd never seen anyone with so many apps on a phone. After opening one, he held his cell up to the access pad, and a quiet beep and the click of the door unlocking caused her jaw to drop. He threw open the door and waved her through it, following right behind her.

She'd known the man had mad computer skills, but messing with a police station's security system exceeded her expectations. “How the hell did you do that?”

“It's an app that bypasses those kinds of sensors.” Again, he took her hand, and together they crossed the parking lot, running to their cars while trying not to draw too much attention. “Pretty ridiculous the police use such a rudimentary system, but not surprising. The app interfaces with the system, working like a security badge.”

She stopped between her car and his. “What are you, a jewel thief?”

“I gave that up years ago.” He opened the driver's side door of his car and jutted his chin. “Get in.”

She folded her arms. “Why do we have to take your car?”

“Rachel, we have about ten seconds before they figure out we're missing.” He braced his hands on the roof, his jaw tense. “Get. In. The. Car.”

Biting the inside of her cheek, she opened the passenger-side door and slid into his silver Mustang. That man was so bossy. She couldn't believe she'd forgotten how much his behavior infuriated her.

Within seconds, he tore out of the parking lot and zoomed toward the highway, each block taking her farther and farther away from the story that would have catapulted her to the top in her field. She held her breath, checking the mirrors for signs they were being followed. Part of her wanted to protest and go back to the police station, but rationally, she knew they had no other choice. They had to run.

A police car turned from a side street, merging into traffic and following right behind them. “We've got company,” she said, wiping her damp palms on her pants. Neither one of them spoke, waiting for the cop to turn on his siren and demand they pull over. It was as if they were running out of oxygen and they were afraid to take a breath or move a muscle. Only when the police car switched lanes a couple of minutes later and drove past them did they relax. “You think they've figured out we're missing yet?”

“Even if they have, they'll waste time looking up my car's registration. By the time they do, we'll be in the city. We've got a few minutes before they can put out the APB.” While zigzagging through lanes of traffic, he slid his cell from his pocket and dialed. “I've got a situation and need your expertise. I'm in the mood for a BLT. Heavy on the bacon. I'll meet you by our usual place. Ten minutes.” She heard a man swearing on the other end. “I don't have an hour, Willie. Tell your date for the night you got somewhere to be. I'll make it up to you next time you need my expertise, you get what I'm saying?” He paused. “Yeah. Good deal.”

Seriously, that was his plan? Hope the cholesterol in the sandwich would kill him before those FBI agents did?

She tapped her fingernails on the window. “A BLT? We've got the FBI and the police after us, and you're picking up a sandwich?”

Getting off the highway, he glanced over at her. “Willie's my client. I didn't order a sandwich from him. I let him know I've got the cops on me and that I needed some new wheels.”

“He's going to give you his car?”

Logan's hands tightened on the wheel. “We're going to
trade
cars.”

Understanding dawned. “Wait, he's one of your clients? You mean a criminal?”

The sides of his lips twitched. “He's never been convicted.”

She didn't miss that he'd circumvented the question. The man was a car thief. She'd bet the only reason he hadn't been convicted of the crime was because he had Logan defending him in court. “He's giving us a stolen car?
Why
do we need a stolen car?”

“Rach, we're the only witnesses to the murder of a mobster by FBI agents. If it came down to it, who do you think the cops will believe? The FBI or two murder suspects? We need to go off the grid for a while until we can figure out what's going on.”

For more reasons than she could count on both her hands and feet, going off the grid with Logan Bradford was the last thing she needed. Most important, she had to stay and report the story or risk losing her chance at winning a job in the New York market. The Rinaldi murder was the biggest story of her career. Plus, spending an extended period of time with Logan was bound to end in another murder because she'd likely kill him. There had to be another solution. “Don't you have a friend from the FBI who helped you when Rinaldi kidnapped Danielle? Why can't we call him?”

“I don't need to call him. As soon as he hears what's up, he'll start digging on his own.” He frowned, driving into a Detroit neighborhood she reported from on a weekly basis due to its high incidence of murders. “The FBI works like the military. You follow the orders of your superior or risk court-martial. There's nothing he can do at this point. His hands are tied.”

She unzipped her purse and pulled out her iPhone. “Let me call my boss from the news station. He can—”

“No.” He grabbed it out of her hands and pitched it out the window. “No cell calls.”

She didn't bother containing her anger. Who the hell did he think he was? Her father? “Why'd you do that?”

“FBI can trace it.”

“You just called your friend.”

He patted the pocket of his jeans where he'd placed his phone after his call to his car-thieving client. “I've got a signal jammer on mine to keep anyone from tracing our location or listening in on the conversation.”

She huffed. On the run with Logan and without her cell was her version of hell. “Then why'd you speak in code with the BLT talk?”

“In case it didn't work.” Shrugging, he pulled into a dark parking lot of a twenty-four-hour hot dog joint and cut the engine. “Nothing's foolproof. Always have a backup plan.”