Bad Nights (7 page)

They stayed in position, waiting for the man to finish. He finally zipped up his pants, turned away from the tree, and fixed his gaze toward the house.

Jack looked toward Morgan and saw her face working and her jaw muscles tensing as she tried to hold back another cough. He gripped her hand, wishing there were some way to help her.

She squeezed his fingers hard, and he knew she was trying her best to stay quiet. Her body shook, and she made small choking sounds, but finally she lost the battle to stay silent.

She gave Jack a desperate look as her chest heaved, and a wracking set of coughs shook her.

Gibson went still, then turned, his gaze searching the underbrush, swinging past them as he sought the source of the noise.

It was almost comical to watch his face register surprise and then triumph as he spotted them. Raising his gun, he charged forward toward the people he'd thought were trapped in the burning house.

***

Shane Gallagher crumpled up a paper coffee cup and tossed it toward the trash can with a snap of his arm. It went in, and he glanced up to see Max Lyon staring at him. They were both tough-looking men in their early thirties with dark hair and dark eyes, men you wouldn't want to anger.

In fact, both were seasoned veterans of police work—Shane with the Howard County PD and Max with the Army.

They were sitting in the comfortable lounge at the back of the Rockfort Security Agency because both of them had given up on productive work the night before.

The offices were located in an upscale industrial park that was laid out in a wooded area on the north edge of Rockville, Maryland, not far from Washington, D.C. Most of the tenants were small businesses, among them a furniture distributor, a computer repair and maintenance company, and a health food distributor; but the location suited the Rockfort men because the rent was low and there was no hassle for parking spaces.

Inside, they'd done extensive modifications. The lounge where they sat had been furnished much like a classic man cave, with tan leather couches and easy chairs, a scarred coffee table, and a neutral rug that didn't show coffee stains. There was also a small refrigerator for beer and soft drinks. They and Jack Brandt had outfitted it when they started the agency because they'd known they could be spending long hours on the job, and they wanted a place to relax. Next to the seating area was a small bedroom where they could bunk if necessary.

Shane and Max had both been in the office all night, but neither of them had tried to sleep. They were waiting for a phone call from Jack—a call that had never come. There had been no need to stay there, of course. Jack could have called either one of them on their cell phones, but when he hadn't, they'd agreed to stay together.

Max broke the silence that had stretched into the past few hours. “We're both thinking the same thing.”

Shane's attention snapped to his partner. “Yeah.”

They'd been expecting Jack to check in during a ten-hour window—which had come and gone eighteen hours ago.

“He's in trouble,” Max said.

“Do we call Deep Throat?”

Max shook his head. “He's not going to help us.”

Deep Throat was their nickname for the man who had come to Rockfort with the offer of a covert assignment.

He'd introduced himself as a government lawyer named Arthur Cunningham. Obviously not his real name. As for his real occupation, they had decided he must work for the CIA since the spy agency was supposed to focus on espionage activities in foreign countries. Because a domestic assignment was beyond their mandate, the job was being offered under the table.

Cunningham had kept his identity hidden and played his cards close to his vest, refusing to give out any details about the job until Rockfort had accepted the offer. Shane didn't like that approach. He suspected that other security agencies had turned the assignment down flat, but Jack had wanted to consider it.

After the three agents had discussed the proposal, Shane and Max had voted against taking the job. Jack had argued that the money was too good to turn down. And the others hadn't stopped him from going ahead with the risky venture, because that wasn't the way Rockfort worked.

“This whole deal was a freaking mistake,” Shane muttered.

“He wanted to do it, and he said he could handle it,” Max answered.

Shane made an exasperated sound. “And we should have talked him out of it.”

“You know he wasn't going to let us do that.”

Shane answered with a tight nod. “I'd started thinking maybe we were wrong—that it was going okay.”

Max raised his hand in a gesture of frustration. “How did your mom act when you came home way late?”

Shane couldn't repress a grin. “She'd be mad as hell—and at the same time relieved. Are you saying that's the way you feel?”

“Yeah. He shouldn't have pushed it. He should have gotten the hell out of there after six weeks when he couldn't get any information on Trainer's target. He probably took some crazy chance and got himself cornered.”

Max climbed out of his chair and walked to the other side of the room, where he stood leaning a shoulder against the wall.

The bond among the three men was strong. They'd gotten caught in a drug raid at a Miami nightclub. After keeping order together all night in a downtown holding cell full of druggies and petty criminals, they got out in the morning and went out for beer. They ended up forming the Rockfort Security Agency because they were all looking for a new way to apply the skills they'd learned in their former careers. When they discovered that two of them were from the Baltimore-Washington area, they picked the Rockville location because it was convenient and because they'd gotten a good deal on the rent.

They'd been together for over a year now, taking cases that had confounded other agencies, and every job had been a success.

Which might be why Jack had thought he could get away with a one-man invasion of the most dangerous militia organization in the country.

Now it looked like the assignment had blown up in his face, unless he was just in a position where he couldn't check in.

Shane had been thinking all night about how to handle the present situation. “If we try to go in there, and they're holding him, that could be the thing that gets him killed.”

“And not going in could have the same effect,” Max shot back.

“We have to give it a few more hours,” Shane said.

“We already have.”

Shane answered with a nod.

“And then what?”

They were both silent for several moments, both thinking about how long Jack could stand up under torture. This wasn't like a TV program. Eventually everyone cracked. Or died.

“I think we're on our own. Maybe our best bet is to pretend we're on a fishing trip and see how close we can get to the militia compound.”

“A fishing trip. More like a fishing expedition.”

At least Gibson hadn't thought to give a shout of alarm to the other militiamen gathered around the burning house. That and his momentary hesitation gave Jack the precious seconds he needed to derail the attack. Ignoring the pain in his ankle, he sprang forward, catching the guy in the legs and bringing him down with a muffled thud in the fallen leaves. As he fell, he was already struggling like a madman to get the gun back into firing position. They rolled through a pile of leaves and sticks, Jack trying to keep the guy from firing, but the militiaman was just as desperate to hang on to the weapon and get off a shot.

Neither of them had a clear advantage. Although Jack was vastly more skilled, he was still suffering from the effects of the fall. Gibson was highly motivated, but his technique was lacking.

As Jack whacked the man's gun hand against the ground, Morgan dashed in, still coughing and holding a piece of dead wood. She circled the fighters, trying to get a crack at Gibson. Before she could, Jack pounded the man's head against a rock sticking up on the ground.

As he made a strangled sound and went still, Jack disentangled himself, looking back toward the house to see if anyone had observed the ruckus. As far as he could tell, the rest of the militiamen were still firmly focused on the burning building.

“We have to get out of here,” Morgan wheezed.

Jack knew it wasn't that simple as he looked from her to the man he'd put out of commission. “Unfortunately, we can't leave him here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, when he comes to, he'll run back to the group and tell them he saw us. Then they'll know we got out of the house somehow. If that happens, we'll lose any advantage we had.”

“What are we going to do?”

Jack was still thinking aloud. “We can't shoot him.”

“Hide him?”

Jack shook his head. Earlier he'd told himself he would avoid involving Morgan in what the authorities might consider murder. Now he didn't see any choice. He was still thinking aloud when he said, “There's nowhere to hide him, and shooting him would be a dead giveaway. It's got to look like he had an accident.”

He looked around and spotted a dead tree about a hundred feet farther into the woods.

“Help me carry him.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Just help me carry him,” he ordered, knowing she wasn't going to like his plan. But he saw no option. Not if they had a chance of making a clean getaway.

She blinked as she heard the steel in his voice. When he lifted the man by the shoulders, Morgan simply stared at him.

“You have to help me,” he said, using the same tone of voice. “If I drag him, the marks will show.”

She gave Jack an uncertain look, then bent and picked up the man's feet. Moving as fast as they could with Gibson's dead weight between them, they carried him farther into the forest, toward the tree Jack had spotted.

“Right here.” Jack unceremoniously dropped the man's head and shoulders on the ground. Morgan lowered his feet more gently.

Jack glanced over his shoulder, making sure that the forest blocked the line of sight to the house. Then he craned his neck and looked up at the tree. The lower branches were too high for him to reach, but he could swing it if she helped him.

“Make a step with your hands and give me a boost up,” he said. “And when I get up there, step way back.”

This time she did as he asked without complaint, and he pulled himself up to a low branch, then higher, testing each foot- and handhold as he went, ignoring the pain in his ankle. Climbing was just what he needed at the moment.

About ten feet up, he found a rotted limb that he hoped he could bring down. Bracing himself below it, he pulled as hard as he could. At first nothing happened. After taking a moment to catch his breath and gather his strength, he pulled harder, giving it everything he had and felt it give. With one more massive yank, he brought it down. It hurtled past him and hit the ground with a muffled thump, landing on the unconscious man sprawled below.

Ignoring Morgan's gasp, he climbed back down and knelt beside the troop, feeling for a pulse in the neck. There was none.

He stepped back, examining the scene with an assessing eye. It wasn't a perfect setup, but it was the best he could do in faking an accident. Hopefully, it looked like Gibson had been standing in the wrong place at the wrong time when a branch had come down. Maybe it would work. Maybe it wouldn't, but it was their best shot.

Morgan's face was stark as she stared from him to Gibson and back again. “You killed him.”

“No choice. He was going to kill us. Or turn us in to Trainer. That would be worse.”

“You murdered him,” she accused.

“I'm an ex–Navy SEAL. We're trained to kill if it's necessary to keep ourselves alive.”

“You were a SEAL?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn't kill those other two men. The ones who came to the house.”

“No point in it. Trainer knew where they'd gone. He was going to come and investigate when they didn't report in.”

As she continued to stare at him, he said, “We'd better get the hell out of here before somebody notices he's missing and comes looking.”

When he reached for her hand, and she pulled her arm back, it felt like she'd slapped him across the face. It shouldn't matter what she thought of him, but something inside him seemed to go dead. A torrent of words clamored behind his closed lips. He longed to explain to her what it meant to be in a war and what choices you were forced to make. He suspected she probably wouldn't understand, and he didn't have the energy to spare.

Perhaps she'd come to recognize his point of view. Or perhaps she wouldn't. With a sigh he gestured toward a large oak about fifty feet farther on.

“Hide behind that tree. I'm going back for the sleeping bag—and to make sure nobody can tell there was a scuffle around here. And if they get me, run in the other direction as fast as you can.”

At least she didn't give him an argument about hiding. He waited until she had taken a position behind the tree trunk, then crouched low and hurried back the way they'd come, knowing that his throbbing ankle was going to be a problem.

As he moved from tree to tree, he kept checking out the men who had come to kill him and Morgan.

They seemed totally focused on the blazing spectacle. Still, he was careful as he made sure Trainer hadn't stationed anyone else in this section of the woods.

Working as quickly as he could, he scattered dry leaves over the spot where he and Gibson had fought, then retrieved the sleeping bag and the packs before reversing his direction, finally catching up with Morgan who was peering out from behind the tree.

Her expression was still closed, but at least she hadn't taken off without him.

“We'd better split before they figure out we escaped. They may do it anyway, but at least we'll have a head start.”

When she answered with a barely perceptible nod, then looked away, he felt the ache in his gut again. He wanted to reach for her and fold her close, the way he had after they'd bested the intruders. Was it possible to transmit what he was feeling from the physical contact? Perhaps if he understood his own feelings better. He'd been closed up for months, willing to take any dangerous case that Rockfort offered because he hadn't cared what happened to himself. That attitude had gotten him in big trouble.

And he understood now that his lack of success in figuring out Trainer's grand plan had made him reckless. Too bad the militia leader played his cards so close to his chest. He was pretty sure the man was planning an attack on D.C., but he had no idea of the method. Chemical weapons? Biological? Nuclear? It depended on his contacts and his funding.

Even though Wade Trainer never struck it rich in his lifetime, he'd somehow acquired enough money to fund an expensive militia operation. He'd paid cash for fifty acres in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was actually an old camp where wealthy parents had sent their preteen sons to toughen them up in the wild. The camp director had talked a good game, convincing moms and dads who were worried about their offspring's soft upbringing that he would turn them into men. But when a boy had finally cracked and revealed that the fifty-year-old director was taking good-looking young boys into his bed, the place had been closed down and the owner thrown into jail.

That had cut the price of the property, but it was still a lot of cash for a guy like Trainer. Ditto the money he'd spent on modifying the buildings and buying enough guns and ammo to outfit a banana republic.

His recruits were men who felt that the American system had given them the shaft. Men who were looking for a way to get even. Most had been in some branch of the armed forces, usually guys who had been less than honorably discharged.

Jack had learned all that and more before he'd put himself in a position to be noticed by Trainer by showing up at a bar the guy frequented and picking a fight with another patron. And he'd convinced himself he had enough background to fit in with the other Real Americans Militia recruits. But he understood now that he'd left out an essential ingredient—an emotional investment in the job. Or more to the point, an emotional investment in himself.

And since Morgan had rescued him, he had discovered that he cared in a way he hadn't anticipated, although now it was more about her than himself.

As those thoughts went through his head, rain began to fall again. A good thing, if you wanted to wipe out evidence. Not so good if you were roughing it in the woods on a cold night.

He struggled to repress a shudder as he considered the mess he and Morgan were in.

If he hadn't been functional when those two goons had showed up, she'd have ended up dead, and now he was obligated to get her to safety. Only it felt like more than an obligation. She wasn't just some person who'd save his life. She was Morgan Rains, a strong resourceful woman he'd very quickly come to admire.

He knew she didn't return the admiration. Not now.

Sliding her a sidewise look, he saw that her expression was still grim as she walked through the rain beside him.

Was he slowing her down now? Would she have a better chance without him? He wished he knew.

He started searching through the underbrush and cut a sapling he could use as a walking stick, a stick about four feet long. Leaning on it, he took some of the weight off the ankle.

It helped, but not enough.

***

As Morgan tramped along beside the man who had rescued her, she tried to evaluate his mental stability, wishing she had continued as a clinician. But she'd gone into teaching because of an incident that still made her cringe.

She'd been doing an internship at Springfield State Hospital and been working with a man named Leonard Wrigley, who was severely depressed. He'd responded favorably to her in their sessions, and she'd thought she was making progress with him—until it had all blown up in her face. One of the hospital aides had found Wrigley hanging in the shower—in time to cut him down and save his life, as it turned out.

But it had been a daunting introduction to clinical practice for Morgan, even though the hospital's chief psychiatrist assured her that the suicide attempt wasn't her fault. At the time, she knew that George Mason University was looking for an associate professor of psychology, and she'd applied for the job. With her outstanding academic record, she'd beaten out a whole slew of other candidates. She'd stayed at the school and worked her way up in the department to full professor.

Now she looked over at Jack Brandt. He'd just cold-bloodedly killed a man. Not in the heat of battle but with a cunningly conceived and executed plan. Did that mean she was in the clutches of a psychopath? Or sociopath? Or someone with an antisocial personality? Whatever you wanted to call it.

She'd taught an abnormal psychology course, and she was familiar with the type, at least in theory. Grimly she began ticking off the characteristics in her head.

Psychopaths came across as charming. They had a grandiose sense of self-worth. They were cunning and manipulative and good liars. They were emotionally shallow and lacked remorse or guilt. They failed to accept responsibility for their actions, had poor behavior control, lacked realistic long-term goals, were impulsive and irresponsible, as well as criminally versatile.

Going down the list of traits occupied her mind for a while, and when she was finished, she was feeling better about the grim-faced Navy SEAL walking beside her. Much as she hated what he'd done when he'd deliberately dropped that tree limb on the man, he wasn't following a classic psychopathic pattern.

He hadn't tried to manipulate her. He'd seemed genuinely remorseful after the episode where he'd thrown her against the wall in the tunnel. And he hadn't come across as impulsive or irresponsible.

He was trying to save his own life. And hers. And much as she hated some of his methods, she believed they might be due to his SEAL training, unless he was lying about that and everything else.

What's more, now that she had time to consider his decision to drop the tree branch on the man, she couldn't fault his logic. If the attacker could have told Trainer that they'd escaped into the woods, then the men who'd watched the house burn would already be in hot pursuit.

Would Glenn have had the guts to do the same thing?

The question brought her up short. Why was she thinking about her deceased husband
now
? He had no place in this scenario. He never would have gotten her into this kind of trouble. He'd had a safe job. A safe life, and he'd liked it that way. They both had, until fate had stepped in and changed everything.

Too bad she hadn't played it safe yesterday. She'd gotten herself into trouble by bringing Jack inside. But she knew there was no way she would have done anything differently if she'd gotten the chance. Regardless of the consequences, she would have taken Jack Brandt in.