Hot Pursuit (36 page)

Next to emerge was a lace tube top with tiny rhinestone straps.

L.Z. showed no interest.

Jack looked ready to bark. “MTV awards night?”

“In case I get a hot date,” Taylor muttered. “Be nice and I'll model it later.”

He took a breath. “Keep going.”

Taylor groped in the bag and came up with two tubes of lipstick, a small notebook, and a plastic pen.

She frowned. “Wait a minute.” She turned the red pen over. “This isn't mine.”

L.Z. growled.

“Put it down slowly, then move away.” Jack's voice was tight. “Give him some space.”

Taylor did as directed. Immediately the dog bent low, sniffing intently. His head snapped up and he looked at Jack, raising one paw.

“Unbelievable,” Taylor breathed. “He really
can
tell, can't he?”

“It's not magic, just good training and a phenomenal sense of smell.”

“Does this belong to Rains?”

“Too soon to say. But that paw response means he's got a solid scent connection.”

L.Z. was sitting again, staring expectantly at Jack. “Okay, keep going. There may be more.”

Taylor suppressed a shiver as she continued. “But how did it get in there? When—”

“Later.”

“There's not much else. My notebook.” Taylor frowned. “I've had this forever.”

She put it on the floor and L.Z. immediately moved in for a long exploration, then sat once again.

Negative response.

“Good job, L.Z.” Jack patted the dog, offering quiet encouragement.

“This is getting spooky,” Taylor whispered, pulling out two pens, which the dog ignored. “There's not much left.” She groped inside one compartment and shrugged. “Sundries, you know.”

“Let's see.”

“But—”

“We need to examine everything, Taylor. Take it out.”

With a sigh, she held up a long, paper-wrapped container. “Just in case it's that time of the month. I always keep one on hand.” She flushed a little. “You don't actually think—”

As she spoke, L.Z. snapped toward her, his body tense. Then he gave the paw signal.

“Put it with the pen,” Jack said quietly.

“But it can't be.”

“No? What better thing to put in a woman's purse? Odds are next to perfect that you wouldn't notice.”

Taylor stared at L.Z., who was still waiting alertly, one paw raised. “I can't
believe
this. I feel so . . . violated. All this time I was carrying those things around without a single clue.”

“Rains was smart. He knew he was dealing with tough people, and you were his insurance,” Jack said grimly. “Dump the purse completely.”

Taylor turned over the bag and shook it, but nothing appeared.

“Shake out the lining.”

“There isn't anything left to—” Taylor's protest faded as L.Z. sat up suddenly. She pulled out the signature-print lining of each compartment and shook each one carefully.

As she opened the last section of lining, she frowned. There was a small hole she'd never noticed before. L.Z. shot upright, body tense. He ran to Jack, burst into wild barking, then fell flat on the floor, his whole body quivering.

Jack took a deep breath. “Bingo.”

Chapter Forty

Taylor edged away from the purse. “What is he saying?”

“He's saying don't worry about the purse.” Jack pulled a penknife out of his pocket. “If what I think is in there, the government will buy you a dozen new purses.” He looked down. “Sit, L.Z.”

When the dog was still, Jack checked the bottom of the seam, then carefully slit the lining from one end to the other. The silky material spilled open, and Jack pulled out the inside of the purse, then traced each neat leather seam, probing each corner where the stitches met.

Suddenly L.Z. growled, his whole body stiff.

Jack put the purse carefully on the floor. “Search, L.Z.”

The dog moved in, sniffing furiously. At the inside top corner he stopped, paw raised. This time his body stayed rigid, not a muscle moving.

“Dog biscuits for life, pal. Keep up the good work and you may even get a medal.” Jack patted the dog's rigid head and pulled a chewy treat out of his pocket. “Great work, L. Z.” While the dog went to work on the treat, Jack frowned at the purse, bending closer. “Something is worked into that seam. It looks like a small chip of metal.” His face was hard when he looked at Taylor. “Get my cell phone and punch in 244. When Izzy answers, tell him we've made contact. If anyone but Izzy answers, hang up immediately without a word.”

Taylor nodded. “Got it. 244.” As she dialed, her eyes stayed on her purse.

“Joe's pizza.”

“I-Izzy?”

“Yeah.” His voice tightened. “Taylor?”

“It's me. I'm trying not to be frightened here, Izzy. Jack is sitting by me with L.Z. and we were going through my purse and—” She stopped and took a breath. “Jack says to tell you we made contact. You know what that means?”

“Sweet holy God and all the angels.” Izzy's voice faded, then returned. “Okay, I'm setting up a few things here as we talk. I'm assuming that Jack's near the . . . item.”

“That's right.” Taylor's throat was dry.

“And the item was in your purse?”

“Right.”

“L.Z. found it?”

“R-right.” She couldn't seem to say anything else.

“Okay, how many things did our friend find?”

“Three.” Three things hidden inside her purse. Three things that made her a target and threatened her sister's life.

Three things that had gotten Agent Nancy Rodriguez killed.

“Our friend Rains was a busy man,” Izzy muttered. Taylor heard his chair squeak. “Listen, I'm going to call you back shortly. I need to go to a different room.
Stay close.
And tell Jack to remember what I said about the five-minute rule.”

“Right.”

The phone went dead.

“What's happening?” Jack was holding the edge of the purse and watching L.Z., who was growling low in his throat.

“He said he has to go to a different room, but he'll call back shortly. He also said to remind you about the five-minute rule.”

Jack's mouth thinned. “I hear you.”

“What's the five-minute rule, Jack? The truth this time.”

Jack cradled the pen carefully. “I can't tell you that.”

“You
have
to tell me. I'm part of this, remember? Just
tell
me, damn it.” She was working hard to control her panic.

“No.”

“Fine. Then I can't answer when Izzy calls back.” In her hands the phone chirped, but she made no move to answer.

Jack cursed softly. “Taylor—”

“No.”

Jack scowled at her. “To put it simply, if this pen contains contents that are . . . damaging, I have five minutes to respond appropriately.”

She considered the words. “Or else?”

“Or else I and whoever comes into contact with those materials will probably end up dead.”

Taylor looked down at his hand, then back at his tense face. “Five minutes?” she repeated. The cell phone was ringing and she slammed the button to connect.
“Hello?”

“Izzy here.”

“We found a tiny metal container. Is it ricin?” Taylor demanded.

“That's my current best estimate.”

She sank into the chair opposite Jack, dizzy, sick with fear.
Rains put a deadly toxin into her purse and let her walk around with it?

“Taylor, are you okay?”

She took a deep breath. “I'm fine.”

“Describe the metal object to me.”

“It looks like a tiny chip, probably one quarter of an inch long.”

“Intact?” Izzy's voice was stone-cold, completely professional.

“It appears to be. What do we do next?”

She heard the hum of electronics on the other end of the line. “Is Jack touching the metal?”

“No.”

“Okay, open the inside pocket of his black duffel bag. You'll find rubber gloves and a small silver canister. Both of you are to put on gloves. Then open the canister and have Jack slip the metal piece you found inside. Very carefully,” he added.

“I'm on the way.” In seconds Taylor returned with the black bag. She handed Jack the gloves. Carefully she unscrewed the lid of the metal canister, which was heavily padded with latex foam. “Izzy says to put the metal chip inside very carefully.”

It seemed like a lifetime before Jack eased the little piece of metal free of the leather seam and finished the transfer.

Taylor swallowed. “Izzy, it's done.”

“Excellent. Now have him screw on the lid and put the canister in a plastic specimen bag. He's to fill that with the bleach you'll find in the side pocket of the black duffel. Then have Jack stow the bagged canister in the bottom compartment of the duffel, where it won't move.”

When the canister was packed and safely stowed, Taylor offered the phone to Jack, but he shook his head. “I don't want to touch anything.”

Taylor nodded. “Izzy, the canister is safe. What next?”

“Tell Jack to strip and use the foam spray that I gave him. It goes everywhere, hair, feet, face. It stays on four minutes, then he takes a thorough shower. Your used gloves go in one bag. His clothes and shoes should be put in another specimen bag. He knows where they are. Your clothes go in there, too.”

“I didn't touch anything.”

“We're taking no chances. Tess and T.J. will find you something to wear.” Taylor heard Izzy's fingers clicking at a keyboard. “Okay, it's been two minutes twenty-six seconds since you called me. Go to work. Time Jack, too. He needs the full dose of that foam, but nothing longer.”

“Right.”

“Tell him I'm running for a chopper now. I should be there in about an hour.”

“I'll tell him.” Taylor put down the phone. Fighting to stay calm, she began relaying Izzy's terse orders.

 

They worked together, Taylor quickly stripping off her clothes and wrapping herself in a towel, then holding a watch while Jack stripped and stuffed his clothes into one of Izzy's thick laboratory bags. Jack sprayed himself with awful-smelling foam, while Taylor guided him to spots he'd missed.

Then they waited, Taylor calling off the minutes on her watch.

As they worked, some part of Taylor's mind registered the fact that he appeared comfortable with the procedure, as if he had done this before. Her mind recoiled at the kind of work that demanded familiarity with exposure to toxins like ricin and the certainty that one slip meant sudden death.

The cold, rational part of her mind argued that someone had to bear the risks when deadly biohazards were involved. There would be no one better equipped to do the job than Jack.

Even if the thought of his danger left her bleeding inside.

“Time,” she said breathlessly. “How do you feel?”

“Like I've lost my top layer of skin.” His face was hard. “Which I probably have.” He stepped into the shower, which was pouring away full blast. “Why don't you get dressed, then call T.J. and fill him in while I finish here. We can plan our strategy while we wait for Izzy.”

But Taylor didn't move. She felt L.Z., standing alertly beside her. “You're sure that this is safe? If there were symptoms of exposure, you'd have them by now, wouldn't you?”

“We'd both have them by now,” Jack said grimly, turning so the spray cleaned his shoulders and back. “And if there were anything else toxic in your bag, L.Z. would have sniffed it out by now.” He raked back his wet hair. “Try to relax, Taylor.”

Fat chance.

Taylor bent to scratch the big dog's head. Just for a moment, she thought how nice it would feel to have her fingers wrapped around Harris Rains' throat.

 

Snow drifted silently through the pine trees. All was hushed on the mountain, and nothing moved in the little clearing.

Harris Rains was dying.

Inside the cabin, Viktor Lemka stared in disgust at the remains of the man before him. The scientist had been smarter than they'd thought. In the throes of Lemka's final round of torment, Rains had whimpered all the details of his planning: He had split the ricin lab samples into two parts. A very small part had gone to his lab manager in Mexico for safekeeping.

The other part had been turned over to a complete stranger, someone who had not the remotest idea of what she possessed.

For weeks he'd been considering a backup location. As a result, he'd been carrying the tiny chip and two other items when Lemka's men had come after him in the street. By a stroke of fate he had escaped one danger, only to find a thug confronting him with a gun in the convenience store. Suspicious of a deeper threat than mere robbery, he had acted instantly. When Taylor O'Toole's purse had dropped, he'd slid two items inside—and then he'd slit the lining and shoved in the metal chip, quickly dropping the purse back on the floor. His maneuver had worked flawlessly; given the tense scene between the thug and the store clerk, no one had guessed what he'd done, least of all the woman.

Cursing, Viktor kicked the man bleeding to death on the cabin floor. He had to find the American woman immediately. Before this she had been a backup; now she was his only chance at staying alive and salvaging this cursed operation.

Sweating, the Albanian strode to the door. “Bury him,” he ordered coldly.

Two of his men moved inside. Neither paid any attention to the fact that Rains was missing all his fingers and half of one leg. Without expression, they picked up the American, who was still alive, twitching slightly.

Not that it mattered. In a few minutes he would be six feet underground.

“Sir?” One of his men was holding a cell phone.

“What is it, Jusuf?”

“I just had a call. I think it will interest you.”

Viktor listened. So their government contact had news to report. Slowly his impatience faded into triumph. The news was good—beyond good. With luck, it would keep him alive. A new plan began to take shape as he watched his men drag Rains' body through the gentle snow. So much annoyance. All of this could have been avoided if his men had gotten to Rains before he could slide his precious items into the woman's purse. Later had come the two failed attacks on Taylor O'Toole and her sister in Monterey, but her cold-eyed friend had interfered, just as he had at the charity event and again at the motel in San Jose.

“Bring me the Lexus, Jusuf.”

Viktor liked the words. They sounded like a rich American automobile commercial. In the hard days and cold nights of his boyhood, he had dreamed of having the exotic life he had glimpsed so briefly on the flickering television screen.

Now that it was his, nothing would take it from him.

Taylor O'Toole was going to die. But first, she would give him everything that he wanted.