Elusive (On The Run Book #1) (14 page)

Jack looked wary. “How are you
going to come up with the cash?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Zoe said
as she twisted a strand of hair around her finger. “Do we have a deal?”

“You’re thinking of pawning your
wedding ring,” Jack said flatly, and Zoe shot him a surprised glance.

“Nope,” she said, splaying her
hands, displaying her bare fingers.

“I know you’ve got it with you,”
he said. “It’s on that long gold necklace.” Zoe wanted to look away and
casually deny it, but she couldn’t break eye contact. She felt her cheeks heat
up again as she thought of the ring hanging heavily on its chain suspended
between her breasts. “You always wear it,” he said quietly.

Zoe forced herself to keep her
hands still instead of touching the necklace or the ring as she was itching to
do. She licked her lips and tilted her chin. “It’s not the ring.”

“No? I’m almost scared to ask what
you’re thinking of doing in Las Vegas. There are a frightful amount of options
in Sin City.”

“Nothing illegal.” He opened his
mouth to make a smart remark, she was sure, so she talked over him, “or
immoral. Do we have a deal?”

“Fine. Deal.” He extended his
hand, and she quickly shook it, ignoring the weird frisson that hit her when
their hands touched. She jerked her hand away and opened the messenger bag,
which was getting quite heavy. It now contained all the papers purloined from
Connor’s apartment. She dug around in the bag, then pulled out the envelope
she’d brought with her from Dallas.

She opened the flap and tilted it
toward him.

Jack hunched forward and peered
inside the envelope. After a second, he said, “That’s
my
money.”

Zoe glanced around the restaurant
at his loud tone. “Finders keepers,” she said, folding the flap closed. “Just
be glad I’m going to use it to buy you an airline ticket, too.”

Jack shook his head, a snort-like
laugh erupting after a second. “How did you find it?”

“I broke your lamp.”

“I see.”

“I also searched your room. I
found the passports. They’re in here, too.”

“Good. That’ will save us some
time—” Jack broke off as a guy moved through the tables and took a seat next to
them. With his backpack, faded T-shirt, cargo shorts, and flip-flops, he looked
like a student. He busily staked his claim to the table, depositing his
backpack on a chair and opening his laptop.

“Of all the tables,” Zoe mouthed
to Jack, “why did he have to pick that one?”

Zoe could see Jack giving the guy
a thorough examination. Zoe didn’t see anything threatening about him, and Jack
must have felt the same way because he turned his attention back to Zoe and
spoke in a low voice. “We’ll pick up a few things here and lay low until
tomorrow morning. The international flights won’t leave until then. What? What
is it?” he asked.

An image on the computer screen
had caught her attention and she stared at it, a frightened look on her face.
“There’s a picture of us on his Internet browser,” Zoe said.

––––––––

Las Vegas

Friday, 7:02 p.m.

––––––––

“WHAT?” Jack asked, his face
perplexed. He tried to see the screen, but it was angled so that only Zoe could
see it.

“It’s one of those web browsers
with rotating photos that go with the stories,” she whispered, leaning to the
side as she struggled to see the text. She squinted. “The headline is
Missing Millions and Murder
,”
she said, sucking in her breath. The photo vanished, replaced by the next
story, and Zoe realized she was breaking out in a cold sweat. “It’s gone.”

“Are you sure it was us?”

Zoe nodded. “It was taken in front
of The Venetian, right after Stubby Guy tried to run us down. It’s fuzzy, but
it’s a tight shot of our faces.”

“Ham and cheese on rye,” called
someone from the deli counter. The student grabbed his empty soda cup and went
to pick up his sandwich.

“I’ll delay him. You see what you
can find out,” Jack said as he stood and followed the student to the fountain
drink dispenser.

Zoe glanced around quickly, but
the restaurant was still quiet with only the three of them as customers. She
slid into the seat and fumbled with the computer’s track pad. Jack walked by
the student, who’d just finished filling his drink cup. Their shoulders
collided and Mountain Dew cascaded through the air, then rained down, soaking
both of their shirts. As Jack apologized, he maneuvered the student so that his
back was to Zoe.

The page finally loaded, and Zoe
scrolled down the text, scanning as fast as she could. It was a short article,
only three paragraphs, but it was some tight writing, Zoe thought grimly. The
reporter had managed to hit the highpoints of Connor’s death and the FBI
investigation, but clearly the focus of the article was the missing money.

She hit play on the embedded video
clip. Background noise of passerby chitchat and car engines sounded from the
computer speakers. Fingers shaking, she quickly lowered the volume as she
glanced around. No one had noticed. Jack and the student were still mopping up.
The video was jerky and not centered on them at first, but then there was a
screech of tires, and the camera swiveled to find the source of the noise.
“There we are,” muttered Zoe, shaking her head, half fascinated, half horrified
to see the car accelerating toward them.

Zoe watched herself glance over
her shoulder, then freeze. Jack reacted, pulled her out of the way, seconds
before the car hit the pylon. They were out of the picture for a few seconds as
the camera focused on the crumpled front end of the car, but as they stood and
hurried away, the camera caught them and followed their movement.

The photo at the top of the
article was a still shot from the last seconds of the video. Jack had a look of
intense concentration on his face, while she looked like she’d seen the shower
scene in
Psycho
for
the first time. The name on the byline jumped out at her as she hit the back
button and slid back into her own chair. Jenny Singletarry, the reporter who’d
known about the search warrant. Now she’d found a video of them in Vegas? And
how did she know about the money?

Jack returned, his shirt soaked to
his chest, revealing a nicely cut physique above the bulk of what looked like a
pillow. Zoe jerked her gaze up to his face. “According to the article, we’re on
the lam, a modern day Bonnie and Clyde.”

––––––––

Las Vegas

Friday, 8:22 p.m.

––––––––

“JUST do it, Jack.” Zoe closed her
eyes.

“Okay, here we go.”

Zoe could hear the
snick-snick
of the scissors
opening and closing several times. She cracked an eyelid open and saw her
reflection in the mirror. Jack stood behind her shoulders, which were wrapped
in a thin white hotel towel, a chunk of Zoe’s hair held in one hand and the
scissors in the other. They flickered, reflecting the dim light above the
bathroom mirror. Irena’s passport was propped up on the little tray below the mirror.
Shoulder-length dark brown hair framed a face that didn’t look so different
from Zoe’s, which was good since Zoe was going to be Irena during the flight.

Thank goodness Irena had a fairly
average face—no hooked nose or heavily hooded eyes. Her lips were neither paper
thin or swollen like a Hollywood starlet. Just normal sized. Her face was
rounder than Zoe’s and her eyebrows were thinner and more arched, but these
last two things were easily fixed, Jack had said. Of course, he wasn’t the one
who would be plucking his eyebrows, Zoe had thought. What Irena didn’t have was
red hair.

“Jack, just do it. Get it over
with,” Zoe said impatiently. Her hair had to go. She knew it. It was too long,
too bright, and too distinctive. It was the one area where she felt a tiny bit
of vanity. Zoe didn’t care much for make-up. Mascara and a bit of lip-gloss
were about all she bothered with. And clothes—she couldn’t care less about
designer labels or fashion trends. She didn’t give much thought to coordinating
outfits or which shoes she’d wear.

But she had always thought her
hair was special—probably because as far back as she could remember, it had
been the one thing that always drew comments from strangers and friends alike.
She’d always had long hair, at least below her shoulder blades; she’d only had
the ends trimmed occasionally. Wearing it long saved money was what she told
herself, but she felt her eyes welling up and knew it was more that just
economy. It was part of her identity.

“Pity to cut it off,” Jack said. He
raked his fingers through her hair along the nape of her neck and paused with
one curl cork-screwed around his finger. “I always liked your long hair.”

“You never told me that,” Zoe
said, blinking and watching him in the reflection. She was not going to cry.
Not over her
hair
,
of all things. She’d been shot at today for God’s sake. A little haircut was
nothing, she told herself as she swallowed the thickness in her throat.

“Just one of many things it
seems,” he said under his breath. He squared his shoulders and snipped. Zoe
jerked a little as she felt the tension on her scalp release when he cut the
strand he was holding. He glanced in the mirror, zeroed in on her reddening
eyes, and added casually, “Perhaps I’ll make some of it into jewelry like those
morbid Victorians.”

She gave him a watery smile. “Keep
going,” she said, nodding her head.

“Alright,” he continued, “I think
a brooch is out of the question, but perhaps a bracelet. There’s enough length
for that, or one of those man chokers. Like that country music guy who’s always
singing about the ocean.”

She laughed out loud. “I meant
keep cutting,” she said. He nodded and went to work with the scissors.

––––––––

McCarran International Airport, Las Vegas

Saturday, 11:39 a.m.

––––––––

“DON’T avoid eye contact,” Jack
said as they inched forward in the security line.

“Right,” Zoe murmured, because
that was the only word she was going to attempt with two wads of cotton stuffed
in her cheeks to make her face look fuller. She was already nervous and the
cotton seemed to be absorbing what little moisture there was in her mouth. If
the woman checking passports at the head of the line asked her a question, Zoe
hoped she’d be able to croak out a response.

She crept forward another foot,
Irena’s new passport clutched in her sweaty hand. Would a slightly damp
passport give her away? Jack actually looked bored. How he managed it, she
didn’t know.

“Don’t fidget,” Jack said, and Zoe
realized she was running her other hand over the nape of her neck, which felt
oddly drafty without the thick curtain of her hair hanging down her back. Her
hair brushed her shoulders and was “Maple Brown Number Six.” She’d tried to
style it like the photo of Irena, curling the ends under as best she could
without a curling iron. She must have come close because when she emerged from
the bathroom at the hotel, Jack had looked shocked and surprised for a second
then he’d got a grip on his emotions and nodded sharply. “You’ll do,” he’d
said. They had decided that her hazel eyes would have to be close enough to “Irena’s”
green eyes to pass security.

Zoe felt her hand inch
self-consciously to her neckline again and firmly crossed her arms over her
waist. She wished she had a baseball cap like Jack. It was a new one, plain
navy blue, which covered his new shorter haircut. He trimmed it himself while
she rinsed the dye out of her hair. After their joint makeover session last
night, Jack had left “for supplies,” as he called it.

Zoe had fallen asleep on one of
the rickety double beds. They had stayed in a dodgy hotel that didn’t ask
questions about why they paid in cash. Zoe had worried that the desk clerk
would remember them because they were staying more than a few hours. “This is
the kind of place where
not
remembering the guest is the main reason people stay here,” Jack had said. Her
long night of driving and the intense ups and downs of the day caught up with
her, and she’d slept so hard she hadn’t heard Jack return or slip into the
other double bed.

She’d awoken to find a rolling
suitcase situated at the end of the bed beside Jack’s backpack. There was a
stack of clothes on top of the suitcase and a pair of boots on the floor. Who
knew Jack remembered her shoe size? She was thrilled to have a new white fitted
T-shirt to change into, but the shapeless black cardigan made her look like a
lump. “That’s the idea,” Jack had said as he pulled a gray T-shirt over his
head that morning. Jack had discarded the pillow he’d used to pad his figure
yesterday.

There was a jacket for her and a
black crew neck sweater in the rolling bag for him. Zoe had held up a
double-breasted black jacket and raised her eyebrows. “What are we cat
burglars? You have more breaking and entering planned?”

“We haven’t done any breaking and
entering, remember?” Jack countered. “We want to blend in. Europeans usually
wear dark colors, and it will be much cooler there than it is here. You’ll need
that jacket.”

She pushed the no-prescription
black rectangular-framed glasses back up the bridge of her nose. This morning
she’d thought she was a good match for Irena’s passport photo. That was this
morning. Right now, she felt like she had the word “imposter” printed on a sign
hanging around her neck.

“Ma’am?” a voice called, and Zoe
scurried forward to the podium where the woman glanced at their faces, then ran
a special flashlight over their passports. She gave Zoe’s face an extra glance.
“Do I know you?”

Zoe shook her head quickly and
mumbled a no.

“You take any classes at UNLV?”
she persisted.

Zoe gave another headshake and
forced herself not to shoot a panicked look at Jack. “I’ve just got one of
those faces,” she managed to say, despite her dry mouth.

The woman handed everything back
to Jack with a yawn. “Thank God we dyed your hair,” he said in an undertone as
they moved forward. Zoe felt hot and sweaty, and her heart was racing. She
wondered if this was what a nervous breakdown felt like. The airport was
packed, and they had to wait again before going through the scanners. She felt
exposed when she put the cardigan in the bin along with her new boots.

The official waved her through the
metal detector. Jack was behind her, and once their belongings emerged on the
rolling belt, he swept everything up and they walked a few steps away to
redress. “Why the rolling suitcase?” she asked as she worked her foot into her
boot. They’d had hardly any clothes to put in it.

Jack didn’t look up from threading
his belt through the loops of his jeans. “Traveling without luggage, especially
to an international destination would be unusual.” Jack slid his watch onto his
wrist, and she had a mental flash of all those times he’d picked up his watch
from the nightstand as he rolled out of bed in the morning. The situation
suddenly seemed awkward and too intimate. Jack had shaved this morning, so he’d
match “Brian’s” passport photo. The stubble had given him a different look,
made him seem more scruffy and approachable, but with his face shaved clean, he
looked more like he had when they were married. She couldn’t help but think of
the last time they’d been in the Las Vegas airport. They’d left together, a
married couple, in a heady haze of affection and excitement. Zoe shoved her
arms into the cardigan, glad to have the extra layer back on and focused on
settling her messenger bag on her shoulder. “This way to the gate,” she said and
felt Jack fall into step beside her.

One of the cotton pads was
creeping up the side of her cheek away from her jaw. She worked it back down
and asked, “So, no one said anything when you bought the tickets with cash?”

Jack slung one strap of his
backpack over his shoulder as he said, “I told the ticket agent we’d had a good
night at the tables. She didn’t seem to think it was all that unusual. This is
Vegas. I’m sure they’ve seen stranger things.”

If they had really been jetting
off to Europe on an impulse, it would have been a wonderful trip. No delays, no
weather, no complications. After the Vegas airport, which felt like a mall on
Christmas Eve, the international departure terminal at Dulles was eerily
deserted. Zoe kept expecting a security guard to come through and tell them it
was closing time even though it was only four in the afternoon. Again, their
passports passed scrutiny, and no one gave them a second glance. “It’s all so
easy, I’m frightened half out of my mind—not just for us,” Zoe whispered as
they settled into their seats for the flight to Rome. “Think about national
security. If we can just waltz through the system, what does that mean?”

Jack leveled a look at her and
said, “It means that the documents the federal government created for my cover
are top notch. Let’s just concentrate on getting ourselves out of this mess,
then you can worry about the terrorists.” He folded his arms, and within
minutes was asleep—with his seat in the full, up-right position. Zoe frowned
and tried to get comfortable. He’d done the same thing on the first flight. She
didn’t see how he could sleep. She’d spent the early part of the flight
alternately reading through Connor’s spreadsheets and his journal and tensing
every time the flight attendant walked by.