Love Inspired Suspense June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Exit Strategy\Payback\Covert Justice (9 page)

She swallowed down something that tasted suspiciously like tears, blinked away the moisture in her eyes. “Thank you.”

He nodded, his gaze never wavering, his focus so intense, she felt it like a physical touch.

“The thing about John,” he finally said, and the moment was gone, that feeling that he was connecting with nothing more than a look, disappearing into the cool September air, “is that he knew what he was getting into when he came out here tonight, and he knew what was going to happen when he took those shots at me while the sheriff was nearby. He had to have weighed the risks and rewards very carefully.”

“What rewards? Your death? Because I can't see what he'd have to gain from that.”

“My silence, Lark. I was in the compound long enough to notice some things that he might not have wanted me to talk about.”

“The deliveries and shipments?”

“Right. The storage sheds are locked up tighter than Fort Knox. Whatever it is they're bringing into the compound, it's valuable.”

“It's not worth a human life,” she replied. Or three. John was dead. Joshua was dead. Ethan was probably dead. She shuddered.

“Cold?” he asked.

“Tired. Confused. John didn't have to die. He could have gone back to the compound, packed up and left.”

“People do desperate things when they're desperate,” he said, fingering the edges of the wound in his upper arm. It had stopped bleeding, but blood stained a wide swatch of fabric around the area, his white shirt soaked with it. “And maybe John forgot that blindly following orders doesn't always end well.”

“Elijah wanted you dead and me alive? Is that what you think?”

“I don't think it. I know it. You have something Elijah wants, and I have information he wants to keep secret.”

“What information?” Had he found out the truth about what Amos Way was hiding? If so, he'd done what she hadn't been able to.

“That you were kept against your will. That Elijah knew about it. If I'd died, it would have been your word against theirs. With me still around, it's going to be a little harder to pretend that you've made everything up.” His gaze shifted, his attention focused on Sheriff Johnson and his men. “It'll be interesting to see what the sheriff does with that.”

“He said he was trying to bring down Amos Way.”

“People say all kinds of things, Lark. That doesn't mean they're true.”

She had firsthand knowledge of that.

She'd been lied to plenty when she was a kid.

Her mother had made a million promises and never followed through. She'd told hundreds of lies to cover her addictions. Things had been different with Joshua. He'd been honest, shared everything, kept his promises.

Until the end.

Then, he'd been secretive. He'd been quiet.

She frowned, pressing a finger to her brow, trying to ease the pain there. Joshua had been digging around. He'd been convinced that Ethan had disappeared because he'd rocked the boat, asked Elijah for proof that he was using community funds for community expenses. Joshua had told Lark that, and then he hadn't told her anything. He'd slip out late at night, come back before the sun rose. She'd tried to follow him once, and he'd threatened to bring her back to Baltimore and leave her there.

It was too dangerous, he'd said.

But he'd continued to look for evidence, continued to dig around.

If he'd found anything, he hadn't told her. As a matter of fact, those last few months were the only time in their marriage when she hadn't felt connected to him, deeply in love with him, absolutely certain that they were meant to be together forever. His silence had filled the house they'd shared with his family, it had filled their bedroom, their times together.

She'd asked him, begged him, pleaded with him, but he refused to tell her what was going on. A season, she'd thought. A little blip on the radar of their lives together. It would be over once he found what he was looking for, and they'd go on with their lives, create something wonderful again.

Only it hadn't happened that way.

He'd died before they could reconnect, and she'd been left alone.

“You okay?” Cyrus asked, touching her shoulder, his palm warm and oddly comforting.

She wasn't okay, hadn't been okay for a long time, but she couldn't tell him that, barely wanted to admit it to herself. “Fine. Just...”

“What?” His eyes were black in the dim light, the shadow of a beard darkening his jaw. He had a hard look, a tough one, but his hand was gentle as it kneaded the tense muscles in her shoulder.

“You need to get that arm looked at.” She jumped up too quickly, and the world shifted, the night going blacker than brighter, silent than loud.

She'd never passed out before. Ever.

But she thought she might, and she grabbed the closest thing to her, her hands gripping crisp cotton and firm muscles.

“I think you're the one who needs to be looked at,” Cyrus muttered as he scooped her into his arms.

She wanted to protest, but the words wouldn't form. Nothing seemed to be working. Not her brain, not her muscles, not her ears.

People were talking, but the words seemed to bounce in and out, unclear and unintelligible.

Sirens screamed. Lights flashed.

She was moving, flying along bumpy pavement strapped to a gurney. Then, she was in an ambulance, a medic leaning over her.

“You're going to be fine,” he said.

But she wasn't sure she would be, because the world was fading to black, the screaming siren fading to silence, and she was alone. Just exactly the way she had been the day Joshua died.

NINE

“Y
ou got what you deserved,” Stella said as an ER doctor carefully stitched Cyrus's arm.

Too carefully.

He wanted to take the needle and thread and do it himself. He figured he'd be a lot faster, and fast was what he wanted. That and free access to the triage room where they were treating Lark.

“I guess you have a reason for saying that,” he growled, and Stella looked up from the text she'd been reading and sighed.

“Really, Cyrus? You're going to play that card?”

“What card?” He wasn't in the mood for twenty questions. He wasn't in the mood for lectures. Radley Johnson was interviewing Lark while she was being treated, and he wanted to be there.

“The clueless card,” Stella responded. She had dark circles under her eyes, and a purple scar under her chin that ran from one side to the other. Seeing it made him soften. He liked Stella. She was a consummate professional, and a huge asset to the team. She'd taken some hits recently, though, had nearly lost her life on her last mission. She'd been recovering for nearly three months, had just recently returned to work.

As far as he knew, this was the first job she'd taken since she'd been released from the hospital.

“You look tired,” he said, and she scowled.

“Don't try to change the subject, Cyrus. You should have had someone else go into the compound with you. If we'd done the married-couple-looking-for-religious-nirvana thing like I suggested, you wouldn't be getting your arm stitched up.”

“You're making an assumption that may or may not be true.”

“It's true, because if I'd been with you, I would have made sure you didn't do anything stupid.” She typed something into her phone, her fingers flying, the scar on her right wrist darker and thicker than the one on her chin. They'd been betrayed in Somalia, and she'd taken the brunt of that, the kidnappers who'd been holding a diplomat's son determined to use her as an example to anyone else who might be tempted to go against them.

Only Stella was tougher than she looked, more determined to live than they'd imagined. He wanted to ask her if she was okay, but she'd have taken his head off.

“I didn't do anything stupid,” he said instead.

“And yet, you've got a ten-inch slice in your upper arm. In a situation like the one you were in, backup would have been invaluable.”

“Is this your version of
I told you so
?”

“It's my version of me not being happy that you're in the hospital. Again.”

“Visiting a hospital to get stitches isn't the same as being admitted and staying for a week,” he pointed out.

“And that makes it all better?” She stood, stretching to her full height. Which wasn't all that tall, but Stella filled space like nobody's business when she was upset. “I told you this mission wasn't going to be as easy as you thought it would be. If you'd listened—”

“You and Chance wouldn't have had the opportunity to take a three-and-a-half-hour drive together.”

She scowled, her eyes flashing with irritation. Chance Miller hadn't mentioned his plan to come to River Fork. Not while he'd been talking to Cyrus. It could have been that he was concerned about having his team step on toes in small-town America. Getting a bad reputation was a surefire way to close down a business, and HEART was Chance's baby, his brainchild. He'd conceived of the idea, built the hostage rescue team from the ground up, handpicking the men and women who worked for him.

Cyrus had a feeling there was another reason that Chance had made the trip. Stella hadn't been herself since she'd returned from Somalia, and Chance had made no secret of the fact that he was worried about her.

“Do not mention that man's name to me again,” she snapped, shoving her phone into the pocket of her navy-colored coat.

“He's your boss.” Also her ex-boyfriend, but he decided not to mention that. “I think you're going to hear his name a lot.”

“Not in the next ten minutes,” she responded, moving closer and watching as the doctor put in the last stitch. “Unless Boone comes walking in here spouting off about what that man wants us to do next.”

“You know, Stella,” Cyrus said as the doctor bandaged his arm. “If I didn't know better, I'd think you were still smitten with Cha—”

“I don't do smitten,” she cut him off.

“You must. You were married.” And widowed before Cyrus had ever met her. He didn't know much of the story, but he knew that she'd loved her husband, and that everyone on the team had been surprised when she and Chance had started spending time together.

“I wasn't smitten with Gus. I loved him.”

“There's a difference?” he asked.

“Smitten is what you have before you really know someone. Love is what happens when you know a person—every wart and every wound—and you love him anyway,” she said, pulling open the triage room door. “Obviously, you're going to live. I'm going to get some coffee.”

She stalked from the room, and he stood.

The ER doctor sat in front of a computer, typing something. Whatever it was, Cyrus didn't have time for it. “Thanks for stitching me up,” he said, walking to the door.

“It's my job,” the doctor said, not bothering to look up from the screen. “But I appreciate the thanks.”

Cyrus stepped out into the hall, and the doctor finally looked up.

“Hold on,” he called. “I'm going to print out your discharge instructions. That was a pretty deep wound. You need to check in with your doctor within the next couple of days.”

“I'll do that. Thanks.”

“Let me print this out before you go. It will only take a couple of minutes,” the doctor said, apparently confused by Cyrus's rush to leave.

“I need to check on my friend. I'll pick the paperwork up at the front desk.”

“If you're talking about Lark Porter, she's already been released,” the doctor said absently as he turned his attention back to the computer and began typing again.

The news sent a shot of adrenaline through Cyrus.

“When?”

“I handed her follow-up instructions right before I came in here to stitch you up.”

That explained the text Stella had been reading. Either Boone or Chance had given her information that no one had bothered giving Cyrus. They'd probably been afraid he'd walk out of the hospital before the doctor was finished stitching him up if he knew that they were leaving with Lark.

They were right.

He would have, but that was his decision to make. Not theirs.

He stalked into the hall, walked out of the triage area. No sign of Stella in the waiting room, but the receptionist was happy to point him toward the hospital's cafeteria.

Stella was there, sitting at a booth in a far corner of the room, staring into a cup of coffee.

She looked...sad. Which surprised Cyrus. Usually, she was filled with sharp wit and offering sharp retorts, her expression waxing and waning between exasperation and intense concentration.

She didn't look up as he approached, and he thought that she hadn't noticed him, hadn't realized he was moving toward her.

He should have known better.

“So, you're done,” she said, still staring into the coffee cup.

“And you're keeping secrets.”

“No secrets, Cyrus. Just information that I planned to disseminate at an appropriate time.” She stood, finally meeting his eyes. The sadness was gone, and she looked like she always did—just a little hot under the collar.

“I don't need you to protect me.”

“I'm not protecting you. I'm protecting Lark. That's what we're here for, and you running out of the hospital with a wide-open wound on your gun arm isn't going to benefit the team, and that's not going to benefit her.”

“Where are they headed?” he asked, dropping the subject, because neither of them would win the debate. She had her way of doing things. He had his. They still always managed to work well together.

“Over to the sheriff's department. I have directions. Johnson wants to take your statement while we're there. Once he's done that, we should be free to go.”

“Any information on how Johnson is going to handle things?”

“He's not going to bust down the gate at Amos Way and arrest Elijah Clayton, if that's what you're asking,” she responded, leading the way out of the cafeteria. “The way the boss tells it, Johnson is trying to procure a search warrant for the compound. With Lark's testimony about being held prisoner there, he should be able to get the local judge to issue one. Once he arrives at work. Which, apparently, won't be until sometime Monday morning.”

“You're kidding, right?” Anything could happen in that amount of time. Certainly whatever had been hidden in those storage sheds would be gone before then.

“I wish I were, but this is very small-town America. The town has four full-time police officers, six part-time and one judge.”

“You've been doing your research.”

“The boss did the research. I'm just spouting what he found out for you.”

“The boss, huh?”

“Yeah. The
boss
. Now, hurry it up, Cyrus,” she demanded as she held open the exit door. “The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can head home and I get can some sleep.”

“I guess I was right about you being tired.”

“I passed tired six hours ago, but we just keep going, right?” She smiled, but it didn't meet her eyes, didn't make her look any less exhausted than she was. “Now, move! I'm getting impatient.”

“Getting?” he responded as he walked outside into cool dawn. The first rays of sunlight splashed across the sky in an array of gold and pink that glinted off distant mountains and set fire to the orange-and-red foliage.

If he'd been home, he'd have gone camping on a weekend like this, spent a few days outdoors, clearing his head, trying to find his center and his balance.

Life had been crazy the past few years. One mission after another. One trip after another. He didn't have a family, didn't have the kind of relationships that required plenty of time and attention, so he was often chosen for the missions that required long amounts of time out of the country. Sometimes weeks. Sometimes months. During those times, he'd be deep undercover, working an angle to get to whomever it was HEART had been paid to rescue. That was the way he'd wanted it.

There were times, though, when he wanted to be home. Times when he wanted all that home should mean—people waiting for his return, smiles and conversations and even arguments. He had a nice apartment in a nice neighborhood. He had friends and, recently, a church that he attended when he was in town.

What he didn't have was what two of the HEART team members had found. Jackson and Boone had both found women who understood their schedules, who supported their goals. They'd found that special kind of peace that only came when a person was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Even out in the woods, even with nature all around him, God's creation nearly shouting the truth of God's power, Cyrus didn't have that.

Maybe. One day.

When he wasn't so busy that he barely had time to breathe let alone think.

He got into Stella's SUV, took a small bag she handed him. He opened it, smiled. Inside were the things he'd left behind when he'd exchanged his real identity for his assumed one. His wallet. His phone. No more Louis Morgan. He was officially Cyrus Mitchell again.

“I picked them up from the office,” she said.

He shoved his wallet into his pocket, grabbed his phone. Fully charged. Of course. Stella wasn't the kind of person who let any details go. “Thanks.”

“Thank me by making your statement to the sheriff short and concise,” she responded, speeding onto the road.

He didn't tell her to slow down.

He was just as anxious to get to the sheriff's department as she was.

* * *

She wanted out, but she didn't think Sheriff Johnson would appreciate her climbing out his office window and scrambling down the fire escape. Lark also didn't think he was going to let her waltz out of the office, down the three flights of stairs and out the door.

She paced across the small office, looked out the third-floor window for what seemed like the thousandth time. It didn't change anything. She was still in Sheriff Johnson's office, waiting. He'd assured her that he'd be back shortly. That had been thirty minutes ago.

Thirty very long minutes.

At least her head wasn't pounding anymore, and she had on a fresh set of clothes. Soft jeans that were a little too long and a little too big. Faded blue T-shirt that was just as soft and comfortable as the jeans. One of Cyrus's coworkers had handed them to her, and she'd been so excited to have them that she hadn't asked where they'd come from.

Probably Stella Silverstone's. Lark had met her briefly when the HEART team had arrived at the hospital. Chance Miller, Boone Anderson and Stella. They'd been kind, but all business, asking questions rapidly and purposefully. They knew what they were doing. She'd had that impression. She'd also thought they were a good team, all of them in sync and working toward a common goal.

That goal seemed to be getting Cyrus back to their headquarters in Washington, DC, and keeping Lark safe.

She wanted those things, but she also wanted Elijah taken down. She wanted Amos Way closed. She wanted the people who lived there—the ones who really believed the lie, who had no idea that Elijah was running something more than a religious community—to find something better, something more real, something truer than the lie they'd been fed.

She opened the office door, peered out into the hallway, determined to find the sheriff and find out exactly what was going on. A few feet away, a tall red-haired man leaned against the wall, what looked like a doughnut in his hand.