Bulletproof (Unknown Identities #1) (24 page)

“As always, we thank you for your service, John.”

John stood as Gabriel did. “I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure.”

* * *

Amelia sat in the passenger’s seat of the sedan, her hands fisted in her lap while she struggled to remain calm. The man had flashed an FBI badge and assured her John would join her soon at the police station. It was a matter of routine questioning.

When she’d balked at his lie, he switched it up and told her the truth. John would die right in front of her if she didn’t cooperate. He’d delivered this news with such a cold finality, she’d leaped up to follow him.

“Where are you taking me?”

Her captor’s silence gave her ample time to wish for a phone, bread crumbs, or anything else that might help John find her. He was her hope, her hero, and she refused to believe they’d survived everything else just to get blindsided now.

He took the bridge toward Boston. John mentioned urban survival. He would find her.

“I assume Senator Larimore’s friends sent you.”

More silence.

“I stand by the story. Nothing they can do will make me retract –”

The blow to her face rattled her teeth and her head smacked hard against the window before the brilliant, clear morning faded to black.

* * *

John walked away from the café, knowing there were eyes on him. With every fiber of his being, he wanted to race around the corner and pick up Amelia’s trail.
Now, not later
. He prayed she wasn’t already dead in the parking lot.

But that tactic would fail.

He had to believe, in her and in his ability, but he didn’t have a lot of practice in that area. Staying cool and ignoring that instinct to hurry took tremendous effort. Without moving his head, he assessed the shops along the quiet street. Pinpointing the likely places snipers had been planted, he made himself an easy target and walked right into the line of fire.

The first bullet ripped through his thigh and he dropped to his knees.
Do it.
He stared in the sniper’s direction.
Take the shot
. It was the only thing they hadn’t tested in training, but John knew from ugly experience he could survive it.

A few years ago, weary of Gabriel’s games, he’d decided to end things on his terms. Waking up the morning after on a blood-soaked bed after taking that bullet to the brain had been one hell of a shock.

“Do it,” he whispered through clenched teeth. He needed to be dead. The sooner
they
believed it, the better for Amelia.

His sensitive hearing picked up the order on the sniper’s comm link. John let the impact blow him back to the side of the building. He knew the bullet passed right through. Blood dripped into his collar. He imagined Amelia would be irritated to know he was bleeding.

Bleeding out. Ruining another shirt.

For the moment. He turned his focus inward, already initializing the healing enhancements. It wouldn’t be fun, but it would be fast.

Footsteps approached. Fingers pressed against his throat, searching out a pulse. “He’s done,” a voice declared.

“Clear out,” Gabriel’s voice came across the comm.

Deep in his quiet, dying heart, John smiled.

Chapter Twelve

Amelia shivered against her bindings. Her captor had used zip ties to secure her to a cold pipe in a dark warehouse or basement. Her head was ringing and the coppery taste of blood lingered in her mouth, but she was alive and there would be time for a full injury report later.

“Hello?” Her voice disappeared into the darkness.

The lack of an answer didn’t mean she was alone. Her captor had been less than chatty. Tempting as it was to annoy him with more questions, she wasn’t up for another hit like the last one.

Still, she needed to know if she was alone. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

Something shifted deeper into the shadows, followed by a scrabble and scurry of creatures she’d rather not think about. She would not panic. There was a way out of here. Wherever here was.

Taking a deep breath, she did an assessment of the dark. The pipe at her back was PVC, not metal and it stretched up into the blackness high above. She could tell by the distinct smell she was near the Charles River Basin, but there was another odor too.

Gunpowder.

It could be an armory, or something else, but she had a feeling she was in the storage area under the Hatch Shell in The Esplanade. She’d done a story on the area during her college days. If her head stopped pounding, she might recall something useful.

But what occurred to her first was a self-defense lesson she’d done during a different story. At her request, the instructor had taught her how to get out of zip ties. It was time to see if she remembered how it was done.

* * *

“Man, you look rough.”

As greetings went, it was one of the best John had heard in all his lifetimes. “I made it.” He sat up and grinned at Ben. He ran his fingers over the fresh skin on his forehead and behind his ear. At least the goose egg from yesterday was gone too.

“Don’t know how,” Ben said. “They must have done something special to you, man.”

“Messenger claimed I was a favorite.”

Ben winced in sympathy. They both knew that wasn’t a good thing. John also knew Gabriel had no idea just how special those experiments had made him.

John looked around. “Where are we?”

“The lighthouse,” Ben said with a smile. “You like?”

“Sure. How long was I out?”

“Couple of hours,” Ben replied.

“Shit. Where’s Amelia?”

“A Cleaner took her into the city. When I realized you were gonna make it, I tracked him down.”

“How?” John asked before he could think better of it.

“When he went in to get the reporter, I put a GPS tag on his car. He’s got her down near the river. I put the address in the car’s system. She’s pretty tough,” he added with admiration.

“You’ve seen her?”

“Yeah.”

John waited, but Ben didn’t elaborate. Questions only delayed his rescue. “Okay. Did anyone see you pull me off the street?”

“Nope.” Ben shook his head. “I waited before I hauled your ass out of there.”

Even better. “Thanks. Go find that body for me. We have a rescue and death to arrange.”

“Sure thing, man. I’ll take the old lady’s car. It’s a Caddy. More trunk space.”

When Ben could think clearly, he did a fine job.

“Thanks for the assist,” John said. He poked a finger through the hole, frowning at the blood stain on his pants. Another good reason to wear black.

“Anytime. I put my number in your phone. Send a text when you arrive. I’ll be there with the body.”

John didn’t waste time changing clothes. He left right behind Ben, relieved to see the Porsche waiting for him just outside the lighthouse door.

He slid into the driver’s seat and pulled up the navigation app as he headed for Boston.

It was the longest forty minutes of his life, but when he reached the destination, he understood what had to happen. He cruised down Storrow Drive and finalized his plan.

Gabriel had planted damaging evidence linking John to the senator’s death and left him for dead in small-town America. Most likely they had a plan to blame Amelia’s death on him too and a story ready to run about an elite task force cleaning up a terrorist plot.

Too bad, sucker, John thought, I’m about to blow the curve.

He parked the Porsche, sent his text message to Ben, and then headed in to rescue Amelia.

* * *

Amelia had no sense of time, no way to judge its passing. She’d shouted and screamed until she was hoarse. No one had come to her aid but no one had punched her either.

While she’d done all the predictable things, including a convincing crying jag for anyone watching, she worked the zip ties loose. Now if her captor decided to show himself, she could launch a surprise attack.

But he didn’t show up and the temptation to make a break for it was becoming intense.

She wanted to flee, but she sensed she and the rats weren’t alone down here. If she gave away her element of surprise, she knew she wouldn’t survive for long. And she was determined to survive and find John.

Or if it was too late to save him, she vowed to survive and be sure his story was told.

Somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard the squeak of a door hinge, but when nothing happened, she chalked it up to her imagination.

A hard thud sounded next as a voice whispered from the shadows.

“You’re free to go.”

She hesitated.

“He’s waiting for you at the top of the stairs.” A small exit light glowed on the far wall. “Go now.” The shadows shifted and cool hands pushed her away from the pipe.

“How did you know I was loose?”

“Go,” the voice growled.

On a little scream that died in her throat, Amelia bolted toward the faint outline of the service stairwell. Her shoes pounded against the metal stairs and she worried her captor would seize her again.

But when she opened the door to the bright outdoor light it looked like John was waiting with a wide smile. “Miss me?”

She hesitated, blinking as her eyes adjusted. Relief swamped her and yet she feared it was a nasty, desperate trick of her imagination. “Are you real?”

He stepped forward, kissed her soundly, and removed all doubt.

She was just about to throw her arms around his neck when she heard the squeak of the door hinge. Turning she moved in front of him, but no one appeared.

“What the hell?”

“Don’t worry about Ben. He’s shy.”

She looked around, not seeing anyone. “Is that supposed to make sense?”

“It will later.” John pushed her hair back from her swollen cheek. “I’ll kill him for this. I would have come downstairs myself, but the Cleaner needs to believe I’m dead.”

She looked at his bloody clothes, touched the fresh skin at his forehead. “They shot you.”

“Twice.” He showed her the hole in his pants and shrugged. “It’s happened before.”

“I smell a story.”

“And I’ll give you one. Or more. Later,” he repeated, taking her hand and leading her away from the Hatch Shell. “First the Cleaner has to see you die.”

She skidded to a stop in the deep, wet grass. “We’ll talk now.”

The internal debate showed on his face.

“Make the time, John.”

He stroked her chin, on the side that wasn’t battered. “Larimore’s dead. There will be evidence linking me to the murder, but officially, I’m already dead too. This is the best chance we have to save your life. Trust me?”

Amelia had a thousand new questions, but only one answer mattered right now. She looked into his green gaze and realized she did trust him.

Absolutely.

And she would do whatever it took to stay with him.

Her heart had recognized the facts her brain was reluctant to address. This man had become so much more than her personal security. He’d protected her, empowered her, guarded her while she wrote and slept.

Neither Larimore’s death nor his team’s response to her story mattered anymore. Nothing could undermine what she’d set in motion.

If she didn’t think he’d panic, she’d tell him how much she loved him right here. “You’ll stick around?”

“For as long as you’ll have me.”

She smiled up at him. “What do you need me to do?”

“I need you to drive the Porsche off the Harvard Bridge.”

“Dear God.”

* * *

“Okay, he’s up,” John said about fifteen minutes later as the Cleaner emerged from the park. “And he’s not looking too happy.”

“Got it,” Amelia’s voice came back.

They were communicating through Ben’s phone and the car. Hopefully Ben’s explosive was rigged equally well.

“He spotted you.” Hidden on the bank of the river, John watched her back out of the parking space, turning toward Starrow Drive, wondering if he’d just sentenced her to die for real.

She’d listened to his instructions, but hadn’t done much talking.

“Theoretically, I can fake your death anywhere,” he’d said.

Which had caused a fit of hysteria-tinged laughter. “Fake. As in I get to live?”

“Not on any official record. You’ll have to sever all personal and professional ties.”

He knew she understood what he’d proposed, now he just prayed she could make it look good.

He didn’t need to examine his motives. If they survived this, they could get into the complications and expectations of maintaining a relationship while living completely under the radar.

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Hang in there.”

“Just what every girl wants to hear when she’s about to explode.”

He chuckled.

“John.”

Her voice, hoarse and thready, made him want to comfort. A damn strange feeling. In fact he couldn’t remember a single instance of a tender emotion before meeting her. “You’re doing great.”

“Tell me something.”

He watched her car close in on the planned detonation site. “The Cleaner is on your tail.”

“God. Tell me something I understand.”

“Ten seconds.”

The car passed over the mark Ben preferred. She jerked the wheel and hit the gas, just like he’d told her. The car sailed out over the water.

“I love you,” he said as the car burst into flame. It was the first time he’d ever said those words....

The Cleaner slowed down and John saw him talking, though no one else was in the car. Then the deadly assassin sped away from the scene.

Mission accomplished.

Epilogue

Hartford, Sunday December 22, 7:05 p.m.

“...In local news, Amelia Bennett, the popular and controversial reporter for
The Torch
died in a single car collision this morning when she lost control of a car on the Harvard Bridge. Police are investigating the incident due to recent threats against her life, but foul play is not suspected.”

From the edge of the motel room bed, John watched an image of Amelia go up beside a copy of the day’s
Torch
and her last article. Bernie had done a fine job with the layout.

“She didn’t live to see the swell of reader reactions to her latest story, a scathing report implicating Senator Larimore’s involvement with recent, malicious breaches of private information. According to both anonymous and confirmed sources, the senator regularly mined personal data and information which he then used to further his political career and agendas. Public outcry is...”