The Day Before (13 page)

He patted the dog and stood.

“I'll have my phone in case you need anything, Miss Azalea.” Sam pulled her hood on. She turned to MacKenzie. “Are you parked around back?”

He nodded again.

She crossed herself and followed him into the storm. MacKenzie pulled the passenger-­side door open for her and slammed it shut once she'd climbed onto the high seat. The truck smelled comfortingly worn: the scent of leather and sweat and man. She settled back in the seat, dropping her wet jacket on the floorboards as MacKenzie pulled out onto the road. Wind buffeted the truck, but it didn't budge.

“You won't have trouble driving in this, will you?” Sam asked, trying to keep her nervousness from showing.

“I've driven in worse,” he said, as they accelerated. MacKenzie kept glancing at her.

“Is there a problem?”

He jerked his head side to side. “No.”

“Then keep your eyes on the road.” Sam drew her knees to her chest and shut her eyes so she wouldn't see the waves of water cresting on the highway. They turned onto the main thoroughfare, where concrete barriers blocked the worst of the wind, and she felt MacKenzie watching her again. “What
is
it?”

“Hmm, nothing. I just . . . it's nothing.” He refocused on the road. “It's about the Jane Doe case.”

“Can it wait?” Sam asked. The truck hydroplaned, and she screamed.

MacKenzie chuckled as he brought the truck back under control.

“We're about to die, and you're laughing?”

“This isn't bad. I've driven while it's mudding.”

“Mudding?”

“It's what you get when a sandstorm and a rainstorm collide. It muds.” He grinned. “This is so much better.”

“No it's not!” Her voice climbed an octave as the truck's traction light flashed on and off. “Please slow down.”

“Play it chill, Rose. It's just a storm.”

“I don't like storms.” She squeezed her eyes shut.

The truck slowed. “I'm sorry. I'll be more careful.”

“Thank you.”

Now if I could only get God to promise the same thing.

 

CHAPTER 14

­People cower behind facts. When life becomes a storm of emotion, they cling to their rationales and statistics like a mother holds the dying child.

~ Excerpt from
The Heart of Fear
by Liedjie Slaan I1–2071

Tuesday June 11, 2069

Alabama District 3

Commonwealth of North America

C
old rain dripped off Mac's nose as he loaded the last sandbag onto the truck. Thunder rumbled overhead, but at least the wind had dropped in the last hour. The shopping district was evacuated, the river was flooding downtown parking garages, and the local community college was under a foot of water. He shuffled back to the line and reached for a canvas bag that wasn't there.

“We're out.” Agent Rose trudged through the mud to the table where the bags had sat. “We used the last one already. And we're not going to get another truckload tonight.”

Mac looked over at the beat-­up Natura Amazon truck piled high with filled sandbags. “That's not going to hold the river back.”

“It's all we have until we get more supplies in.”

He rubbed tired eyes, not willing to fight the inevitable. “What time is it?”

“A little after four in the morning.”

Someone shouted at the edge of the hill. Rose moved first, but Mac followed right behind her. From the safety of the loading site, they watched the line of sandbags bulge, slip, and fall in slow motion. The rescue workers ran from the break. The line collapsed, and a floodlight fell with an echoing crash.

Behind him, Holt swore. Agent Rose kicked at the mud.

“It could be worse,” a volunteer said, as mud-­thickened water tore across the pothole-­studded streets toward vacant buildings. “This could be the good end of town.”

Agent Rose looked back over her shoulder at him, her face pale and wraithlike in the floodlights' glow. “Mac, isn't that your apartment?”

“Yeah.” Mac bit his lip as the water engulfed his apartment. He tried to conjure some sorrow for the loss, but all he could think of was how his unwashed socks were now polluting the public waterways. A twinge of guilt nudged him, and he ignored it.

The volunteer swore. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Mac said.

Mac froze as Agent Rose made eye contact. “Are you all right?”

“Why wouldn't I be?” He couldn't be sure in this light, with the hood of her rain slicker pulled up, but he thought she was glaring at him.

“Do you have some friends you can stay with?”

“Friends?” He almost laughed.

“Someone who will understand if this”—­she gestured at the mud and rain—­“adds to your stress.”

What a tactful way to ask if he was about to have a major breakdown. “I was in a desert, not trench warfare. Rain doesn't do anything but get me wet.”

“Right.” She started to move away, and he reached for her arm before he knew what he was doing. Agent Rose stiffened under his touch, and Mac snapped his hand back.

“Um . . .” The words deserted him. It was a simple question, on the tip of his tongue, he just needed to ask . . .

“Rose!” Marrins's voice pulled her away.

Mac followed. Maybe it was the fatigue, or subliminal suggestion, or maybe just her. Every time Agent Rose moved, it seemed like he forgot how to breathe. He couldn't remember the last time a woman's opinion had mattered. No one else's censure made a noticeable difference, but one frown from her, and he was trying to fix his life.

She's a plant. She's already killed once,
Mac reminded himself. Pursuing her would get him buried right next to the real Samantha Rose.

Marrins nodded as Mac caught up with the other agents. “We need to account for everyone in the shelters tomorrow. When the current slows down, we'll start a house-­by-­house search for survivors and corpses. MacKenzie, did I hear right, that was your place?”

“Yes, sir.”

Marrins hmmphed from the depths of his raincoat. “Most of the shelters are full, but you should be able to find someplace to bunk.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Everyone reports in by ten. I want us out and working at full light.”

“Yes, sir,” Mac heard Agent Rose's echoing answer.

She turned back to him. “You good to drive?”

“Sure. I can drop you off and go sleep in my office.”

“You'll do no such thing,” Agent Rose said as she walked to the waiting line of vehicles. “You can crash at my place with Miss Azalea.” She blinked and shook her head. “I meant like her, not with her. There's a room downstairs by the kitchen that's free.”

“That wouldn't look right.”

“We already had this argument,” Rose reminded him. “At your place, when the storm started? I lost that time. I'm not losing this round. Besides, Miss Azalea is there.”

“Very reassuring.”

“I'll go in first and hide guns.”

“Thank you.”

Sam's lips twitched into a grin. “Aren't you glad we aren't her real kids? Imagine what she was like when her girls started dating?”

“Bet you ten bucks someone's horny prom date got buried in the backyard.”

He almost smiled . . . but then remembered that Sam was a murderer.

M
ac sighed as the truck pulled to a stop behind Agent Rose's house. A gust of wind howled past them, making it impossible to open the door for a minute. Agent Rose started to fall out of the car as her door snapped open, catching herself at the last moment. “We never had weather like this in Toronto.”

“Home?” Mac didn't bother locking the truck. He'd bought the black Adveni Trust back in 2063, when the company was still a going concern and the Trust was
the
truck on the roads. Six years of permanent neglect had left their mark. Red mud dripped from the sides like thick blood. He patted the hood.

“Are you coming?” Agent Rose demanded from the safety of her back porch.

A crude comment tickled the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back.

“MacKenzie!”

“Coming.” The waterlogged grass squelched under his feet as he followed Agent Rose inside. “Clone,” he muttered to himself. “Terrorist plant. Dangerous.”

Hoss lifted his massive head as Mac stepped inside. By the time Mac had his muddy boots off, the dog was snoring. Apparently, Mac wasn't a threat worth waking up for.

“There's a grandmother suite through the mudroom,” Agent Rose said. She left her dirty shoes on the back porch and dropped soaked socks in the washing machine. On the far side of the mudroom was a little green door with a lock. Rose pushed it open to reveal a small room complete with brass bed, a plastic-­wrapped mattress that looked older than he was, and a beautiful wooden armoire.

“No closet. I tried to get the armoire out, but I think it was built in the room. I can't get it through the door, so you can use it.” She sounded a little annoyed that she couldn't drag the thing upstairs to her picture-­perfect room.

Mac smirked, imagining the tiny agent trying to move the armoire up the stairs. The thing probably outweighed her by a good thirty kilos.

“I'll bring down some sheets. There are some clothes Miss Azalea left in the mudroom. Some of them are men's clothes. I don't know if any of them will fit.” She looked at him. “Well? Come in here. I can't get out with you blocking the doorway.”

He considered mentioning he liked to sleep naked. If he went that route, he'd probably offer to let her sleep naked with him, then he'd screw her brains out, and . . .

Agent Rose moved around him and started lifting her shirt.

Mac froze, then pivoted away. “Did I say that out loud?” Where the hell did that come from? He hadn't thought about sex since he'd gotten back from Afghanistan.

“Say what out loud?” Rose demanded.

He peeked over his shoulder to see Rose dropping her outer shirt in the wash. A second, tighter shirt was still covering her body. “Nothing. Sorry. The fatigue is talking.” Or the hormones. He needed to check his pill bottle. The antidepressants usually killed libido faster than a nun as a chaperone, but right now, he was feeling perfectly happy. And perfectly willing. Danger had never been such a turn-­on.

Mac rubbed a hand over his face and realized Agent Rose was standing in the door, waiting for an answer to something. “Sorry. What?”

“I said you can shower first. There's a little bathroom through there.” She pointed at an even smaller white door that looked like it led to a broom closet.

“Um. Sure, thanks.”

“There's no bathtub, so don't thank me yet. I'll bring down the soap with the sheets.” Agent Rose hesitated on the far side of the mudroom. “Can I leave the house unlocked tonight?”

“Why couldn't you?”

“You aren't going to do anything, are you?” Her eyes narrowed. “Stuff me in the freezer after slitting my throat? Attack my landlady?”

“That hadn't crossed my mind as an option,” Mac said honestly. “Living is a top priority for me at the moment. I'll stay downstairs, making no noise and pretending I don't exist.”

“That was a movie quote.”

“I like the classics.”

She was watching him with those perfect, soul-­melting brown eyes. “Do you want anything?”

His libido wondered if she might need a one-­night stand, but he kicked his hindbrain out of the discussion. “I'm good.”

“I'll set the alarm for eight. It's hardly worth going to sleep, but a hot shower and a nap would be nice.”

“Eight.” Mac agreed. “Sounds good.”

“Great.” She left.

Mac dug through a pile of neatly folded clothes. There were two pairs of jeans and a ­couple of tees that looked like they would fit. He stripped off his shirt and pulled on a green tee as Agent Rose walked in. She frowned at him.

“What?”

“That's not a bad color on you.”

“Thanks?”

She set a pile of white linens and a bar of soap on the drying rack. “Here. I'm turning on the upstairs shower in fifteen minutes.”

Mac watched her walk away, reminding himself that her statement was not an invitation.

E
ight came too early.

It always came too early, but usually Sam had a six-­hour buffer of sleep to keep her from wanting to take someone by the throat and shove them through a meat grinder. Without that buffer, Marrins's caffeinated humor left her fists balled. She kept her mouth shut and kept away from the main rescue group. Hurricane Jessica hung around, lazily churning overhead, whipping the area with rain bands as the humidity level soared to something like 110 percent.

The heavy jeans Sam wore dragged in the foot of standing water left by the swollen river. She tipped forward carefully and reached underwater with her gloved hand, trying to guess what she'd hit. If she was lucky, it was another tire. If she was unlucky, it was another drowned street cat. Some of the cleanup crew made a game of it, awarding points and laughing at the most interesting finds.

Sam rubbed her cheek against her shoulder. Wishing everything was over wouldn't help. Pulling dead things out of the water, so they didn't fester and spread disease, would. She pulled the lump out, a ripped sandbag filled with trash from the gutters. She stuffed it in her bag and moved on.

“Agent Rose.”

Saints and angels!
Was there no escaping that man? Sam took a deep breath before twisting to look at MacKenzie. “Yes?”

“Are you ready to go back?” MacKenzie asked.

For someone running on three hours of sleep, he looked just fine to her. Better than the day she met him. Although not having the drugs in his system probably helped. “Go back?”

“The shifts are trading out. Marrins said he hadn't seen you come in yet, and I . . .” He'd been wading closer, but something stopped him an arm's length away. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“No.” Sam shook her head. It hurt, but just from dehydration and the sweltering heat.

“Your eyes are all red.”

She tried putting on a stern face. “Agent MacKenzie, I'm wading in a river of filth. The fumes are enough to make your eyes water. Yes, my eyes are red.”

“Oh.” He didn't look like he was buying what she was selling.

“It's the heat, and the smell, and the dead cats.”

He grimaced. “Sorry. Marrins would give you a different detail if you asked. You could . . . could do something else.”

“I could sort refugee and insurance claims, count heads, or wade in the river. The first person who complained about spending eight hours on a cold gym floor would lose their head. I'm not civil with less than six hours of sleep.”

“Oh.”

“Exactly.”

“You should still break for lunch. Being in the water too long isn't healthy.”

Sam rolled her eyes. “Thanks for that news flash.” She shuffled to turn around and tried to follow a slightly different path back to dry ground. “Do we have a head count yet?”

“Not an official one, but no one is officially missing either.”

“Any bodies in the apartments?” She hadn't worked up the courage to go with that group. Some of firefighters and EMTs had volunteered, saving her the heartache.

“No. Most of the tenants were in hotels the next town over because of the remodel this week.”

“Lucky timing.”

Mac made a noncommittal sound.

“What'd I miss?”

“There was a strong gasoline smell. Like ah . . . accelerants?”

“Arson?”

Mac nodded, and Sam laughed. “The owner would burn the apartments down?”

He shrugged. “That's one theory.”

“Unreal!”

“Jessica hit it first, though.”

“Saves him the price of matches and a trip to jail. Isn't that sweet of her.”

Mac grimaced. “South of here, things aren't so good.”