Breaking Away (10 page)

Las Vegas

A
s she stared at her distorted reflection in one of the chrome bars of the hospital bed railing, the openmouthed shock on the security guard’s face played through Sam’s mind.

Tammi Mai had eased up close with the camera and taken photos of Sam’s face from different angles. Then she systematically worked her way down Sam’s body, homing in on every mark, even some of the old injuries already fading to green.

Sam tightened her arms over her breasts, bent her head and hugged herself as tightly as possible. She was shaking from nerves more than cold.

“You don’t have to speak to your mother-in-law. In fact, she could be charged with tampering with a witness if she did speak to you,” Tammi said.

Fat chance anything said would dissuade Paige Cross. “She’s here to plead for her baby boy. When you leave, why don’t you tell her about the tampering problem? Maybe it will keep her out of my room.”

Tammi nodded. “I’ll tell the security team you don’t want to see her.” She bent and drew the hospital gown up over Sam’s body and tied the string at the back of her neck.

Sam’s throat tightened at the woman’s kindness. “Thank you.”

“I’m going to give you a list of people you can go to for free legal advice if you need it,” Tammi said. “I’m not supposed to do that, so don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t,” Sam’s voice came out a husky whisper. “I can keep a secret.”

Tammi’s lips compressed and she reached into her bag and wrote out several names, then tore off the sheet. “I’m putting it in the top drawer of the nightstand. The first guy on the list is the one I’d call if I had trouble. He’s a badass—Well, let’s just say he doesn’t take any shit.”

Sam nodded and gave the woman’s arm a squeeze. Exhaustion swamped her and she hitched a hip onto the edge of the mattress. She pressed a hand to her side as Tammi rushed to help her lift her legs up on the bed and lie down.

The pain in her ribs stole her breath and she grimaced. The pain everywhere else made her nauseous.

“Do you need anything before I go?” Tammi asked.

Sam shook her head. “I just need to rest a little while.” Her limbs dragged, heavy and weak, when she turned on her side. Every inch of her ached. And a hollow emptiness invaded her chest. Talking about how Will had treated her, what she had endured for the past four years, had reduced some of the pain and shame…for the time being.

The expression on the security guard’s face flashed through her mind again. She hadn’t had time to be embarrassed by her nudity, but the pity and shock she’d read in his face… And how had Page felt to see her son’s brutal handiwork?

Tammi packed her kit and gathered the camera. “You will get through this, Samantha.”

“If he gets out and kills me, will you tell them everything I’ve told you?”

“He isn’t going to get out this time.”

“Yes, he will.”

Tammi’s gaze settled on her face. “We’ll do everything in our power to keep that from happening.”

“I just want my daughter to be safe. I’ve told my grandmother to stay away from the hospital. If Will’s parents find out where they’re staying, they’ll try to take Joy and use her as leverage to keep me from testifying against Will.”

“Call the top number on the sheet of paper I gave you.”

“I will. I just need to rest a little while.” Exhaustion dragged her eyelids closed.

She woke an hour later when the nurse came in to give her pain medication and take her blood pressure.

“There’s a man sitting in the hallway waiting to speak to you. He says he’s a lawyer. He asked me to give you his card,” the woman said and offered her the card.

Sam studied the business card, but the name meant nothing to her. She swallowed her medication and handed the pill cup and water back to the nurse. She combed her fingers through her sleep-tangled hair. Gran had said she was going to call someone. What had the name been?

The name on the card was Carl Ward.

“Do you want to see the lawyer sitting out there?” the nurse asked.

Every anxious bone in Sam’s body vibrated. “My grandmother said she’d be sending someone to speak to me. This might be him.”

The nurse left, and almost immediately a knock followed, and the door was pushed open.

“Mrs. Cross, my name is Carl Ward.” The man had a slight build, thinning light brown hair, and dirt brown eyes. But the suit he wore looked like it was tailored to his frame. Though Will didn’t dress that expensively, his father did. This was not the lawyer Gran would have contacted. “I’ve been asked to speak to you on the Cross family’s behalf.”

Sam’s heart rushed into a panicked beat and she shook her head. “I thought you were someone else. I’m not interested in talking to you. Please leave.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Cross know their son has abused you, ma’am. They want to assure you they will make sure he seeks counseling for his anger management issues.”

“Please leave.” Sam reached for the call button. The man covered it with his hand to stop her. Sam’s heart stuttered, then raced, fear trickling along her nerve endings like ice water. She shrank from him and attempted to swing her legs off the bed. She nearly cried out from pain as the movement tore at her ribs.

“It would be worth your while to listen to what I have to say,” Ward said, his eyes cold flat. “They are willing to concede a great deal, Mrs. Cross.”

Sam studied his face for a moment. “Look at me, Mr. Ward.
Look
at me.”

He focused on her face. His features took on the blankness of control, then he looked away.

“Are they willing for their son to go to jail?”

“I can’t say they are.”

“Will Cross is a murderer. He killed my baby. He has terrorized my daughter, and me, with his mother and father’s blessing, for the last three years. Unless you’re going to say that the Crosses will go away, and that neither my daughter or I will ever,
ever
have to see Chaney, Page or Will Cross’s faces, or hear their voices, ever again for as long as we both live, I’m not interested in hearing what you have to say.”

“No, I can’t say that’s what they had in mind.”

“Then we have nothing to discuss, Mr. Ward.”

She slid off the mattress and grabbed the edge of the bedside table to maintain her balance. The pain medication made her woozy and weak, the forced movement tipped her stomach into nausea.

“You could be a rich woman, Mrs. Cross.”

Samantha grabbed the tail of her hospital gown and folded it around her to cover her bare behind. “I’d never live to spend it.” To walk to the door unaided took every bit of her concentration. She’d never be able to open the door on her own. She knocked on the door and the security guard opened it.

She eased around to lean back against the wall and braced herself. “Would you like to repeat everything you’ve said in front of this man, Mr. Ward?”

Ward’s gaze went from the guard, to her, and back again. He gathered his briefcase. “You’re making a mistake,” he said, his features tight. “Think of your daughter.”

Was that a threat? Would Chaney and Page try to take Joy? Of course they would. Her legs shook and she leaned more heavily against the wall.

Never!

“I am thinking of her. What do you think it’s done to her to see how her father has treated me, Mr. Ward? What do you think it’s done to her to live in fear of him?”

Ward’s thin lips compressed. He stalked past her.

“Are you all right, Ma’am?” the security guard asked.

No, she wasn’t. She was shaking and her teeth had the urge to chatter. But she would be okay. One day. She nodded, and after drawing a shallow, cleansing breath, wove unsteadily back to the bed.

She braced her hips on the bed, and reached inside the bedside cabinet, for the slip of paper Tammi Mai had placed there. Edgy desperation settled like a clenched fist in her stomach as she picked up the telephone, hit nine for an outside number, and dialed.

San Diego

Flash spread mayonnaise on a slice of bread, put a thick serving of ham on it, a slice of Swiss cheese, and mashed another piece of bread on top. Since he’d been injured he’d barely touched food, and now the headache had eased, he was starving.
Kind of Gilbert to leave some lunch meat for my sandwich.
Flash’s lips twisted in a bitter smile.

He cleaned up any mess that would alert the guy to his presence, then washed the knife and slid it back in the drawer.

He wrapped the sandwich in a paper towel to contain the crumbs and settled in an overstuffed chair close to the window so he could watch for Gilbert’s car.

The afternoon wore on. To pass the time, Flash searched the apartment for any paperwork that would tell him about Gilbert. Though he didn’t find any telling bank statements or evidence of offshore accounts, the guy certainly had a taste for expensive furnishings and clothes. His closet was divided into middle of the road expensive suits and the really good stuff. A few for work and more for play, Flash assumed. The leather couch and chairs in the living room would cost three grand easy. Which in itself wasn’t a smoking gun.

Gilbert had some boss electronics, too, but the desktop Flash had tapped into before was gone, replaced by a state-of-the-art laptop, password-protected, which held him up a whole ten minutes. He looked over the hard drive for anything that set off alarms. He found his own file, given to the FBI, with most of the information redacted. His earlier history, his sealed juvie records, were all there and read like he’d attended Con U and was heading toward a life behind bars. And he would have, had it not been for Travis. He copied down Gilbert’s personal account numbers, shut down the computer, and moved on, being careful to wipe his prints from anything he touched.

He set up a small motion-sensor surveillance camera in the corner of the room just over the top of the cabinets. He took the flat screen TV apart and hid another just inside the speaker screen, then put everything back. He set up a computer to capture the signal, installed a program so he could download the feed remotely using Gilbert’s internet connection, and hid the small laptop in the crawlspace above his apartment. What happened in the apartment while he was here would be recorded. Flash would send a copy of the files to NCIS.

If he couldn’t clear himself with the Navy, he could always do this shit for a living in the
real
world.
After he got out of jail.
The thought did nothing to ease the near-constant edgy alarm that blared in the back of his mind.
He needed to get back to his team.
Now!

The shadows in the lot descended and the streetlights came on. Flash retrieved his suppressor from the backpack and screwed it onto his Sig Sauer P 226. Should he fire the weapon for effect, he didn’t want the sound alerting the neighbors. He stuck some zip ties in his back pocket.

Fifteen minutes later Gilbert’s nondescript dark blue sedan pulled into one of the parking spaces. “Thank you, Jesus!” Flash murmured beneath his breath and rose to stow his gear. He policed the area to double-check that everything appeared just as it had when he’d arrived, grabbed up his backpack and booked it into the kitchen pantry and out of sight. With the lights out and no window, the kitchen stood in darkness.

Sounds of the locks turning, the door opening, reached him and he sank back against the pantry shelves. A jingling sound followed. Probably change and keys being dropped into the glass bowl on the coffee table. A cell phone rang and Gilbert’s voice grew distant as his steps receded down the hall.

Flash eased the door open, took two quick strides out into the kitchen, and scanned the living room. It was empty. He took up a position just inside the doorway, set his backpack down and waited. Gilbert’s voice grew louder, closer.

Flash rolled back against the wall and waited for him to pass.

“We’ll find him and he’ll still have the artifacts and the money. Despite his history, he has too strong a sense of duty to sell them or spend the cash. Then we’ll be back in business.”

Back in business my ass.
He eased forward and caught a glimpse of Gilbert’s back and stared a hole through it
.
Gilbert might have fucked up his SEAL career, but this asshole would
be back in business
.

Heat hit Flash’s face like a blast furnace as anger temporarily shot a reddish haze over his vision
. The son of a bitch!
Why hadn’t Flash put a camera in his bedroom?

Gilbert kept pacing as he spoke. “If you’d done your job, there wouldn’t have been a problem. Dobson should have never been killed. His death has drawn attention to the whole operation.”

Was that regret he heard in the man’s voice for Dobson, or for the operation? Flash was frustrated by only getting the tail end of the conversation. What else had they talked about? And who the hell was he talking to?

He scanned Gilbert’s frame for a weapon. His shoulder harness and weapon lay on the coffee table next to the bowl with his keys. When the man turned, Flash bobbed back against the wall and rested there out of sight.

Gilbert wandered around the living room in restless circles while he spoke, the changing timbre of his voice keeping Flash apprised of his location.