Love Inspired Suspense June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Exit Strategy\Payback\Covert Justice (12 page)

She pried the panel away, reached into the wall behind it.

The box was there, the metal cool beneath her fingers.

She dragged it out, jumped down from the chair, brushed a layer of dust from the top of the box. “It's here!”

“Is everything still in it?” Cyrus leaned in close, his chest pressed against her back, his fingers cupping her elbow.

“I hope so,” she responded, her fingers shaking as she fiddled with the lock, tried to get the correct combination.

“Come on,” she muttered, and Cyrus took the box from her hand, used a tiny pick to open the lock.

The lid popped open.

She saw the shirt first, the soft blue flannel, making her heart ache and her vision blur. She lifted it, pressing it to her nose. Not a hint of Joshua remained.

“I wish that I could bring him back for you,” Cyrus said quietly, turning her around, pulling her into his arms, the shirt smashed between them, the box he still held bumping against her shoulder.

The words—so simple, so sincere—speared her heart, because she knew they were true. She knew that if he'd had the ability, Cyrus would have risked everything to bring Joshua home to her.

“Thank you,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist, burying her head in the crisp white cotton of his shirt. She could feel the slow thud of his heart, the gentle rise and fall of his breath, and she thought that if she stayed there long enough, the ache of losing Joshua would hurt just a little bit less.

“Okay?” he asked, cupping her jaw, looking into her eyes.

He had a way of doing that, of focusing on her so completely that it seemed she was all that existed, all that mattered.

She nodded, swallowing down the roughest edges of sorrow, taking the box from his hand. The Bible was there, the leather cover soft and worn, the edges of the pages curled and folded from years of being turned.

Beneath that, Joshua's wedding ring lay glinting in the overhead light. She lifted it, slid it onto her thumb. “He never got to wear it. Elijah thought jewelry was a sign of arrogance and pride. I bought it for Joshua anyway, because I wanted there to be some symbol of what we shared.”

“Did he give you one?”

“Yes.” She smiled, remembering how surprised she'd been by the gift. “I sewed it into the hem of one of my skirts. Every time I wore that skirt, I smiled a little more brightly.”

“Do you still have the ring?” he asked, glancing at her hand.

“No. I had to turn in all my skirts and sweaters when I left the compound. I wasn't thinking clearly, or I would have cut the ring out before I left. I tried to find it when I went back, but I think they gave the skirt to someone else. She probably doesn't even know she's wearing my wedding ring.”

“Maybe you'll get it back one day.” He put the Bible back in the box. “And you can wear it on your finger, so the world can see it, and know you were married to a great man.”

“That's really sweet, Cyrus,” she said, and he frowned.

“Another thing that I would prefer you not mention to anyone at HEART.”

She smiled, and he chucked her under the chin, took her hand. “The police should be here soon. Let's wait for them in the foyer. Once they're done, we'll clean things up and get out of here.”

“Where are we going to go?”

“HEART has a couple of properties. The one we're going to—”

The middle window exploded, glass shattering, fire shooting up the curtains, licking at the ceiling.

Smoke filled the room, turning light to dark so quickly that Lark stumbled, her hand slipping from Cyrus's. She thought he was gone, rushing through the darkness ahead of her, and she dropped to her knees, Joshua's shirt still clutched in her hand, heat blasting her face.

She coughed, inhaling more of the noxious fumes as she tried to clear her lungs.

She had to get out, had to escape.

Someone grabbed her waist, hauled her up and out of the room.

* * *

They'd been set up. Knowing that made Cyrus furious.

He carried Lark through the hall, fighting the need to inhale more deeply, to gasp for more air. There was none to be had. The apartment was filled with smoke, flames already crawling along Lark's bedroom door.

He was blinded by the heat, confused by the smoke.

One way led to a dead end. The other to the living room.

If he chose wrong, he might not have a chance to choose again.

“This way!” Stella yelled, suddenly in front of him, her figure just a shadow through the smoke.

She grabbed his sore arm, dragged him through the hallway.

He trusted her implicitly, went with her because she'd proven herself invaluable time and time again.

They made it to the living room, heat building, the air seeming to undulate with it.

Boone and Chance were at the door, and they flanked him as he exited the building, stuck close as he ran down the stairs.

Stella was in the SUV before he reached it, engine running, gun drawn. She eyed the building across the alley from Lark's.

“It came from that building. The window on the second floor is open. It wasn't before.”

“Rocket launcher,” Chance said. “Nothing else could have done that kind of damage. Boone, ride with Stella. We'll keep you posted.”

Cyrus set Lark in the seat, looked into her face. Soot smudged her cheeks, coated her hair. “Stella and Boone will take you to the safe house.”

“What about—?”

He dropped the lockbox in her lap, shut the door, slapped the hood.

He didn't have time to explain how things were going to work.

Someone had lain in wait for them. Someone who'd known they were heading back to Maryland. Someone who had a lot to gain by destroying evidence and silencing Lark.

He didn't wait for Chance to come up with a plan. Just took the Glock his boss offered and ran toward the alley.

TWELVE

“Y
ou get yourself killed,” Chance growled, racing along beside him, “and I'm not going to be happy.”

“Don't feel like hunting up another team member?” he asked, eyeing the fire escape beneath the open window. It hadn't been lowered. The guy must have found another way in.

“Don't feel like losing another friend,” Chance responded. “But I think the guy is gone. If he isn't, he's a fool.”

“He's a fool either way.” Cyrus tucked the Glock into his waistband, grabbed the edge of the fire escape and pulled himself up. Sirens screamed as a police car sped into the alley, squealed to a stop just below.

Chance could deal with the officer who got out of the car. Cyrus had other things on his mind.

He kept low, moving toward the open window, waiting for several heartbeats, the Glock in his hand. Familiar. Comforting. Blood seeped from the wound in his arm. He'd popped some stitches, but he'd deal with that later.

The officer shouted something, but Cyrus wasn't in the mood for listening. If Lark had been anywhere near the window of her bedroom, she'd be dead.

Nothing moved in the window opening, and he peered in cautious. Ready.

No furniture in the room. No rug on the floor. Something was there, though, and he recognized it immediately. An RPG-7. Not something he'd ever seen used in the United States, but he'd seen it plenty when he'd served in Iraq.

He didn't touch it, just moved past, staying close to the wall as he eased out into a wide hallway. The place felt empty, but he didn't take any chances, moving through each room cautiously, the acrid scent of smoke tingeing the air.

The apartment was larger than Lark's. Three bedrooms. A bathroom. The old wood floor scuffed and covered in dust. He crouched, eyeing a boot print pressed in the middle of the living room floor. He snapped a photo, found another print near the apartment door.

Someone had tampered with the lock, and the door was cracked open, sunlight filtering in. He opened it, scowling as he realized he was standing on a landing above a busy street. Nowhere for the perp to go but down. He'd probably had a car waiting, was probably a couple of miles away by now.

A female police officer sprinted toward him, taking the stairs two at a time. “Sir! Drop your weapon! Put your hands up!”

Cyrus didn't try to explain who he was or what he was doing. He did what he was told, lowering the gun without raising the barrel, setting it on the ground.

He had his hands up before he straightened, allowed himself to be cuffed and patted down. There was no sense trying to reason with someone in a situation like this. Tensions were too high.

“Cyrus Mitchell?” the officer said, his wallet open in her hand, his ID clearly visible.

“That's right.”

“You have a reason for being in this apartment?”

“Someone fired a rocket launcher into the building next door. I'm sure you noticed the smoke,” he responded, not quite able to hold back his sarcasm.

It didn't earn him any brownie points.

The officer frowned, closing the wallet, and calling something into her radio.

“While we're standing here, the guy who fired the launcher is getting farther away,” he offered, and her frown deepened.

“Sir, for all I know, you're the one who fired it.”

“If I had, I wouldn't have stuck around and waited for you to arrive.”

“I've seen stranger things,” she muttered, taking his arm. “How about you show me where this rocket launcher is?”

Cyrus complied, because he didn't have much of a choice, and because he wanted to get a better look at the RPG-7. It had to have been smuggled into the United States. Probably carried across the border from Mexico and trucked up through the center of the country. And probably not brought in alone.

Was it possible that's what the boxes delivered to Amos Way had contained?

The thought made his blood run cold.

If he hadn't been cuffed, he'd have called Chance, asked him to get up there stat. If Elijah was smuggling in arms like the rocket launcher, he was planning something bigger than just making money. This kind of smuggling required deep pockets and deeper connections.

The officer snapped a couple of pictures of the launcher, peered out the window and snapped a photo from there. He wanted to tell her that the clock was ticking, that they needed to get the DEA involved, question the neighbors.

He doubted she'd appreciate his input, so he kept quiet, standing right where she'd left him, smoke from the fire at Lark's place filling his lungs and stinging his nose.

“Cyrus!” Chance called, his voice echoing through the empty apartment.

“Back here,” Cyrus responded. “Cuffed and ready for transportation.”

The officer turned, eyeing Chance as he walked into the room, two police officers right behind him.

Thirty seconds later, Cyrus was free, rubbing his wrists and crouching next to the launcher.

“Russian,” Chance said, and he nodded.

“Can't say I've ever seen one before,” one of the officers cut in. “And I don't like that I'm seeing one now.”

“I'm calling in the DEA. We'll see what they have to say.” The female officer shot the words over her shoulder as she walked out of the room.

Cyrus knew she was probably thinking the same thing as he was. If there was one rocket launcher in civilian hands, there were probably more of them. With a weapon like this one, any hands were the wrong ones. It was a weapon of war.

Apparently, right now, someone was at war against Lark.

He pulled out his cell phone.

He needed to be where he was, but he also needed to be sure Lark was okay.

* * *

Lark was supposed to be sleeping.

She was pacing instead, the floorboards of the old farmhouse creaking under her feet. Boone and Stella had brought her there nearly ten hours ago. They'd given her clothes, shampoo, soap. They'd escorted her to the third floor, led her into what had once been an attic. Now it was a large bedroom with an attached bathroom and thickly curtained windows. Stella had gone over the rules. The gist of them was that Lark was to stay in the house, stay away from the windows, resist the urge to text or call people she knew.

That had been difficult.

Essex had called three times, texted ten. He'd seen the news, knew her apartment had been destroyed. He was worried.

She was, too.

She'd known Elijah was using Amos Way as a front for something, but she'd never imagined it was something so big that he'd chase her across state lines to stop her from revealing it.

She'd imagined him trafficking in drugs, maybe selling illegal firearms. It was something more than that. She knew it. She just didn't know what.

She'd had a long time to think about it, a lot of hours when she'd sat in the kitchen of the old house or in the living room, twiddling her thumbs and hoping that Cyrus or Chance would call.

If either had, she hadn't heard about it.

Boone had assured her that they were fine, that he and Stella would have been contacted if either was injured.

She guessed they knew the way HEART worked better than she did, but she was still concerned.

When Stella had suggested she get some rest, she'd agreed. Mostly because she didn't know what else to do.

She'd been in the room ever since, waiting, worrying, waiting, praying. Probably she should be praying more and worrying less. That's what Joshua would have said.

He'd have been right, but she couldn't stop the thoughts that were running through her head. She couldn't seem to just give it over to God and trust that He had it all under control.

She'd tried to distract herself. She'd taken a shower, scrubbed her skin until it hurt, the flowery soap she'd found near the sink masking the horrible stench of smoke that had clung to her for the entire three-hour drive. She was sure she smelled it again, barely hidden by the soap and the fruity shampoo. She'd used half a bottle of that. Brushed her hair, braided it, put on soft flannel pajamas that Stella had given her. The clothes she'd had on had been tossed in a plastic bag and handed to Stella, who always seemed to be just outside the door when Lark opened it.

A personal bodyguard? It seemed that way.

Lark couldn't imagine that she'd need one. Not where she was. The house was so far off the beaten path, she doubted anyone could find it. When she'd asked, Boone had said they were in western Maryland, right outside the small town of River Valley. Only one road led to the house, and that dead-ended in a heavily forested area that could only be accessed by foot.

She'd be safe there, she'd been assured.

She didn't feel safe.

She felt scared.

She sat on the bed, grabbed the lockbox she'd put there. She'd been surprised that Cyrus had carried it from the house. He could have dropped it. Maybe he even should have, but he'd held on to it, made sure that she'd had it before he'd left.

She opened it, pulled out the flannel shirt that Stella had run through the wash five times. It didn't smell like smoke anymore. It smelled like fabric softener and detergent.

She shoved her arms through the sleeves like she'd done dozens of times when Joshua was alive, wishing that she was wrapping herself in his arms instead. His wedding ring glinted on her thumb as she took the Bible from the box.

It was the one thing he'd valued more than anything else. More than the rifle he'd inherited from his grandfather. More than the beautiful carvings he'd created. More than his tools, his shop behind his parents' house.

A tear dropped onto the faded cover, and she wiped it away.

Joshua wouldn't have wanted her to grieve forever. He wouldn't have wanted her to grieve at all. To him, death was simply a change in status and form, a new venue for the soul.

Another tear dripped onto the Bible, and she stood, impatient with herself. She hadn't cried in months, hated tears almost as much as she hated being holed up in a house while other people fought her battles. And that's what this was. A battle for the truth, and she was going to find it.

She carried the Bible across the room, stood in front of heavily curtained windows. She knew what she'd been told, she knew what she wasn't supposed to do.

Right at that moment, she didn't really care. She flicked off the lamp, plunged the room into darkness and pulled back the curtains.

The moon hung low in the sky, bathing distant treetops in gold and illuminating a large empty expanse of grass. The backyard. That's what she was looking at. No trees. No shrubs. Nothing for anyone to hide behind. She knew that was planned. Just like the dead-end road and the lack of neighbors was planned.

She unlocked the window, cracked it open, let early fall air sweep in. Nothing changed. No alarm sounded. No one pounded up the stairs and banged on her door. She wanted to be outside, sitting on the porch swing that hung from the eves, listening to the quiet sounds of rural life.

She grabbed her phone from the dresser. Essex had left another message. He'd spoken with Cyrus, was glad that she was okay.

She was glad one of them had spoken to Cyrus.

Not that she was bitter about it or anything, but it would have been nice to hear his voice, to know for sure that he was okay. He didn't have her phone number, but he could have called Stella or Boone, asked to speak to Lark. Better yet, he could have showed up at the farmhouse, filled her in on what they'd found, let her see for herself that he'd survived.

She frowned, surprised by how much she wanted to hear his voice, to see his face.

She paced back to the window, settled into the rocking chair there, Joshua's Bible in her lap, his shirt warming her.

She missed him every day. She always would, but maybe there was room in her life for something more than a lonely apartment, a job, her volunteer work.

She fingered the edges of the Bible, praying for the comfort she knew would come, the peace that she knew she would find. Eventually. For now, she let the cool breeze and the soft country sounds fill her mind.

She must have drifted off, because the creak of floorboards outside the room jerked her awake. She jumped up, the Bible clutched to her chest, the remnants of a nightmare still clinging to her mind.

The board creaked again, and her pulse jumped.

Someone was out there. Stella? Boone? Maybe they'd heard from Cyrus.

She flicked on the light, hurried to the door, yanked it open.

Cyrus stood in the hall, white shirt still covered with soot, eyes shadowed from too many hours of work and not enough sleep. Somehow, he still looked good.

“Did I wake you?” he asked, walking into the room, carrying the scent of smoke with him.

“Not really.”

“Which means I did.” He smiled. “I should have waited until morning.”

“If you had, I'd have woken in an hour, worrying and wondering what was going on.” She gestured to the rocking chair. “You should sit down. You look exhausted.”

“
You
should follow the rules,” he replied, crossing the room, shutting the window and pulling the curtains closed. “And I'm not going to sit down, because I'm still covered with soot, and Stella won't be happy if I smudge the fabric on that rocker.”

“We can go downstairs. The kitchen chairs are wood.”

“And the coffeepot is full, but,” he added, “I'm filled to the brim with coffee, and we're both tired, so it's probably better if I say what I have to say and let you get back to sleep.”

Say what had he to say?

That didn't sound good. Lark pulled the Bible a little closer, braced herself for whatever he was going to say. “What's going on?”

“We found a rocket launcher in the apartment across the alley from yours. The DEA is investigating, trying to figure out how it got into the country and into civilian hands. I suggested they take a look at Amos Way, search the storage sheds there.”