The Innocent Witness (2 page)

“All right, already,” she snapped and climbed out of the cruiser. “Can I get a change of clothes?”

“No ma'am. No time. We've orders to bring you in ASAP,” Jones said.

Feeling self-conscious, she buttoned up her coat and then worked to transfer Mikey from the police vehicle to the SUV. He didn't like strangers touching him either, so Viv had to coax and cajole him along while the two agents urged them to move faster. Their sense of urgency fueled her fears. Surely the agents didn't really believe she and Mikey were in danger now?

Once they were safe and secure inside the SUV, Viv settled back against the black leather seat as an adrenaline crash zapped her energy. The darkened interior calmed Mikey as well. He snuggled against her body, his fingers raking through her long loose hair. She struggled to keep her eyes open as the agents drove them out of her neighborhood.

Lulled by the silence and the smooth motion of the ride, her head nodded. She jerked awake. She needed to stay alert. She scanned the passing scenery. This wasn't downtown. They were headed toward an industrial part of D.C. that was mostly deserted at night. Dread coiled low in her belly and the small hairs on the nape of her neck rose.

“Excuse me, where are we going?” She was sure the FBI had some covert facilities she didn't know about, but this seemed strange.

Neither man answered.

Unease gripped Viv. Her heart raced. “This isn't anywhere near the field office on Fourth Street.”

The driver, Agent Jones, replied, “Relax, Mrs. Grant. This will be over soon.”

Over soon? That sounded ominous. What was going on?

Anxiety revved along her veins. Were these men
Steven's killers and not really FBI agents? Were she and Mikey next? A fresh rush of adrenaline pounded through her heart, making her blood race. She had to do something to protect her son and herself.

Lord, what do I do?

Her bag lay at her feet. She inched down on the seat until her fingers snagged the strap and pulled the bag onto her lap. She cautiously rummaged around inside, careful not to make any noise, until she found the two items she sought. Her small Taser and an ounce-sized bottle of perfume. Steven had thought her foolish for insisting on getting her firearm permit and carrying the miniature protection device. He'd mocked the self-defense classes, as well.

But foolish or not, she'd known being the wife of a politician put her and Mikey at risk.

And her caution was about to pay off.

She readied herself, needing to wait until the vehicle stopped before attempting to disarm her abductors. The last thing they needed was an accident. With her left hand she gripped the seat belt and coughed to cover the noise as she undid the buckle. Agent Thompson, seated on the passenger side, briefly glanced back.

“Tell me what is going on.” Viv leaned forward to keep the agent from seeing that her seatbelt wasn't buckled.

“Only following orders, ma'am,” the agent said before turning back around.

“Whose orders?”

He ignored her question. Though she hadn't expected a reply, frustration pounded at her temple. She had a bad feeling that their orders weren't in line with hers and
Mikey's well-being. If her suspicions were true, these men could very well be Steven's killers and she and Mikey were the next victims.

Panic threatened to consume her. She tamped it down. Mikey needed her. She had to keep a cool head and be ready to act the second she had a chance. She forced the rising fear to the back recesses of her mind.

The SUV left the paved road and rattled down a dirt drive until it rolled to a stop in the gravel lot of a big warehouse. There were no other cars. No people. Her fist clenched the belt as she eased the strap back into its holder.

As soon as the engine died, Agent Jones removed the keys from the ignition and dropped them into the pocket of his suit coat. He opened his door.

Agent Thompson opened the passenger door. Viv tucked the Taser against her leg and readied herself. Both men climbed out of the vehicle.

Viv reached across Mikey to lock the back door on his side just as Jones reached for the handle, the sound of his trying the locked door handle echoed inside her head.

“Mikey, hold your breath, like swimming!” she instructed.

Thompson opened the back door on her side and reached inside for her. “Get out, Mrs. Grant.”

“Not on your life.” She brought the perfume bottle up just like she'd been taught and gave a short blast, while at the same time planting her foot into the agent's chest and shoving with all her might.

With a scream of surprise, Agent Thompson tumbled back and landed on the ground, wiping at his eyes.
Counting on the perfume to keep his eyes watering and him disoriented, Viv pulled the door closed and hit the lock. The air filled with the scent of her expensive perfume. She coughed. One glance at Mikey, his cheeks puffed up with air, assured her he was doing as she asked. She dropped the bottle and palmed her Taser.

“Hey!” Agent Jones reached for his holstered gun and moved to open the driver's side door.

Without hesitation, Viv scrambled between the captain's seats, locking the passenger door before quickly sliding into the driver's seat. Jones made a grab for her. She touched the low wattage mini Taser to his arm.

With a loud oath, he let go of her and stumbled back. His gun fell to the ground.

Viv's instincts told her to grab the door and lock it shut, but what good would that do? They'd be sitting ducks inside the vehicle. Even if the SUV was equipped with bullet-resistant windows or side armor, she and Mikey were as good as done for unless they got away. She needed the SUV's keys.

Praying she'd remember her kicks and punches from her women's self-defense classes, she jumped out and ran to Jones, who sat on the ground looking stunned. The Taser had done its job—momentarily immobilizing her attacker. Supposedly long enough to run away. But she rushed closer.

He lashed out, his forearm connecting hard against her hip sending her careening sideways. But years of teetering on high heels had taught her to recover her balance quickly. She bent her knees and found her center. Using her elbow, she landed a jab across the agent's jaw. Taking advantage of the moment, she grabbed the keys
from his jacket pocket and then practically dove back into the driver's seat of the SUV.

She yanked the door shut, locked it and fumbled with the keys. Jones got his feet underneath him. Frantic, she managed to get the right key in the ignition and start the engine just as he reached the door. He banged on the glass with the butt of the gun, trying to break the glass. Viv flinched. On the other side of the SUV, Thompson had risen, but was stumbling around, still clutching his face.

Throwing the vehicle into reverse, she floored the gas. The SUV shot backward, away from the two agents. She twisted the wheel, sending the big boat of an automobile into a sliding spin. When the nose of the SUV was pointed away from the agents and toward the road, she threw the gearshift into drive and roared away, leaving the two agents in the dust.

In the backseat Mikey grew agitated. He hit his ears and rocked back and forth. She powered down the window to let fresh air in and clenched her jaw tight, hating that she couldn't comfort her son. She had to concentrate on getting them as far away as possible as quickly as possible. Though unfamiliar with the streets in this part of town, it didn't take her long to find her way to a major thoroughfare.

Thirty minutes later, she pulled off the road and parked in the dark lot a of strip mall. She needed help. She knew what she had to do. Making this call grated on her pride and twisted her insides into knots. But for Mikey's sake she would do anything.

Her father was the only one who could help. With trembling hands, she dug her cell phone out, dialed his
cell phone and waited anxiously. When her father answered, the relief she felt at the sound of his voice surprised her.

Tears filled her eyes. “Dad, I'm in trouble.”

 

Anthony Carlucci stared at the brick brownstone nestled halfway down the block on one of Boston's prestigious Back Bay neighborhood streets. Not what he'd expected. He'd imagined the famous Trent Associates to be housed in some state-of-the-art glass skyscraper in a more metropolitan area downtown, not this unassuming brownstone with quaint shutters, window baskets teeming with colorful flowers and stone steps leading to a wide door painted red.

But lately life hadn't turned out the way he'd expected. Why should this be any different?

Just to be sure he was at the right place, he checked the address on the business card his sister Angie had thrust into his hand two days ago when she'd visited the construction site where he worked as night security. Having been in the protection business for years, Anthony had heard of James Trent and his league of personal protection specialists. He'd just never imagined himself becoming one.

“Take one assignment. See how it goes,” his sister had said, her big brown eyes imploring him to do as she wanted.

“I don't want to be responsible for other people's lives again,” he'd countered, hating the reason his life had been derailed. Guilt and pain ate at him night and day, never letting him forget his failure.

“When are you going to stop wallowing in this
ridiculous self-pity?” Angie had demanded, using her best cop voice.

As a Boston homicide detective, she had the art of intimidation down pat. Of course she'd had to learn to stand strong against her two older brothers growing up. And just like their father, a Boston police officer, and both him and their other brother Joe, an ATF agent, she'd gone into law enforcement.

“You don't get to judge me,” he'd snapped. Being called on the carpet by his baby sister for his state of mind hadn't sat well.

She'd sighed. “I'm not judging you. I'm worried about you. Just talk to Trent. See what he has to offer. It's got to be better than this.” She'd made a sweeping gesture. “
You're
better than this.”

He wasn't so sure. The bitter taste he'd had in the back of his throat for weeks intensified.

“You have a law degree. At least do something with that.”

“I'm only licensed in D.C.” Practicing law had never been his goal.

She'd cut the air with her hand. “Excuses!”

They'd stared at each other for a long moment. Love for his sister filled him. He reached out to give her a hug. He appreciated her concern even if he didn't deserve it.

“Please, pray about it,” she'd urged.

He hadn't the heart to confess to his little sis that he and God weren't on speaking terms lately.

But last night he'd finally capitulated and called Trent because self-pity was a cold and nasty companion. And frankly, the job at the construction site didn't pay all
that well. Anthony had resorted to living off his credit cards. Not exactly a noble or prudent way to survive.

So here he was on a bright Monday morning, at the threshold of a possible new future. One he hadn't yet decided he really wanted.

The “clickity-clack” of high heels against pavement halted him on the first stair. A man and woman approached and turned down the walkway, clearly headed to Trent Associates. Though Anthony guessed they were both in their late twenties or early thirties, the two couldn't have been more opposite if they'd tried.

The exotically pretty woman dressed in a knee-length black skirt, black formfitting blouse and black pumps was a sharp contrast to the tousled blond man in loafers, khakis and a bright blue polo shirt.

“Can we help you?” the woman asked.

From the way her gaze sized him up, Anthony guessed she was some kind of police officer. Or had been, since Anthony's research showed most of Trent Associates were ex-something-or-other, just like him.

“I have a meeting with James Trent,” Anthony replied. He stuck out his hand. “Anthony Carlucci.”

“Well, come on in,” the man said, grasping Anthony's hand while clapping him on the back. “Wouldn't do to keep the boss man waiting. I'm Kyle Martin and this firecracker is Simone Walker.”

Simone shot a hard glare at Kyle, who only grinned before bounding up the stone steps and pushing through the front door of Trent Associates.

Simone shook Anthony's hand. “You'll have to excuse Kyle. He's like a big puppy in need of obedience training.”

“I heard that!” Kyle's voice floated out of the open front door.

Simone rolled her dark eyes and preceded Anthony inside. A reception desk sat straight ahead at the bottom of a curved staircase. An olive-skinned woman, with black hair twisted into a knot at her nape and dressed in a red business suit, manned the station. She gave them a wide, welcoming smile. “Morning, Simone.”

“Morning, Lisa.” Simone replied. “We have a guest. Anthony Carlucci.”

“So I see. Good morning, Mr. Carlucci.”

“Good morning.” Anthony returned the smile but found his gaze drifting, taking in the house-turned-office-space. The entryway's dark wood paneling, gleaming hardwood floors and intricate crown molding all spoke of age and wealth. Large antique-looking landscapes adorned the walls. To the right of the front door a set of double sliding doors, popular in the early nineteen hundreds, stood wide open revealing a parlor room decorated in rich warm shades of rust and red. Two sofas and several leather chairs created an intimate grouping.

“That's where we interview potential clients,” Simone said.

What made her think he wasn't a client?

Kyle appeared in the doorway at the end of the hall. “Anyone hungry? I'm making omelets.”

“I've eaten, thank you,” Simone said and then looked inquiringly at Anthony, as if offering him breakfast was a normal thing.

Bemused by both the offer and the easy way they treated him like one of their own, he said, “Same.”

Kyle shrugged and disappeared back into the kitchen.