Bad Nights (4 page)

Jack Brandt snapped awake, every muscle tensing as he anticipated the pain of another blow or another burn at the hands of men who had been taught by an expert to inflict agony. But no fist smashed into his kidneys. No glowing cigarette pressed into his thigh.

Thank God. His mind had been fuzzy. Now it was clearer. Even if he probably had a concussion. The good news was that he wasn't dead, and when he moved his arms and legs, they seemed to be working.

The room where he lay was lit by a warm glow that he recognized as coming from an oil lamp. When he looked toward the light source, he saw the woman who'd brought him into her house. She was sitting in a wingback chair, a book in her lap, the gun on the table beside her, and her head lolling to the side. It looked like she'd tried to keep herself awake and failed.

Her name was… Morgan something. She'd told him, but he couldn't remember the rest.

Hoping not to wake her, he took an inventory of his injuries.

When he ran his tongue against his teeth, he was relieved to note they were all in place. And when he fingered his nose, he decided it wasn't actually broken—just battered.

Gingerly he touched the swollen tissue around his eye. The massive bruise was tender, but hopefully there wasn't any permanent damage to his vision.

Still, it wasn't all good news.

When he started to sit up, he felt a sharp stab in his ribs on the right side. Moving cautiously, he pushed himself to a sitting position and fought a wave of dizziness that had him cursing silently. He was relieved when it subsided after a moment. Scooting his body to the coffee table, he got enough leverage to pull himself to his feet. He waited to be sure of his balance, then inched to the nearest window where he saw the gray light that comes before dawn. Time to get out of here, if he could manage to stay mobile.

A while ago he'd been trying to remember a name that wouldn't come to him. Now it sprang to the front of his mind like a demon leaping out of the shadows.

Wade Trainer. The self-appointed head of his own tinhorn paramilitary organization. The Real Americans Militia. RAM for short.

It was a sure bet that Trainer and his men were beating the bushes for the fugitive right now.

Jack went still. Coming up with the militia leader's name had unleashed a flood of recent memories.

Hadn't it been storming last night? Jack remembered buckets of cold rain. Maybe the downpour had slowed them down or halted their search.

He looked back toward the woman to see if his moving around had awakened her, but she was still dead to the world. Good. Maybe he could find something to wear—and find a back way out of here before she realized he was missing.

As he took a step, pain laced through him. He gritted his teeth and drove past it. If he needed medical attention, he'd have to get it later. When he thought he had the pain under control, he looked toward the yawning darkness of the hall. There must be a bathroom down there somewhere.

He found the toilet and relieved his full bladder before peering at himself in the bathroom mirror.

The light coming through the window was low, but the battered visage that stared back made him wince as he saw the bruises, the crusted blood, and the eye that wasn't yet open.

The woman had been using a kerosene lamp. Which probably meant the electricity was out. But maybe there was still hot water in the tank. Turning on the tap, he let it run hot while he found a cloth and gingerly washed the dried blood off his nose and mouth.

As he did, memories of the beating zinged back to him. The bastards had worked him over pretty good, but he knew they were just doing their job. Or to put it another way, they were avoiding similar punishment, because Trainer's men ignored his orders at their peril.

The man was a stickler for discipline. The grunt who'd let Jack get away had made a bad mistake—leaning over a prisoner he thought was unconscious.

Jack had surprised him with a head butt, then slammed a fist into the guy's jaw before heaving himself off the torture table and dashing down the hall. Then what?

He had a vague memory of stealing an SUV and barreling out the main gate, then ending up in a ditch. After that he must have taken to the woods, intent on getting the hell out of there before he ended up buried in the camp garbage dump.

Apparently he'd escaped. But how far had he gotten from the compound in his battered condition? He had no way of knowing for sure. His guess was—not far enough.

He gripped the sink, steadying himself when a wave of dizziness swept over him. It passed, and he hoped he didn't have a hematoma bleeding into his brain.

Lifting his hand, he touched the lump on the back of his head. He wasn't quite sure where he'd gotten it. Hell, he wasn't perfectly sure what he'd been doing just before the torture session. When he tried to reach for
those
memories, they simply weren't there, which was probably a consequence of the blow to the head.

He clenched his fists. He had a feeling that whatever was missing was important. But when he strained to recall the missing hours of his life, the only thing he got for his efforts was a throbbing skull.

Looking for something to relieve the pounding in his head, he opened the medicine cabinet. On the bottom shelf, he found a bottle of over-the-counter painkillers and swallowed a couple with water cupped in the palm of his hand.

The woman had put salve on his burns. He found the tube and applied more before sticking his head out of the bathroom and looking down the hall. His hostess was still sleeping in the wingback chair. Given the cold and the storm, she'd probably saved his life by bringing him inside. He'd hate to return the favor by getting her killed.

He moved quietly into one of the bedrooms farther down the hall. The double bed was covered with a quilt. An oval rag rug lay on the pine floorboards. Across from the bed was a low dresser that held a lamp and old-fashioned washbasin and pitcher. When he tried to switch on the lamp, nothing happened, and he reminded himself about the electricity.

In the darkened room, he turned to the taller chest near the door. When he started opening drawers, he found men's folded jeans and shirts. From the husband she'd mentioned, presumably. He pulled on jeans that were a little short and a button-down cotton shirt that was an inch too short in the arms. For good measure he took an extra shirt. His luck held when he found socks and tennis shoes in the bottom of the closet. They were a size too big, but better than too tight, he thought as he kept exploring.

He'd probably have to rough it in the woods for a few days. Was there anything else he could use? He found a sleeping bag in the closet.

Again he stuck his head into the hall and saw that the woman named Morgan hadn't shifted her position in the chair. Steadier on his feet, he entered a second bedroom where he found a couple of backpacks with useful items like water bottles, ponchos, a flashlight, knife, and wooden matches.

Was there a back door? He'd take the stuff and get out of Morgan's life before she was even sure she'd really brought a naked man into the house.

Back in the bathroom, he filled two water bottles and stuffed them into the packs. Did she have any food in the kitchen that he could grab?

He shouldn't risk it, but the thought of food made his stomach rumble. Another good sign. He wasn't too sick to eat, and apparently his stomach wasn't punctured.

He made his way quietly down the hall and slipped into the kitchen. There was a box of crackers on the counter, and he found sliced cheese in the refrigerator. Probably what she'd had for dinner. He ate some and washed the food down with water from the sink.

Feeling a twinge of guilt, he took a quick inventory of the kitchen and found granola bars and fig cookies. One of his favorites. There was also canned food, but he shouldn't spare the energy to carry it. He did, however, take a knife that looked like it would be useful, rationalizing his pilfering with the knowledge that Morgan would be well rid of him.

After wrapping the knife in a dish towel, he returned to the bedroom, where he stuffed the stolen items into his pack. He hadn't spotted a back door, but a window would do just fine, since the house was only one story.

If he'd had any money, he would have paid for the stuff he'd taken, but that wasn't an option. He'd just have to chalk it up to necessity.

As he congratulated himself on making a clean getaway, he heard a knock at the door and went stock-still.

Christ!

Morgan was in trouble. Unless that was the electric company at the door, coming to ask about her service.

Yeah, right.

He wanted to run down the hall and grab her before she could answer, but racing was still beyond him. And calling out would give him away.

As the knock came again, he moved toward the sound, judging his balance and his fighting potential.

Morgan's back was to him as she faced the door. “Who is it?” she asked, and he was glad she had the sense to keep the barrier between herself and the people outside.

“Federal Agents Richards and Becker. We need to talk to you, ma'am.”

Federal agents my ass
, he thought.

“What's this about?” she asked, playing dumb.

“We're looking for a fugitive reported to be in this area, and we need your cooperation.”

Jack shook his head as he recognized the voice as one of Trainer's men.

“Reported by whom?”

“A local resident.”

“I haven't seen anyone,” she answered, her voice not quite steady.

“We need to verify that.”

“You'll have to take my word for it.”

“I'm afraid we can't do that.”

“Hold up your identification.”

Apparently the men outside had had enough of playing federal agents—and enough of Morgan's stalling tactics. Without making another plea for cooperation, they hit the door with something solid.

Jack was in no shape for a confrontation, but that didn't stop him. He was already halfway down the hall when the lock broke and the door burst inward. He was moving faster than he thought possible, given that he'd taken the beating of his life a few hours earlier.

But he wasn't going to let these bastards get away with whatever they had in mind for the woman who had saved his life. He kept his gaze on the two men who barreled into the room like Nazi storm troopers on a mission to round up and kill enemies of the state. Despite the false names they'd given, he knew they were Danforth and Ryder, two of Trainer's most loyal men. But not two of his smartest.

Danforth saw him coming and was dumb enough to waste his breath and precious seconds on a victory shout. “Like I thought, the lying prick's here.”

Jack ignored the jibe and put on a desperate burst of speed, bashing into the militiaman with his shoulder and knocking him against the wall. It was lucky the guy stayed on his feet because Jack was so off balance himself that he would have gone down too.

Instead, he was able to follow the shoulder slam with a fist to the man's jaw.

Danforth struck back, and Jack took a blow to his already-injured cheek.

The counterattack only made him madder. He ducked low and gave Danforth a one-two punch to the gut. As the militiaman went down, Jack noted in some part of his mind how good it felt to smash the guy.

It was only a temporary victory. Danforth bent over and flailed out, grabbing Jack's foot and pulling it out from under him. He struggled to keep his balance but lost the battle and ended up sprawled on the floor, where Danforth leaped on him.

It had all happened in a few short seconds. As he grappled with Danforth, Jack saw that Ryder was still on the loose. He whipped around, his weapon pointed at Jack.

But in focusing on the escapee, the fake federal agent took his attention off Morgan. The gun was still in her hand, and Jack wondered if she could fire.

Instead, she brought the butt of her pistol down on his skull with a resounding crack, and he dropped, sprawling unmoving on the pine floorboards.

As Jack struggled with Danforth, he felt his strength failing. He was an expert at hand-to-hand combat, but he wasn't in good enough shape to finish off this bastard.

Still, he understood that failure meant Morgan's death. Calling on every ounce of reserve he possessed, he kept grappling with the attacker, each of them scrabbling to get the advantage as they rolled across the floor, punching and kicking, the fight as inelegant as it was desperate. Trainer's man was trying to get off a killing shot with the gun that was still in his hand. Jack was trying to keep himself or Morgan from getting hit.

And he was losing the fight.

In desperation, Danforth grabbed Jack's hair and tried to slam his head against the floor. Jack wrenched away, feeling hair come out by the roots. Hoping to end the struggle quickly, he raised a hand and stiffened his fingers, going for the man's eyes. Danforth screamed and jerked his head back.

Again, it was Morgan who made the difference.

“Stop or I'll shoot,” she shouted.

When neither combatant paid any attention to her, she fired a round into the floor inches from Danforth's head.

The man flinched away, and Jack used the opportunity to slam an elbow into his face. To Jack's relief, the militiaman made a gurgling sound and went slack.

Jack pushed the guy to the side and sat up. His vision went murky, and he spent a few moments struggling to keep from blacking out.

“Jack!” Morgan stared at him wide-eyed.

“I'm okay. Do you have some rope?”

Morgan didn't move, obviously suffering from the shock of what had happened.

“Rope,” he repeated, his voice going hard as granite. “Before these guys wake up.”

She blinked. “Right.”

Shaking herself into motion, she hurried to the kitchen while Jack stayed on the floor, breathing heavily and struggling to stay conscious. His plan had been to clear out of the house before Morgan woke up. That was impossible now, and he saw with new clarity that it would have been a fatally wrong move, because he could easily imagine what would have happened in his absence.

These two bozos would have broken in, seen the ground cloth and the blanket on the floor, and assumed that their quarry had been here. Then they would have dragged Morgan back to Trainer's compound, where the boss man would have started throwing questions at her. Questions Morgan couldn't answer, because she didn't know anything beyond the basics of finding a naked man stumbling around in the woods. But Colonel Trainer wouldn't have believed her story, and he would have ended up using the same methods he'd used on Jack. He shuddered, trying not to think about it. Unfortunately, vivid pictures kept flashing through his mind.

When one of the men on the floor stirred, Jack kicked him in the head, and he went still again. He would have liked to shoot these two bastards so they couldn't give Trainer any information, but he wasn't going to make Morgan accessory to what the legal system would consider murder. Never mind that the two men on the floor burst in with murderous intent.

Morgan came back with cord.

“Keep them covered.”

While she held the gun on them, he worked quickly and efficiently, tying the hands and feet of both men, then testing the bonds. By the time he finished making sure they weren't going to cause any more problems, Ryder and Danforth were both stirring.

“Time to wake up.” When he gave Ryder a light kick in the ribs, Morgan winced.

The man's eyes snapped open and focused on Jack, his expression turning malevolent as he realized the tables were turned. Yet his words were defiant. “You're dead meat.”

“Oh yeah? You're in kind of an inconvenient position to make that statement,” Jack countered.

“We're not the only guys beating the bushes for you. When we don't come back, Trainer will be all over it.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.” He swung toward Morgan, who was staring at him as though she couldn't quite believe what was happening.

“We'd better take his advice and get out of here,” he said.

“I wouldn't count on it.” Ryder gave him a satisfied smirk, and Jack felt his stomach knot. Turning to the window, he looked outside. There was only one car in sight.

“You drive a Prius?” he asked Morgan.

“Yes.”

Which meant Trainer's men had come on foot, or parked their vehicle down the lane, out of sight. He searched through both men's pockets and found no keys. No cell phones. They had nothing with them except the two handguns they'd brought. And two extra clips. As per Trainer's rules, they'd carried off the operation with nothing that could identify them if they ended up dead or in police custody. Of course, if the militia leader thought they were going to keep their traps shut, he was being highly optimistic. These guys would crack like rotten eggs if they thought it would save their own miserable hides.

“You keep them covered,” Jack said. “Where are your car keys?”

“In my purse. In the pantry.”

He hurried to the kitchen, retrieved the purse, and fished inside for the keys. When he returned, he took Ryder's gun. Pushing the damaged door open, he waited for signs of activity outside. When there was none, he stepped onto the porch and looked around. The ground was strewn with leaves and small branches from last night's storm. The place was a mess, but as far as he could see, there were no other men lurking in the woods. Not yet.

He crossed to the car, unlocked the door, and slid into the driver's seat, but when he tried to start the vehicle, he didn't even get a cough from the engine. Remembering Ryder's smirk, he was pretty sure the man had disabled the vehicle before ever knocking on the door.

Shit!

When he returned to the house, Morgan took in his worried expression.

“What?”

“Looks like we're not taking your car.”

“Why?”

“They put it out of commission.”

“What are we going to do?”

He glanced at Ryder, who was listening avidly. “Tell you later,” he said as his mind worked on a plan.

They couldn't risk looking for the militiamen's car down the road. They'd have to go through the woods and take the long way around, because the road would probably be too dangerous, but he wasn't going to say that in front of the enemy.

As he sensed the problem, Ryder grinned at him.

Repressing the urge to kick the man in the face, Jack crossed to the kitchen, grabbed two dish towels, and used them as gags. Then he pulled Ryder across the living room and out the door onto the porch before doing the same with Danforth. When they were outside, he rolled them off the porch and left them lying on wet leaves in the front yard. Trying not to breathe hard, he watched them struggle for a few minutes, satisfied that they were secure before returning to the house.

Morgan was standing in the doorway, staring from him to the men he had just tossed out like sacks of garbage. “What are you doing?”

“Stowing them where there's not a chance they can hear us discussing our plans,” he clipped out as he came in and closed the door. It had been kicked in, and the lock no longer worked, but he hoped nobody could tell that from the outside.

“Won't… won't someone find them if you just leave them there?”

Her shaky voice tore at him. “Like he said, when they don't come back, their buddies will be looking for them. They know their assignment, so it doesn't make any difference if they're inside or out. The main point is that we have to get out of here—fast. And we're going to have to hoof it.”

She didn't move, and the doubt and confusion on her face made his chest constrict. They'd known each other for only hours, yet in some ways it felt like a lifetime. Before he could consider what he was doing, he reached for her and pulled her into his arms.

She held herself stiffly for a moment, then melted against him, her head dropping to his shoulder.

“You handled that like a pro,” he murmured as he cradled her in his arms, feeling her shaking in reaction. She might have been shocked and scared when Trainer's men had burst in, but she'd kept her head and defended herself—and him.

He stroked his hands over her back and shoulders. It felt amazingly good to hold her. Too good. He hadn't allowed a woman into his life since before Afghanistan. He hadn't been seeing anyone special, and he'd thought it wasn't fair to start something when he was leaving and might not come back.

But circumstances had thrust this woman into his path, and he was holding on to her like they meant something to each other, even when all the reasons for not getting involved with anyone still held. All those—and more. He should turn her loose immediately, but he couldn't do it. Not yet. Not when it felt like he had been out in the cold forever, and she was offering him her warmth.

Or more likely, it was the other way around. She was the one who needed him. Too bad he couldn't spare her more than a moment's comfort.

***

Morgan had been without a man since Glenn's death, and she liked it that way. Well, not liked it exactly. She knew that she was rationalizing, but she hadn't been able to imagine a relationship with anyone else besides her husband.

At this moment, she wasn't sure what she had with Jack No-Last-Name, but she allowed herself to lean on him as she tried to cope with everything that had happened in the past few minutes—or in the past eight hours, come to that. For a few moments, it was comforting to focus on the man who held her in his arms.

She was amazed by how much everything had changed since last night. When she'd found him in the woods and dragged him inside, he'd been barely functional. And when she'd examined him, she'd been appalled by his injuries. Today he seemed to be operating on what would pass for full power with most men, even when she was pretty sure he still wasn't up to par, not by his own standards.

She didn't know much about him. But she'd seen him in action a few minutes ago and knew he was capable of extraordinary bravery and of calling on hidden reserves of energy when he went into defender mode. When the knock had sounded on the door, he could have tried to get out of there before the invaders discovered him. Instead, he'd come charging down the hall to rescue her from men who had as much regard for her as they might have for a cornered mouse.

He'd knocked them out of commission, then started thinking ahead. He was a tough, decisive guy, competent and sure of his actions. Yet the way he was holding her told her that he had a tender side.

She marveled at what she was feeling now. Last night, before he'd stumbled out of the woods, she'd been dragging herself along, fighting the deadened sensations in her mind and body.

Now her heart was pounding, and all her senses were more alive than they'd been in months. She hadn't even been sure she wanted to live. Danger had convinced her otherwise. Danger and whatever she was feeling for the man who held her.

“I'm damn sorry for dragging you into this,” he whispered, his lips brushing her ear and sending a shiver over her skin.

She nodded against his shoulder, then realized she couldn't simply accept the apology—or anything else—at face value.

“Those men aren't FBI agents, are they?”

“No.”

“Why are they after you?”

“Long story.”

Pulling herself together, she broke the contact with him, rearing back, angry with herself for giving in so easily to her needy feelings when she had to stay in control.

As much to convince herself as to convince him, she made her expression fierce. “I think you know you almost got me killed. Tell me what's going on right now—or get the hell out of here.”

His features were equally vehement. “I'm not going anywhere. Not without you.”

“Why not?”