Betrayed by a Kiss (3 page)

“When this is done? What the hell does that mean?”

He stopped what he was doing and took a moment to choose his words. “If they really want us dead, I’m wondering why we aren’t already. They could have lit this cabin up with gunfire the moment they triggered my alarms. Set it ablaze.” The alarms continued to buzz around them. “So, I’m thinking they’re not sure this is my cabin, maybe they’re not willing to smoke the wrong guy, or they want us alive. Whatever the reason, it gives me time to get out there and see what I can see.” He scanned her outfit as he stepped into his boots and tied them. “You can’t stay in here. I might be wrong. We need to hide you outside.”

“Where’s your back door?” She ran to the only other door in the cabin and discovered a broom closet. “We’re trapped.” He pointed to a window in the back. Marnie ran to it, opening it, and was immediately buffeted by gusts of sleet and rain. Dragging a box beneath it, she contemplated her chances of getting through without assistance. She was exhausted and beat up. The flash drive was pressing against her ankle, reminding her of what MacLain did not know, making her wonder how its existence might alter the events that were unfolding. Might have already altered it. Did the gunmen not destroy the cabin with them in it because they wanted the flash drive? She didn’t want to wait around to find out.

He stepped to her side, looking every inch the trained operative. A cop. She could have swooned with relief, to hell with the irony. Her whole life she’d avoided cops. They were the enemy. Now she couldn’t have been more pleased to have one on her side. Strong, courageous, smart. She was a convert.

“Ready?” he said.

“For what?”

“I need to touch you.” He held his hands up, watching her closely.

“I promise not to bite.” She deserved this treatment. She knew it. And though she couldn’t detect even a sliver of teasing in his expression, it was hard to believe it wasn’t there.

MacLain carefully lifted and guided her through the window; rolling thunder drowned out her squeal of fright as she precariously hung on the sill. Flashes of lightning illuminated the rear of the cabin. She saw no one skulking about, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. His palm shoved her ass, giving her the push she needed to get completely through. She would have been fine if her pant leg hadn’t caught on something, but it did, so Marnie landed ass over teakettle in a mud puddle below. She dropped the gun, fished it out of the mud just as MacLain landed next to her, crouched in a fighting stance.

“Wait here,” he said. “There are trip wires around the cabin’s perimeters. If you’re in the dark, you’re safe. If it lights up, run like hell, because they’re near.” He pointed to the right. “Preferably that way. If I’m not back in five minutes, leave. Just leave, okay?”

She shook her head. “We can’t know how many are out there. You said it yourself. Let’s just go.”

MacLain was sympathy personified, but he was making it clear he had a mission and it wasn’t babysitting her. “I’m sorry. I know you’re scared, but if they’re coming for us, I need to meet them now, when they can’t hurt anyone else.” Marnie knew he was talking about his sister and daughter and admired him for the sentiment. She also wanted to slap him upside the head for it. How safe would Elizabeth and Harper be if MacLain died tonight? He pulled her out of the mud and propped her next to a large tree, his strength intimidating and reassuring. “Stay down and hidden. I’ll be back. I promise.” Then he was gone.

She scanned the woods. Nothing. No floodlights, no gunfire, just silence. Maybe they weren’t killers. Maybe it was a coincidence they’d arrived so soon after she did. Maybe they weren’t wearing assault gear. She weighed the likelihood of getting it so wrong.

The first shot echoed in the clearing. She jumped, a high-pitched squeal escaping. More gunfire. Damn. Once they’d finished with MacLain, they’d come for her. They’d find the evidence in the cabin, her wet clothes, and then they’d track her into the woods. For now, the dark was her friend; no floodlights behind the cabin meant no gunmen tripping his wires. She should stay down, like he said, because Marnie wasn’t a commando, and she’d be a fool to act like one.

She gripped the muddy Glock between her hands, feeling pulled between what she should do and what she wanted to do. Every instinct told her run.

“Shit.” She couldn’t abandon him.

Marnie hugged the cabin’s edge, staying in its shadows, inching closer to the front where the field and all the action was at. She crept closer until she could see the woods ahead lit by floodlights. If she could somehow reach the long grass without being seen, she’d have a modicum of cover and maybe could give MacLain backup. The only problem was the gunmen were probably hidden in the long grass, too, or in the periphery of the woods. Where MacLain had disappeared to was anyone’s guess, but the man was getting backup, whether he thought he needed it or not.

On her belly, as flat on the ground as she could make herself, Marnie huddled at the front right corner of the cabin. Frigid mud seeped past the thin cotton of her sweats, making her even more miserable, which she hadn’t thought possible. She fought the feeling she wasn’t up to the task, because she knew most challenges were about mind-set. Marnie was a reformed grifter, pickpocket, and hacker. She wasn’t GI Jane by any measure, and though her deficiencies made her hesitate, they didn’t make her useless. She wanted to help MacLain, was adamant, actually. But how? Every plan she formulated looked a lot like getting herself killed.

Chapter Three

Marnie took in her surroundings. The storm was loud, and the floodlights were shining into the woods, hopefully blinding those looking through scopes aimed in the cabin’s direction. Dane was nowhere to be seen. When Marnie reached the long grass, a full twenty yards from the cabin, she was out of breath and her heart was racing from the exertion. The wound at her side burned like hellfire and was sapping her energy. Gunfire exploded, she froze, trying to calculate where the rounds were coming from. She guessed the woods beyond the field, directly across from the cabin, but didn’t have the courage to stand up and see for sure. So she lay there, afraid.
What’s your goal, Marnie?
Lying here sure as shit wasn’t doing anything.

Then she saw two laser-scope beams aim at a target fifty yards ahead. Damn. Was that MacLain’s baseball cap? She panicked, afraid he was a sitting duck. Shoring up her courage, she took aim at the origin of the lasers and pulled the trigger over and over again. The return fire was a surprise.

Suppressing a scream, Marnie rolled to the right, and didn’t stop until she hit a tree at the wood’s edge. Getting her feet beneath her, she ran deeper, tripped over a wire, and was horrified to see the area light up like the Fourth of July. She lost her balance and face-planted in the dirt as bullets pelted the surrounding trees, raining bark down on her as she lay still, pinned by incoming fire, at the mercy of whoever got to her first.

“Man, oh, man, oh, man, oh, man,” she said under her breath. Marnie rolled onto her back, holding the Glock to her chest. She wasn’t completely helpless. If a gunman approached, she’d shoot him. But how did that help MacLain? She wasn’t doing him any good cowering in the woods.

She wiggled herself to the side until she was up against a tree, then she peered around. She wished she knew where MacLain was, that he was safe. Had the laser-scope rifles done their job? Was he lying dead in the field, alone? She didn’t want to believe that.

A hand covered her mouth from behind, muffling Marnie’s resultant screams. She struggled to lift her gun, aim behind her, but was easily disarmed. It was MacLain. He lifted his hand off her mouth as she shuddered with relief. A heartbeat later he lifted her off her feet and ran deeper into the woods.

“Are you insane?” He sounded pissed.

She was crying. She hated that she was crying. “I wanted to help.”

“I told you to stay put.”

“Don’t yell at me.” He’d been whispering, but she could tell he really wanted to yell.

“Listen, I can only find six of them, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t more. I can’t do what I have to do if you keep volunteering for target practice.”

“I saved your life out there.”

“You saved my hat.” He arched a brow, and she noticed what he meant. He wasn’t wearing his baseball hat. “I was nowhere near it at the time.”

“Did I get any of them?” The idea of actually shooting a gunman made her queasy, but she was pragmatic enough to know it was a them-or-us situation.

“No. But there are only four left. Now”—he propped her up behind a tree—“do me a solid and stay put?” Then he was gone, blending in with the shadows in the woods.

Gun aimed toward the lights, Marnie now found herself perfectly happy to do as he requested. There was no way for her to tell which moving shadow was MacLain and which were the bad guys anyway.

A shot discharged close by. Too close. Forty yards ahead, at the tree line, a body wearing assault gear fell from a tree. Another shot discharged from the same place, and a shadow separated from a tree thirty yards from her, slumping to the ground. Another shot produced a grunt from someone nearby—she couldn’t tell exactly where, and not knowing if MacLain was on the wrong end of that bullet was driving her crazy.

Everything was happening so fast, it was making it harder to stay put, clutching a gun that should be helping to keep them alive. She aimed the gun, trying to see in the dark, but all she saw were shadows and trees.

Then she saw him. A dark figure in the distance stepped from behind a tree and aimed a rifle at her. She didn’t think twice but stood, braced the gun with both hands, and pulled the trigger. But nothing happened. The clip was empty. A shot rang out. She waited to feel the bullet’s impact. The rifleman fell back, arms splayed. MacLain separated himself from the shadows, took the gun from her hand, and dropped the clip and refilled it with a fresh one. Marnie took a gulping breath, suddenly aware she hadn’t been breathing for a while now. He chambered a bullet and handed it back to her.

“That’s six gunmen down, but it’s best not to stick around and be proved wrong.”

Marnie agreed, wanting to get the hell out. “Lead the way.”

He indicated the field. “First I’ll need to see if any of them are Alice’s killer. Empty their pockets. Look for ID.” He dropped to the ground, his intention clearly to low-crawl out of the woods and into the field, toward the first body. She crouched and grabbed his pant leg, hoping to reason with him.

“I’m the only one that knows what he looks like. I’ll do it. You see if there are others.” He studied her face, and she could see he didn’t think her capable. Now was not the time to explain she’d done worse. “Go.”

He nodded once. “Remember to stay down.” Then he was gone, disappearing deeper into the woods.

Sleet and rain were making their way through the tree cover, pelting her as she contemplated the open field ahead. Dead or dying men were out there, and she was supposed to pat them down for evidence. It took her a moment to work up the courage, but she did it. Feeling exposed, she lay as flat as she could and crawled toward the first body, praying the whole time the long grass was cover enough to keep her hidden.

It took forever, and her efforts rewarded her with an up close and personal view of a gunshot wound to the head. Shooter was wearing a Kevlar vest. Lot of good it did him. Dead. Dark hair. She searched his pockets, found nothing, and stripped him of his attached weapons and ammunition: a gnarly Gerber knife, four full magazines, and a ten-millimeter Glock she had to pry from his dead fingers. One dead guy down, five to go. She shuddered.

The woods remained ominously silent, making Marnie almost wish for gunshots if only to pinpoint where the bad guys were. Almost. Her greatest wish was there’d only been six. Six dead was a lot. It was nightmare quality. Six dead, the seventh alive and shooting, was worse.

She didn’t want to be here, crawling to the next body. It took her more time than she had energy for, taking care not to make noise or to rustle the brush around her. This gunman was blond, dead, wearing identical gear—black cargo pants, black turtleneck sweater, black Kevlar vest, comm unit at his neck, web suspenders with attached gear. He was the rifle holder, the one she’d almost emptied her gun into. Gratitude hit her, and she became weak with it. MacLain had saved her life again, and spared her from having to kill.

She turned the gunman’s head, hoping he was the guy who’d shot her in the office hours ago. Her hand touched goo. Marnie gagged as she realized the back of his skull was gone. He wasn’t Alice’s killer. Too young. She stripped him of his web gear and then checked his pockets. Empty, too.

A few moments later, MacLain hustled to her side, bright eyed and intense. He had three fully equipped web gears slung over his shoulder and still held his gun at the ready. “If there are more, I can’t find them.” He hunkered down beside her and the body. “No IDs on the three I searched. No blonds.”

“You should have captured one. To question.” Marnie sat up, shuddering as she wiped her hand against the ground, trying to get the blood off.

“I tried. He zigged. I zagged. He’s dead. Damned inconvenient.” He continued to scan the wood line. “What did you find?”

“One blond. Not our guy.”

“Same gear, comm units,” MacLain said. “They were outfitted, trained. Professional. This was a hit.”

“You think?” She forced herself not to roll her eyes. He didn’t know what she knew. “Account managers activated.” Her instinct had been right. “When I pulled up your file on Whitman’s private server, I saw that your flight to the Cayman Islands triggered something. I wasn’t sure but suspected this.” She indicated the field and the dead bodies. “They couldn’t risk you getting access to the Tuttle transfer records.”

“And your first instinct was to hike into the White Mountains?”

“Saving you is the least of my responsibilities.”

“A phone call would have been quicker.”

“You’re in the white pages? Now you tell me.” MacLain was a fan of burner phones. He knew there was no way for her to call him.

He acknowledged her sarcasm with a grunt. “So, where’s our guy?” He was looking at her like she was hiding Alice’s killer in her pocket.

The ground was cold and wet, and her nose was filled with the smell of death as she scanned the area. She hurried to the last body—a brunet—and checked his pockets. Nothing. “Not here. Where’s their driver? No car keys on any of them, and no helicopter pilot would drop them in this storm.” She wiped the icy rain off her face with her sleeve and shivered as moisture worked its way past her collar.

“They hiked. Came through the woods, the way you arrived here.” MacLain indicated the floodlights in the distance.

“So Alice’s killer never took the hike. He called for backup and left these men to clean house. That means he trusted them to get the job done.”
Motivated.
That word kept hammering her with its ominous implications. This problem wasn’t going away on its own. Standing in a field of dead men was proof of that. She instinctively stepped back, attempting to distance herself from this horrible reality, and tripped on a root. MacLain caught her. She clutched his jacket, quick to regain her footing, but MacLain didn’t release her. He tilted her chin up, studying her face in the moonlight.

“I’ve never seen eyes so dark,” he said.

He surprised her, making her blush. For months, she’d been stalking him for the company, studying his every move, his every expression. She knew he had a dimple on his right cheek but not his left. She knew he liked Heinz instead of Hunt’s ketchup. He had a library card but hadn’t used it since Alice’s death. If he had friends, he was avoiding them. He was alone and lonely. She’d watched him, and now he was watching her back. It was surreal, and exciting. This morning, she would have claimed to know everything there was to know about Dane MacLain. Now she was beginning to think she’d only scratched the surface.

As the silence stretched, her nervousness grew. She licked her lips, and MacLain’s eyes followed the movement. He swallowed, frowning. Not happy.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing.” Dane released her chin and stepped away, indicating the pile of gear and weapons at their feet. “Might as well bring them, too. Let’s go.”

Go?
“What about the bodies?”

He shook his head. “It’s a crime scene. We don’t touch anything.”

Right. He would see it that way. “You killed them.” She certainly didn’t have the skill to plant a bullet between their eyes. These were his kills.

“Self-defense.”

“And you can prove that?”

MacLain indicated she was being difficult with a throwaway glance. “You’re my witness. Forensics and my reputation will support the rest.”

“You’re assuming what we leave is what the cops will find. There’s no one here to secure the crime scene. Anyone could show up and make it look however they want it to look.”

He was crouched, surveilling the field, his tone low. “You want to stick around?”

“No, but the driver might. Or Alice’s killer could be in the woods, hanging back, awaiting orders. We need to get out in front of this. Control the situation,” she said. “You’re going to want a life after Whitman Enterprises is dead.”

“We’re not getting rid of the bodies.” He shook his head. “No.” And that was final. He was such a cop. “It’s against the law.” He helped her gather up the guns and gear and then, still crouched, ran tree to tree, navigating through the woods past the trip wires.

When he walked past the cabin, she groaned, knowing she didn’t have the energy to walk off the mountain but also knowing she didn’t have a choice. Afraid to lose sight of him, she hurried with little enthusiasm. The narrow maintenance road that quickly came within view was a surprise. So was MacLain tugging a camouflage tarp off a pickup truck.
Wheels.
She sighed with a relief that made her knees go weak. She could have kissed him. Would have, if she had the guts. Which she didn’t.

“Get in and sit down before you fall down. You’re exhausted.” MacLain climbed behind the wheel.

She didn’t have to be asked twice. MacLain was putting the truck into gear as she buckled up. The weapons and ammunition were at her feet.

“Why didn’t you say you had a truck?” It would have been good information to have. Comforting information. She found herself a bit peeved at her hero. Covered in mud, soaked through to the skin, freezing again, she was feeling sorry for herself. The bullet graze at her waist was a constant burning pain, and it was taking more and more of her willpower to ignore.

“Of course I had a truck.” He peeled out, careening down the private dirt road. “How do you think I got here?”

“This road is not on any map.” And that fact had probably saved their lives. Whitman’s goons hadn’t known, either. She clutched her seat as he hit every rut and depression at top speed. Her one consolation was no one was on the road with them. So far, they weren’t followed. So far. She’d thought she was dead back there. Not maybe. Definitely. MacLain, too. His head was bleeding from a gunshot crease near his temple. It wasn’t clotting. “Where’d you get that? Half inch more and you’d be dead,” she said.

He gingerly touched his temple. “You should see the other guy.” Blood trickled down his cheek to the side of his lips. He wiped it off with the back of his wrist, revealing a shaking hand. At first she thought his shaking was the result of so much violence, but the light from the dashboard illuminated his eyes. He was freebasing adrenaline with no outlet in sight. “You kept your shit together for the most part. Good for you,” he said.