Deadly Contact (10 page)

Kelly tried not to react to his statement, pasting a bland expression onto her face and pretending she hadn’t heard. Inside, she was reeling. James’s words were like a physical blow, a punch to the gut that made her stomach drop. Did he really not trust her, or was he just putting on a show for his boss? She reviewed their interactions, searching for clues as to his real feelings. Her chest felt hollow as she realized she didn’t know if James believed she was innocent.

After a moment of thoughtful silence, Carmichael sat with a loud sigh. “Fine. She gets put into protective custody.” His eyes cut to Kelly, then back to James. “I want her to stay in the safe house 24/7. No walks, no trips to the grocery story, no phone calls to friends. Nothing. Got it?”

Kelly nodded woodenly, not trusting her voice. All this time, she’d thought James was on her side. Despite their past, he had seemed to believe her, trust her side of the story. And now? Now she wasn’t so sure. Was he lying to his boss or to her? She’d always known he was smart, but she’d had no idea he was capable of such duplicity.

“Good call,” James said, in a tone that suggested Carmichael had done something amazing. She seized on this bit of flattery the way a drowning man might cling to a life preserver. Surely James was just trying to get his boss to cooperate?

“I’ll go start the paperwork,” Carmichael muttered. “I’m only going to authorize this for three days, though,” he warned, glancing at Kelly as he walked to the door. “I’m still not convinced she’s in danger, and I’m not going to waste man-hours and departmental resources for no good reason.” He paused in the doorway, giving James a meaningful look. “Unless something happens to change my mind, she goes back home at the end of the week.”

James nodded, managing to get out a “Yes, sir” before Carmichael left the room, slamming the door behind him.

He turned back to face Kelly with a loud exhale, and she saw the lines of strain on his face as he briefly dropped the pleasant expression he’d held while talking to Carmichael.

“This is bad, isn’t it?” she said quietly, unable to ask the real question weighing on her mind:
Do you trust me?

His eyes were serious as he met her gaze. “Truth?” he asked. She almost laughed at the irony of his response, but she settled for a nod.

“It’s not great,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “Despite what Carmichael says, I think you are in danger, and I’m glad he agreed to put you in the safe house.”

“Thanks for that.” She placed her hands in her lap, linking her fingers together like a schoolgirl.

He didn’t respond, making her wonder if he’d heard her. She could tell by his unfocused gaze that he was lost in thought. Gathering her courage around her like a cloak, she said his name. He didn’t reply, so she tried again, louder this time.

“James?”

“Hmm?” He raised his eyes to meet hers, his gaze clearing as he focused on her.

“What you said before, to Carmichael.” She paused, sucked in a breath. “Do you really believe I’m somehow involved in this?”

His expression changed then, becoming guarded as his professional mask dropped into place. “Truth?” he asked again, raising a brow as if daring her to respond.

She nodded, holding her breath as she twisted her hands together in nervous agitation.

“I honestly don’t know.”

Chapter 5

T
he warm orange glow of the setting sun peeked through a crack in the drawn curtains. George could see a sliver of the parking lot through the gap, which meant others could potentially see into the room. It was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

He set his book on the bedside table, got to his feet and walked over to adjust the curtains. A tug here, a pull there and the gap was closed. He absently smoothed his hands over the rough fabric, pushing it down as the vent from the wall unit sent out a gust of air that caused the drapes to billow slightly.

After a moment, he turned back to face the room. Ruth sat in the chair by the desk, over in the corner of the room. She was ignoring him, as usual; while she was physically present, it was clear that mentally she was very far away. She had become so removed that there were times he forgot she was there at all.

He cleared his throat to break the heavy silence between them. Nothing. She didn’t respond in any way—not a flicker of the eyes, a tilt of the head or a purse of the lips. It was as if he was in a vacuum, for all the attention she paid him.

He tried again. “Are you hungry?”

“No.”

Ah, so she
had
heard him. It was a start.

“It’s almost dinnertime.”

Silence.

“It’s important you eat. The doctor said you need to keep your weight up.”

Gray eyes lifted, met his. Then dropped back to the book on her lap.

“Does anything sound good to you?”

She turned the page, leaned forward to see better.

“I was thinking maybe I’d get us some takeout from that Indian place around the corner. I thought the food was pretty good, didn’t you?”

When she still didn’t respond, he stepped forward. She tensed, but didn’t otherwise acknowledge him.
Oh, Ruth. How can I fix this?

He reached out, his hand hovering just above her shoulder. It had been almost two weeks since he had touched her, since he had uprooted her life and yanked her out of their home. She should be sitting in her favorite chair by their bedroom window, not hunched over the desk of this second-rate motel.

She’d been quiet and withdrawn ever since he’d checked them in. Her silences had gotten longer and longer with each passing day, making George feel more and more alone. Nothing he said or did seemed to draw her out of her cocoon, and he was beginning to worry she would never emerge again.

But she’s still alive.
It was a thought he’d had on more than one occasion, but it no longer brought him comfort. Sure, she was breathing, functioning, eating, sleeping—all the things living people did. But she wasn’t talking to him, didn’t try to interact with him at all. She was slipping away, and he didn’t know how to hold on to her.

At first, he’d assumed her silent treatment was due to anger. Ruth had never been one to hold a grudge, but then again, he’d never made such a colossal mistake before. He’d become defensive and had wasted a lot of breath trying to justify his actions.
I did it to save you,
he’d told her, half pleading for understanding, half being self-righteous about the risks he’d taken.
And I’d do it again, too!

Ruth hadn’t responded to this declaration. She’d merely flipped off the light and rolled over in bed, giving him her back.

As the silences stretched on and the days added up, George had realized that she wasn’t angry, but rather disappointed in him.

“You know,” he said, striving to keep his tone light, “at some point you’re going to have to talk to me again. We can’t spend the rest of our lives in silence.”

She sighed then, a long-suffering sound that suggested she might be all too happy to forgo conversation with him.

“Ruth.” It came out sharper than he’d meant, but his frustration was growing. “Ruth,” he repeated, even more forcefully. She looked up at him, her expression flat and disinterested.

“How long are you going to punish me?” George knelt down next to her chair and grabbed one of her hands. If he could just make her understand... He hadn’t meant to hurt anyone; he’d only wanted to save her.

“I’m not punishing you,” she said quietly, her voice so low he had to lean forward to hear the words. “But I have nothing to say to you. I don’t know you anymore.”

His heartbeat picked up and he squeezed her hand, as if the force of his touch could convince her he hadn’t changed. “Yes, you do. I’m still the same man I always was. I’m still your George!”

She stared at him for a moment, her gray eyes scanning his face. The heaviness in his chest grew as he watched sadness creep into her gaze. She extracted her hand from his and turned back to her book. The loss of her touch left him feeling cold and empty.

“Ruth?” he whispered, her name a shaky plea for understanding, for contact. For their marriage.

She didn’t bother to look at him again. “Go get your dinner.”

* * *

The drive to her apartment was quiet. James seemed lost in thought, and Kelly wasn’t interested in making conversation. His earlier admission had left her feeling shaken and alone, and she didn’t trust herself to speak to him.

Wanting a distraction, her thoughts turned to the morning attack. How did the man know her name? What did he want with her? Did he know where George was? What was the motive behind the bio-attacks? Would there be another? Where? When? So many questions, but no answers in sight.

She glanced at James from the corner of her eye. The rapidly setting sun outlined his profile, casting the side of his face in shadow and making it impossible for her to see his expression. Why didn’t he believe her? How could he possibly think she was involved when she’d clearly run from the man who had tried to take her? Maybe this was some holdover from her walking out on him earlier—she’d hurt him then, so he didn’t trust her now. But really, couldn’t he see all the evidence pointed against her involvement?

He pulled into her apartment complex and found a spot by the door. “Pack a week’s worth of clothes,” he advised as they walked into the building and approached the elevator.

“I thought this was only approved for three days,” she said, confused by his directions.

“It is, but if we have to extend it, I don’t want you coming back here,” he explained as they walked down the hall to her apartment.

They approached her door, but before she could reach out to insert her key in the lock, James put a restraining hand on her arm. She shot him a questioning look, and he reached up to put a finger to his lips.

“Let me go first,” he whispered. “There might be someone waiting.”

Her frustration flared to anger at his words. Why would he care if there was a second attack? It wasn’t as if he believed her anyway. Or did he think she was going to give some kind of signal to whoever was watching if she went first? That was probably it. He wasn’t concerned for her safety—he just wanted to make sure she couldn’t communicate with her henchmen.
Jerk.

She shook off his hand and shoved the key into the lock, giving it a savage twist that had the metal digging into her fingers. Ignoring James’s muttered curse, she shoved the door open and reached for the light switch.

James placed a hand on her shoulder and pulled her back, keeping her from stepping into the apartment. “Dammit, Kelly, I told you—” His next words were lost as a movement inside the apartment caught her eye. There was a sudden bright flash and a muffled pop, and she was slammed back into James’s chest. They fell into the hall, landing in a heap on the tiled floor.

James reacted quickly, rolling her off him and tugging her down the hall, away from the door. He pushed her up against the wall by the elevator, wincing as he moved. She stared at him dumbly, her mind struggling to process what was happening. A wet patch was spreading on his shirt and she reached out to touch it, amazed to find it warm.

He clapped a hand over her fingers to stop her tentative exploration. “Listen to me,” he said, punctuating the words with a little shake. “Stay here. Don’t move.” His eyes drifted down, and he took her outstretched hand and pushed it onto her shoulder, igniting a burning flare of pain that had her seeing stars.

She heard movement, felt the air stir. When her eyes focused again, he was down the hall, gun drawn as he stepped into her dark apartment.

The pain in her shoulder was a constant throb, and a sticky, cooling warmth coated her fingers and was spreading across her shirt.
Blood.
She knew it even before she pulled her hand away to find it stained red.

“Oh, God.” Tears began to fall as she put her hand back over her shoulder, trying to plug the leak. Her heart galloped in a pounding rhythm that left her gasping for breath.
Air.
She needed air, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t fill her starving lungs.

Her vision blurred and grayed, and she felt herself slide across the wall until she hit the floor. Her hand fell away from her shoulder and landed in front of her face; her fingers were stained an absurdly cheerful red. She tried to force her hand back into place, but her arm was strangely numb and wouldn’t cooperate.

So this is dying,
she thought, her world shrinking down to a pinpoint that gradually faded to black.

* * *

James crept through the dark apartment, leading with his gun as he moved. He felt like a hot poker had been jammed into his side, but he ignored the pain, trying to focus on the job at hand. There was a gunman on the loose, and he knew that a distracted agent was a dead agent.

The kitchen was clear, as was the living room. He started down the hall, making a quick check of the small bathroom before moving on. Kelly’s bedroom was ahead, and it was the only place the perp could have gone.

Stepping carefully, silently, he approached her bedroom, ears straining for any indication of the assailant. He had to know he was cornered and would likely be waiting to shoot James as he walked into the room.

James paused outside the room, not willing to risk it yet. “FBI,” he shouted out. “Drop your weapon and approach with your hands up.”

There was no response, but he hadn’t really expected one. “I repeat, drop your gun or I will shoot you.”

Still nothing. He could see gray light in the room—probably from a streetlamp—but there was no way to know how big the room was or where the perp could be hiding. He had the advantage from his position in the shadowed hallway, but the longer he waited, the more time the shooter had to regroup and replan.

A faint scratching sound came from within. If the gunman was moving, he’d be distracted. James decided to risk a quick glance, and he poked his head around the door frame, scanning the room before pulling back again.

Nothing. The room appeared to be empty. Fighting a sinking feeling of dread, he risked another, longer glance. When he saw no apparent threat, he stepped into the room, clearing the corners and checking the shadows for any sign of an intruder.

The room was empty; the curtain billowed in the breeze from the open window. The fabric grazed the surface of a desk, disturbing papers and pens and re-creating the scratching sound he’d heard. Frustration and anger welled up as he stalked over to the window. The shiny black of the fire escape mocked him as he approached.

He should have remembered the fire escape, should have moved faster. He’d wasted precious time being overly cautious, and now the shooter had gotten away. His instincts told him to chase after the guy, but he knew there was no way to tell where the perp had gone. He had too much of a head start and was likely far away by now.

Besides,
he thought, pressing a hand to his side.
I’m not in any shape to run right now.

Neither was Kelly. His heart had skipped a beat when he’d seen the blood on her shirt, but it looked like a flesh wound, nothing more. She was lucky. A few inches to the left, and she would have been dead in his arms.

He dug his phone out of his pocket as he made his way back through the apartment. “It’s Reynolds,” he said, then explained the situation in a few terse sentences. “I need an ERT and a bus. I’ve got two casualties.” He relayed the address, then snapped the phone closed and stepped out into the hall. Time to deal with Kelly and give her the dressing-down she deserved for ignoring his instructions.

Oh, God.
His anger evaporated as he took in the scene.

She was slumped over, lying on the floor in a crumpled heap. Her outstretched hand was limp and bright with blood, but she wasn’t moving. Why wasn’t she moving?

Heart pounding, he rushed over and dropped to his knees next to her. “Kelly! Kelly, wake up.” The words were a strangled croak, so he tried again, reaching out to roll her onto her back.

She moaned faintly at the change in position. He ran his hands over her body, searching for another wound. Was the injury more serious than he’d thought? Had he missed something? He’d never forgive himself if he’d left her to bleed out in the hall....

She was starting to come around, her eyelids fluttering as he continued his search. “Kelly, I’m here,” he said, hoping his voice would help bring her back. He didn’t find any other injuries, so he turned his attention to the bright red blossom of her shoulder.

Gingerly, he peeled back her shirt to expose the wound. There was a small hole in her skin, a neat, round thing that was oozing blood. Relief washed over him at the sight, causing his hands to shake. It was just a through and through, no arteries involved.
Thank God.

“James?” she whispered, her voice wobbly. She blinked up at him, her eyes hazy with pain. He sat with his back to the wall and gently gathered her into his arms, cradling her against his chest.

“I’m here, baby,” he said, pushing a strand of hair off her face. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.” He pressed his mouth to her forehead, feathering soft kisses across her brow. He wanted to squeeze her tightly, but knowing that would only cause her pain, he fought to keep his hold gentle.

“My shoulder hurts.” She frowned, concentrating. “You’re hurt, too.”

At the mention of his own injury, the pain in his side roared to life again. The adrenaline rush had kept him from feeling it before, but now that things were calming down, his body was wasting no time in communicating its displeasure with the events of the evening.