All Jacked Up (3 page)

Like straight to hell, her tone said.

All Jack said was, “Maybe,” because he didn’t want to tell her who was after her. She’d held up so far, but the reality of what they were facing still gave him a cold chill.

“If you have to stall for time while you think about your answer, that means I can’t necessarily believe what you tell me. Of course, you did abduct me at gunpoint.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Fine. They work for Pablo Corona.”

“Pablo Corona,” she repeated.

“Yep.”

“The guy who controls the cocaine trade for half of South America?”

“That’s the guy.”

“The guy who supposedly wiped out a whole village in Colombia, men, women, and children, because a goat peed on the wheel of his Hummer?”

“Corona the Butcher,” Jack said with a terse nod. “He kills for amusement and reportedly eats the testicles of his male victims because he believes it will give him eternal life and the virility of a stallion. At last count he had a harem of at least twenty women but he has fathered no children, which means the best thing you can say about him is that at least he can’t procreate. He’s mean, evil, vindictive, and probably crazy, but he’s also a genius. No government, including ours, has found a way to stop him, and since there’s a ten-million-dollar bounty on his head, some of the nastiest mercenaries in the world have taken their best shot at bringing him down. They’ve all failed.

“If even half of what is said about him is true, you’d better pray one of his hit men gets to you first, because if he gets his hands on you . . .” Jack didn’t even try to finish that sentence. Even if there had been a way to convey the kind of blind, sphincter-clenching terror that possibility evoked, Aubrey didn’t seem to need an explanation.

She’d gone fish-belly white, which made him kind of sorry he’d dumped the truth on her that way. But he had to give her credit; she didn’t scream or yell, just took a couple of seconds to let it sink in before she picked up the interrogation again. “Who do you work for?”

“I’m a federal agent.”

“So you’re taking me into protective custody, right?”

Shit. He should have known she’d think of that. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean, ‘can’t’? Isn’t that what the FBI does with people like me when there’s someone like Corona after them?”

Jack sighed. She’d keep yammering at him until he told her the truth, so he might as well do it now and get it over with. “They think I’m a mole.”

She gave him a look that labeled him another kind of rodent—a nastier one.

“I’m being set up,” Jack said, clenching his teeth over the whiny note of defense in his voice. Frickin’ librarians, he thought, they did it to him every time.

“So let me get this straight. You’re a good guy, but the rest of the good guys think you’re a bad guy.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, thinking if he limited himself to short answers he might get back in control of this conversation.

“And the bad guys think you’re a good guy.”

“Right.”

“And everyone in D.C. who owns a gun is shooting at you.”

“That about sums it up.”

“So in order to protect me, you drag me out of the Library of Congress where, I might point out, I was perfectly safe—”

“Except for the guy who tried to kill you.”

“—and right into the middle of your own private war.”

Jack felt his face heat. When had it gone south, he wondered? One minute he was giving simple, noncommittal answers and the next she’d turned it all around so he came off looking like a jackass. “I know it looks bad, but you’re going to have to trust me.”

She held up her hand with its chrome bangle.

“Okay, so I haven’t exactly given you cause, but you have to admit you weren’t exactly cooperating.”

“Yeah,” she said, sighing heavily. Then she got that little line between her eyebrows. He was really starting to hate that line. “How do I know you’re not just keeping me alive as a bargaining chip?”

“Lady, as far as you’re concerned, I’m your only hope. Corona has no reason to keep you alive—you’re of more use to him dead. The cops can’t keep you safe as long as even one of them is on Corona’s payroll. The only way to get you out of this in one piece is to figure out what you know and go public with it. Then it won’t matter if you’re alive or dead.”

“And what do you get out of this?”

“I get my life back.”

“Yeah, well, you can have your life back right now, and I’ll have mine.”

He opened his mouth to ask her what the hell she was talking about, but what came out was, “Ouch,” because she’d whipped a needle out from behind her back and jammed it into his arm.

Aubrey cradled her cordless phone between her shoulder and ear, and started shoving clothes into her hot-pink leather backpack. “Jack Mitchell said the police are crooked.”

“And you believe him?”

“Well . . . yeah.”

“He pulled a gun on you.”

“But he didn’t use it.” And he’d really wanted to, Aubrey recalled. For some reason, that made her smile.

“He must be some kind of sweet talker to convince you to trust him after what he pulled.”

Sweet talker? Hardly. He’d laid out the story in a strictly
Friday the 13th
kind of way, straight shock value. “I guess you had to be there,” was all she said.

“Auuuu-brey.” Even from her end of the phone line, she could tell Tom was rolling his eyes. Tom was that kind of guy, which was part of the reason she’d broken up with him. Complete and utter boredom was the rest of it. Tom Cavendish, congressional aide, might be blazing his way to the top of the political ladder, but he barely caused a stir between the sheets—not counting his postcoital rendition of “Old MacDonald.”

When he invited a girl to look at his scrapbooks, he wasn’t speaking in metaphors, and along with newspaper clippings came a mind-numbing recitation of case law and the congressional record. It had been the most forgettable six months of Aubrey’s life, or as forgettable as it got for her.

Still, he was trustworthy, steady, and honest as the day was long. If there was anyone Aubrey could count on to steer her right in this situation, it was Tom.

“Aubrey? Are you listening?”

“Sorry, Tom, just thinking.”

“If you don’t trust the police, go to the FBI.”

“And tell them what? Some lunatic who claims to work for them abducted me at gunpoint because he thinks I know something about Pablo Corona?”

“Jeez, Aubrey, don’t even say that name out loud. Besides, how do you know they were shooting—”

“Did you see the news?” she asked, then clamped her jaw shut over the shrill edge in her voice. At the time, adrenaline had cushioned the panic and made it all seem kind of unreal, but seeing the aftermath on TV made her heart race until black spots danced in front of her eyes. “Thank God no one was hurt because of me.”

Tom snorted. “How do you know they were shooting at you and not Mitchell? How do you know he didn’t just duck into the library, thinking they wouldn’t shoot up a public building, and when they proved him wrong, he grabbed you as a hostage?”

Aubrey opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Tom was making all the same arguments she’d made to Jack Mitchell; she couldn’t refute them without taking Jack’s side, and she wasn’t quite prepared to take everything Jack said at face value. But she wasn’t going to blindly trust the authorities either, whether it was the local police or the Feds. Probably she’d read one too many thriller novels where the “good guy” turned out to be the bad guy—not to mention the trusted friend and confidant . . .

“Just go to the police and tell them you-know-who is trying to kill you. They’ll take it from there.”

So much for suspecting Tom, she thought, fighting back the urge to laugh. “I have no idea what I’m supposed to know about you-know-who,” she said, whispering it the way he had, “so how do I make anyone believe me?”

“People are shooting at you. That’s proof enough.”

“And when they ask me what I know, what do I say?”

Silence. Which was all she’d be able to give the police. Yeah they’d protect her for that. She wrenched at the zipper of her backpack. It refused to close.

“Look, Aubrey, I have another fund-raising trip for Congressman Waters scheduled. Pack a bag and come with me.” Under normal circumstances she’d have sooner rammed a needle into her eyeball than agree to anything that involved Tom Cavendish and a hotel room. Life had pulled a Dorothy on her, though. A tornado called Jack had sucked her over the rainbow, and spending the weekend locked in a hotel room while Tom conducted Congressman Waters’s business didn’t sound so bad. It sounded safe—at least for her.

“Let me talk to the congressman before we leave. Chances are he’ll have this whole mess cleared up by the time we get back.”

Not likely. Waters was an up-and-comer, but he was only a second-term guy. He had no power base, zero influence, and his network of contacts consisted of other junior legislators with even less clout. “Thanks, Tom, but I don’t want to put you in danger.”

“Don’t look at it that way,” he said with a trace of irritation in his voice. “I still want to take care of you, Aubrey. All you have to do is say the word.”

Sure, a woman who could cite case law from memory was Tom’s idea of a dream wife, but she didn’t think much of spending the rest of her life as a legal secretary with barnyard—uh, bedroom—privileges. “I have to do this my way, Tom. If I get into real trouble, you’ll be the first one I turn to.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Call me tomorrow, so I know you’re okay.”

“I’ll do that.” She hung up, grateful he hadn’t asked her what she thought “real trouble” was. If she’d been asked that question yesterday, her definition wouldn’t have come close to what had happened today, but it would have been a lot lengthier than the two words that came to mind now.

Jack Mitchell.

She’d given him enough morphine to put him out, but not for long. It had been ages since she’d leafed through the
Physicians’ Desk Reference
; the dosages hadn’t stuck with her. As tempting as killing him sounded, she really hadn’t wanted to risk it, so she’d made the shot on the light side, and he was a big guy.

Especially without his shirt.

Who would’ve guessed he was hiding all those muscles under that ratty T-shirt and worn-out bomber jacket? His shoulders were so brawny they went right up to his hairline. For a guy with no neck, he’d looked pretty good . . .

For a guy with no neck, he was pretty smart, Aubrey reminded herself. Pretty resourceful, too, considering he’d gotten through security in a government building with a gun in his pocket. Then there was the way he’d read her like a book, not to mention the whole my-girlfriend-is-hurt routine that had gotten them out of the Library of Congress with no questions. Yeah, definitely a quick thinker. Tossing his distributor cap in the bushes probably hadn’t slowed him down at all, but Aubrey bet it had really, really ticked him off.

She tore all the clothing except a T-shirt and change of underwear out of her backpack, exhaling in relief when the zipper finally closed. If Jack caught up with her, she wouldn’t need clean clothes anyway. If Jack caught up with her, she wouldn’t need anything at all. Except maybe a toe tag. And even if he restrained himself—which he was surprisingly good at, judging by her limited past experience—there was always Pablo Corona.

Jack Mitchell would definitely be mad, but Pablo Corona was a madman. A madman who wanted her dead, if she could believe a man with no neck who hated books and wouldn’t tell her who he worked for. She had believed Jack, too. He was very convincing. So were the people who’d shot at them.

But now that she had time to really think about it, there had to be some mistake. How could she possibly know anything about Pablo Corona that he’d want to kill her for? She didn’t do drugs. She didn’t know anybody who did drugs—okay, it was Washington, and she’d attended parties where chocolate wasn’t the only mood altering substance in the candy dishes. And there had been some pretty bigwigs—not to mention Republicans and Democrats—at some of those parties, who were not only inhaling but snorting as well. But that had nothing to do with Pablo Corona, and she intended to stay alive long enough to use the phrase “not to my recollection, Senator.”

She stuffed a wad of cash in her jeans pocket, shouldered her backpack, and eased her back door open a crack, thankful, for once, to the juvenile delinquents who thought those big glowing things hung at regular intervals along the street were targets placed there for their entertainment, and the thoughtful municipal workers who saved the city money by not replacing lights that would just get shot out again. Darkness would be good this time. Darkness would get her out of the neighborhood without being seen—

An arm shot through the doorway, followed by a big, solid male body. Jack Mitchell shoved her inside and pinned her to the wall. “Going somewhere?” he hissed into her face.

“Mmphr,” Aubrey said through the hand over her mouth and the lump in her throat.

He glared at her.

She tried to look innocent and cooperative.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said, shifting sideways.

Biting crossed her mind, but it didn’t have nearly the same potential as a good swift knee in the groin, the main drawback being that he would be chasing her instead of writhing on the floor in agony. Just the thought of him writhing on the floor in agony put her in a better frame of mind, though, enough that she lifted a hand and made an exaggerated cross over her heart.

He glared at her another moment, then eased slowly back.

“I don’t break my promises,” she said indignantly the minute he lifted his hand from her mouth.

“Yes, you do. You promised—”

“—to treat your wound, which is exactly what I did.”

“Then you drugged me and took off.”

“I never promised not to drug you and take off. I said I’d bandage your wound if you would answer some questions.”

“You knew I thought you promised not to run.”

“I can’t help what you thought. Both obligations were fulfilled—although I have to admit, I held up my end of the bargain better than you did. You have a nice, tidy bandage, and I made sure you weren’t in pain for several hours.”

He threw up his hands. “This is why I hate eggheads. You lay everything out nice and neat, and it sounds like everybody comes out even, when all the time there’s some underhanded loophole you can drag out later and stretch open to suit yourself.”

“I’m not an egghead.”

“Yes, you are.” He wrapped his hand around her wrist and hauled her through the kitchen, down the hallway to the front of the house. He flipped a switch that turned on a green-shaded desk lamp, perused the dimly lighted bookshelves that took up every inch of available wall space, then gave her a look that clearly said I-told-you-so.

She didn’t bother to ask how he knew she’d converted one of the twin parlors in her old Victorian house into a library. He probably listed peeping on his résumé under “Other Accomplishments.” “How does reading Jane Austen make me an egghead?”

“For all I know she’s one of those literary geeks, skinny as a rail, single, probably can’t boil water. No football-watching, beer-drinking, self-respecting breadwinner would get within half a mile of a woman like that unless he had to.”

She didn’t need his once-over to get his gist. “Jane Austen was a nineteenth-century woman who wrote fiction. In fact, most of these are fiction. That means the stories aren’t true,” she added slowly, in a tone dripping with just the kind of mental superiority he’d expect from her.

He grabbed a fistful of paperbacks from the nearest shelf. “
Love’s Blazing Glory
,” he read from the spine of the first book, then the second, “
Passion’s Fiery Ride
,” and the third, “
Two Brides and a Cowboy.
” His brows lifted as he smirked up at her. “Sounds more like pornography to me.”

“At last, something you understand.” She snatched the books from his hand and calmly put them back on the shelf, losing it when she looked over and found him giving her the once-over again, this time with a new, considering look in his eyes. “Fine, I’m an egghead,” she snapped at him. Better that than have him getting any ideas about the two of them. That was the last thing she wanted. “In fact, it gets even worse, I have a photographic memory.”

That wiped the smile off his face and left openmouthed shock in its place. “Then why do you need all these?”

She shrugged. The answers that came to mind were none of his business. Things like daydreaming about love and marriage, or even worse, borrowing emotions to fill the lonely evening hours after work. The only people she spent any real time with were her coworkers between eight a.m. and five p.m. and there hadn’t been a steady man in the year since she’d broken up with Tom. Sure, she was entertaining to have at parties, but who wanted to hook up with someone who remembered every word you said? Especially in a town like Washington, D.C. “Nothing a crazed Neanderthal like you would understand.”

“Even a crazed Neanderthal can figure out that it’s stupid to reread a book when you already know what it says.”

“This is going to wander into egghead territory, so pay attention. It’s really called an eidetic memory, but most football-watching, beer-drinking, self-respecting breadwinners wouldn’t know what that is, so everyone calls it photographic even though it’s a misleading term. I do remember everything I read, but if I don’t draw on the knowledge, eventually I forget.” After years. But he didn’t need to know that. “In other words—”

“Yeah. Got it. Use it or lose it. How many people know about this freakish talent of yours?”

“Everyone I know.”

“At least that explains one thing. You obviously read something that Pablo Corona doesn’t want anyone to know about him.”