Love Inspired Suspense October 2015 #1 (50 page)

“I wanted to get away, this time not to protect myself. This time to protect you and the others.” Her eyes teared. “But I was too late.”

He gathered her into his arms, ignoring the burst of pain, and cradled her.

She started to pull away but he stopped her.

“Dylan, you're hurt.”

“I'm fine.” He smiled into her eyes. “I had a very good surgeon.”

Again, she started to rise. “It's got to hurt.”

“Don't move away. Not yet.” He couldn't disguise the huskiness in his voice. “Please.”

She froze and stared intently at him. “You've always played superhero for me, haven't you? In grammar school, you stood up for me when the other kids teased me about having a rich dad. In middle school, you made me that beautiful jewelry case out of a cigar box.”

“It wasn't beautiful.”

She lifted her head and smiled. “But it was! You'd painted the outside a pale blue and glued pictures of daisies on it. You lined the inside with white silk. Remember?”

“I remember you throwing it at me.”

She lowered her eyes. “Because you chose that moment to tell me about my father...and I wasn't ready to hear it.”

Now it was his turn to look away. “I was hurt because you turned down my date request. I was a kid. You hurt me. I wanted to hurt you back. I'm sorry.”

She touched his cheek with her fingertips and smiled into his eyes. “Don't be sorry. You were always my superhero, and here you are again—protecting me. Thank you.”

Gently, she lowered her head closer to the middle of his chest and burrowed deeper into his arms.

It was foolish and unprofessional. She was his witness, an injured and frightened one. He knew she needed to feel safe. She needed to feel protected. She needed to know he was up to the job.

To do that job he needed to keep his head on straight and forget his heart.

But for this moment, he couldn't. The sounds of the crackling fire, the clean, fresh scent of soap in her hair, the firelight dancing across the softness of her skin touched him deeply in his core and he couldn't let her go. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He drew her closer.

A sound caught his attention. He stiffened and started to sit up.

“Dylan?” She raised her head, her blue eyes finishing her unspoken question.

“Shhh.” He placed a fingertip against his lips and listened harder.

Instantly, he released her and stood up. He tried to ignore the fear in her wide eyes when he grabbed the rifle. Again, he indicated silence and hurried to the front door. He put his ear against the wood, listened and then ran to the nearest window. Staying to the side, he lifted the edge of the curtain and glanced outside.

“Go into one of the bedrooms. Now.”

She sprang to her feet. “What's going on?”

“Hide in the back of one of the closets. Cover yourself with blankets and anything else you can find. Whatever you do, don't come out, no matter what, unless I call you. Understand?”

“Dylan, I...”

“Understand?” His tone brooked no room for discussion.

She grabbed her blanket and ran.

FIFTEEN

D
ylan peered out the edge of the window. The car continued to creep forward on the dirt road. No one should be out here. This wasn't fishing season. There weren't any hunting cabins in the area. This car was coming here.

Tension tightened his spine. His index finger twitched against the metal trigger. How had they found them? No one knew about this cabin. No one but Bear. Even if Bear had lived, there was no way he was the mole.

So how did someone find them?

The car pulled up out front and doused its headlights. Whoever it was, they weren't trying to hide their arrival. Probably because they knew if there were enough of them it wouldn't matter. He was their only barrier between them and the witness. They'd probably know he was wounded, too.

Maybe their lack of stealth was a scare tactic to put him on edge. Make him feel at a disadvantage. If it was, it worked.

He glanced over his shoulder. Angelina hadn't taken her purse into the bedroom. The thought bothered him. She didn't have the gun. She wouldn't be able to protect herself if anything happened to him.

He straightened his spine. He'd have to make sure nothing happened to him.

The car headlights went back on. The driver flashed them on and off, then honked the horn.

Dylan frowned, not sure what was going on. Whoever this was, they weren't acting like one of the bad guys. He didn't open the door. He didn't move from his post at the window. He watched and he waited.

The driver cut the engine. A second later the door opened and the dome light illuminated the person inside.

Selma.

He lowered his weapon but kept it at his side. How did she know to come here?

Bear. Maybe he was alive. Maybe he had given her directions to the cabin.

He studied the car. No one else emerged. There should be at least two marshals. The boss never would have sent just one...and if Bear had sent her, a good marshal would have brought another person. Something didn't feel right.

Slowly he opened the cabin door and pointed the rifle at Selma. “Stop where you are.”

She froze.

Slowly she raised her hands in the air. “What's the matter with you? I'm here to help. And I don't appreciate having a rifle pointed at my chest for my trouble.”

She didn't move or do anything suspicious. She simply waited.

“How did you find us?” His mind tossed a half dozen scenarios but he didn't like any of them.

“Dylan McKnight, I am not going to stand out here in the dark, in the cold, being interrogated by you. Now put down that rifle. I'll answer your questions inside.”

She lowered her hands and took a step forward.

Dylan cocked the rifle, lifted it to shoulder level, ignoring the excruciating pain in his chest, and aimed it right at her.

“I don't believe this.” She put her hands on her hips and stared him down. “I am coming in. If you want to shoot a federal marshal, then do it.” Without another word, she pushed past him and walked into the house.

He followed on her heels and almost tripped over her when she stopped abruptly.

“You, too?” Selma raised her hands again.

Dylan peered around her. Angelina stood by the sofa, aiming the gun he'd given her straight at Selma.

“Don't shoot, Angelina.” Immediately Dylan moved to her side and removed the pistol from her trembling hands. “I thought I told you to hide until I called you.”

“I thought you might need my help.” She blinked hard. “I didn't realize it was Selma.”

Selma lowered her hands. “What's wrong with the two of you? Have you lost your minds?”

Angelina looked sheepish. “Sorry I aimed the gun at you. I was afraid.” She was so glad to see the woman alive she wanted to hug her but restrained herself. “We thought you were dead.”

“I'm not.”

“Obviously,” Dylan replied. “But you still haven't answered my question. How did you find us?”

Selma shot him an annoyed look and glared at the rifle. “And you haven't put down your weapon.”

An uncomfortable standoff settled between them.

With a heavy sigh, Selma reached over and grabbed Angelina's purse off the sofa. She pulled at the lining, withdrew a button-sized device and held it palm up in her hand.

“Remember this? You put a GPS locating device in her purse in case she took off on you again.”

Dylan leaned down and rested his rifle against his chair.

“You bugged my purse?” A look of shock crossed Angelina's face.

“He wouldn't be much of a marshal if he hadn't after your last escapade,” Selma answered before Dylan could.

A myriad of emotions flashed across Angelina's face—disappointment, surprise, understanding, anger. Anger won but she turned her wrath on Selma instead of Dylan. “Why aren't you dead? I saw you lying in a heap in the front of the house.”

Selma threw her head back and laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you, princess. I fell and hit my head on the front step. It knocked me out for a few minutes. When I woke up, the cavalry had arrived. Fire trucks. Police cars. Ambulances. It was a regular first responder circus. And, lo and behold, the two of you were long gone.”

“Bear?” Dylan held his breath. He didn't want to know but couldn't not know.

“Last I checked, Bear made it out of surgery and is going to be fine.” She shrugged. “Looks like you lost a partner, anyway, though. He's going to have a prolonged recovery. That gut wound almost did him in. He'll be in rehab for a while and then he'll probably move his retirement date forward. I would if I was him. When you're that close to the gold watch, why take any more chances?”

Dylan collapsed into his chair and breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

Bear is alive. Thank you, God, for answering my prayers.

Selma, feet planted squarely apart and arms crossed, glared at Dylan. “You want to tell me why I received such a warm reception?”

“There's a mole in the agency.”

“Duh, you think?” Selma relaxed and sat down. “What was your first clue? The fact that our safe house didn't turn out to be so safe?”

He ignored the snarky tone in her voice. “Who knows you're here? Did you report in to the boss?” Before she could answer, he locked his gaze with hers. “Why did you come alone?”

“Let me see.” She put an index finger against her chin as if she needed to think hard about her answer. “Because there's a mole.” She stopped throwing sarcastic barbs his way. “Relax. I didn't tell the boss. I didn't tell anyone. And I didn't bring anyone because we are running low on people we can trust.”

Dylan relaxed. He had to admit he was happy to see his colleague. He'd need her help when they moved Angelina to the court house on Monday.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Angelina moved to the kitchen. “I made a fresh pot right before you arrived.”

It didn't take long for Angelina to pour everyone a mug. She even put crackers and dry tuna fish on a plate in front of Selma. “Are you hungry? I know it isn't much but we're a bit limited on dry goods. I can heat up a bowl of soup for you.”

Selma laughed and looked at Dylan. “What do you know? Our mafia princess knows her way around a kitchen. Imagine that.”

“I wish you would stop calling me that.” Angelina sat on the sofa beside her. “I'm not a mafia princess and I resent that tag.”

“I call them like I see them.” Selma challenged her. “Tell me you aren't. Didn't Daddy send you to expensive boarding schools? Didn't you live in an expensive home? Didn't you have everything laundered money could buy?” Selma sipped her coffee.

“Don't start,” Dylan commanded. “Angelina doesn't deserve to be treated like a criminal. She hasn't done anything wrong.”

Selma studied Dylan's expression for a moment, then turned to Angelina. “He's right. I have to keep reminding myself that you're on our side. I guess it was the disappearing stunt you pulled three years ago that has left a bad taste in my mouth.” She reached for a cracker and scooped tuna on it. “By the way, where were you when the fire started? When Bear came to get me, your bed was empty. When I saw you in the foyer you were fully dressed including jacket, shoes and purse. Were you going somewhere?”

Suddenly Dylan understood. Selma knew Angelina had been trying to sneak out. If it hadn't been for the fire, she might have achieved that goal, which would have finished Dylan's career and put a black mark on Selma's. No wonder she wasn't happy with their witness at the moment.

“I was trying to help.” Angelina worried her lower lip with her teeth. “I wasn't running away for myself. I didn't want any of you hurt on my behalf.”

Selma frowned. “Here's a novel idea. If you want to help, try doing what we ask. It would make our job a lot easier.”

Angelina nodded. “I will. I promise.”

“Good.” She took another bite of the tuna cracker. “Just don't expect me to believe you.” She changed the subject. She scrunched her face and stared at Dylan. “Nice gauze bandage you have on your forehead. Anything I need to worry about?”

He shook his head. “Only a graze.”

“I noticed you're favoring your left arm. Were you injured?”

“I took a bullet in the chest. Angelina cleaned it up for me. Dug out the bullet. I'll be fine.”

Selma let out a low whistle and smiled at Angelina. “Wow! There's no end to your talents.” She turned her attention to Dylan, concern evident in her expression. “How badly are you hurt? Can you travel? Can you drive? Will you be able to fire a weapon if it's necessary?”

“I didn't have any trouble drawing on you, did I?” He'd never admit to her how difficult raising that rifle had been or the amount of pain he was hiding from her even now.

“Point taken. Still, I'd feel better if it had been in your shoulder rather than your chest. Let me take a look.”

Dylan held up his palm. “I'm fine, Selma. Angelina did a good job stitching me up. I'll have no trouble doing my job.”

“Angelina stitched you up? Better be careful, princess, you keep being so helpful I might have to rethink my opinion of you.”

Angelina ignored her, gathered the empty mugs and carried them into the kitchen. “Do you have any news, Selma? Did they catch the people who started the fire?”

“Some of them,” Selma answered. “They caught the one who mattered. A trooper friend of mine assured me that Frankie Malone won't be a threat anymore.”

“What?” Dylan peered at her.

“Frankie was pulled over on the Garden State Parkway for speeding. The highway patrol didn't have any idea yet about the fire or his role in it. But Frankie was stupid and shot at the officer. A pursuit ensued. Frankie's car flew off the road. The man's dead.”

Angelina gasped.

“Are you sure?” Dylan asked.

“Short of going to the morgue and seeing him myself, I'm sure.”

Dylan glanced over at Angelina. The haggard look on her face and stooped shoulders concerned him. He couldn't be sure but it looked as if she was ready to cry.

Cry? Over Frankie Malone's death? No way.

“Angelina? Are you okay?”

“No, I'm not okay. I didn't want Frankie to die.”

* * *

Angelina saw the confusion on their faces and hurried to explain. “I'll never get my answers now. I'll never know for sure whether he was the one who shot Maria.”

“I'd say it's pretty certain that he did. It was his motorcycle that forced us off the Garden State,” Dylan said.

“He definitely torched the safe house. That makes him Bad Guy Number One in my book.” Selma crossed her legs and leaned back as if that was all she had to know to make him Maria's killer.

“But it doesn't make sense.” Angelina threw a dish towel on the counter and rejoined them in the living room. Sitting down next to Selma, she glanced back and forth between them. “If Frankie killed Maria for revenge because she broke up with him, what does that have to do with me? Why would he chase us on the interstate? Why torch the safe house?” She held up her palm to stop them before they could speak. “Don't tell me because he was working for my father.”

When she had their attention, she continued. “He might have been on my father's payroll as a drug dealer or numbers runner or whatever. But my father would never have trusted someone so low in the structure of his organization to carry out such an important assignment. And neither one of you believe it, either.” She leaned back and released a heavy sigh. “Now that Frankie is dead, we'll never get the answers we need.”

“I know exactly why Frankie did what he did.”

Selma's voice grated on Angelina's nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. She wished she could wipe the smug look off the woman's face.

“And, yes, Angelina, you were the target.”

Angelina hated this cat-and-mouse game. Selma didn't like her, never had, probably never would. That's okay. Marshals didn't have to like the people they were protecting, they just had to protect them. But Selma took pleasure in taunting her every chance she got and she wished she would stop.

“Spit it out, Selma.” Frustration and annoyance rang in Dylan's words. “What do you know and how do you know it?”

“Last night the cops picked up two of the men who helped Frankie torch our safe house. According to a trusted friend of mine,” Selma said, “one of the men sang like a canary hoping to make a deal for a lighter sentence with the district attorney.”

“And?” Dylan's eyes were riveted to the woman.

“Frankie's plan was to kill Angelina, then go to Baroni and brag that it was his actions that saved him from a death sentence. He believed the capo would show his gratitude by making him a ‘made man,' moving him from the bottom rung of the gang he worked in to one of the top rungs in the organization.”