Breach of Trust (8 page)

Tate flipped on his blinker and exited as though everything were normal, giving no indication he knew the guy was behind them.

“He followed. No one came off the highway behind him.”

“How far before there's no witnesses?”

“A mile, maybe a little bit more.”

Tate kneaded the steering wheel, antsy for the coming confrontation. At the end of this, there might be answers. “And how do you know this?” He flicked a glance to the rearview and then at her.

She was watching him. “Some things never change, including the idea you might need to run someday.”

Tate had to tear his attention away from her. He wanted to reach across the seat and pull her to him, try to soothe some of the hurt she still carried from those years she'd been alone. He wanted to tell her he'd be there for her.

But he couldn't. She'd confessed to an act questionable enough to land her in prison, even though he knew her well enough to believe she'd had no choice.

Anger at Phoenix blew even hotter. The man had manipulated a kid, one already bruised by the world, a kid who'd grown up to be a stellar operative and an even better person whose one dream was to stop other kids from hurting the same way she had. Meghan didn't deserve this.

He held the wheel tighter, trying to keep the truck and his thoughts steady. “You still keep a go bag packed by the back door, don't you?” He had no doubt there was a backpack hanging on a peg somewhere in her house, stocked with clothes and cash in case she needed to get out fast. Old habits died hard, and when your whole life was spent shuffling, they died even harder.

“Focus on the job, Walker. He's noticed the lack of civilization and he's gaining fast.”

Perfect. “I'm on it.” He'd already spotted the perfect place for a standoff. “Get ready.”

Tate planted his focus on the rearview and watched the car approach, calculating speed and distance. He had to do this perfectly, or they'd all find themselves in the ditch.

When the car was close enough for Tate to make out the man's facial features, he slammed on the brakes. Hard.

Tires screeched. Rubber burned into the cab of the truck. The seat belt jerked hard against his body, pinning him against the seat as Meghan grunted beside him.

And then more tires squealing and a metallic ripping sound as the car behind them veered off the road and into a field.

“You good?” Tate jammed the truck into Park, released his seat belt and reached for the door handle. He didn't want to give their guy a chance to run, but he needed to know Meghan was okay.

“Good.” She jammed the button on her seat belt and lifted the center console, sliding across the seat toward him.

Tate dropped beside the truck, keeping low, and crept to the rear or the vehicle, crouching behind the tire, gun drawn.

Meghan took a position at the front. “You see him?”

“Not yet.” Keeping low, he eased around the rear of the truck, trying to locate their target.

The small white sports car sat in the field, nose buried in the gray dirt. The driver's door hung open, the air bag limp inside, but no driver sat in the seat.

“He's out.” Tate wanted to pound his fist against the side of the truck. He'd hoped the impact would daze the guy enough to give Meghan and him time to take an offensive position. Now they were on a level playing field until they could flush out the other man's whereabouts. Shifting into a crouch, he fired a directive to Meghan. “Making myself a target. If he shoots, watch for him.”

Her hefty sigh said she wanted to argue, but really, they had no other way to gain intel. She got into position. “Ready.”

Lord, don't let me get hit.
Tate fired off the quick prayer and leaned farther around the bed of the truck, leading with his pistol, tensed for whatever would come.

A bullet thwacked into the opposite taillight, shattering the plastic as Tate threw himself backward. “Tell me you saw him.” Because he really didn't want to risk taking a hit again.

“On the other side of the car, near the rear window.” She held her gun as if it were an extension of her arm; time clearly had not dulled her muscle memory. “And a bullet in the truck I'm going to have to explain to the Snyders now.” She twisted a wry grin before growing serious again. “There's two of us and one of him. And we have the height advantage. We can lay down suppressive fire and flank him.”

“No cover.” The space between them and the other man was wide-open. Even with both of them firing, the guy simply had to get off one clean shot. And the worst-case scenario was they killed their lone suspect before they got to ask questions that might lead to the answers needed to end this once and for all.

“You have a better idea?” There was an edge to her voice. She didn't like it when he dismissed her plans quickly, but there wasn't time to argue. She edged around the front of the truck, trying to get a clearer vantage point. “How about we call in a helicopter and an F-16 and nuke him out of the field?”

“Sarcasm? Really, McGuire?” He'd forgotten the way stress pulled out her twisted humor. “We're all three hemmed in for now, and we're short on time. Sooner or later, a bystander's going to come along and I'm not sure our boy won't shoot an innocent.” Tate tapped his finger on the barrel of his pistol. “The truck's a four-wheel drive?”

Meghan grinned. “Yeah. But it's no armor-plated tank. Want to rush him?”

“You'll probably have a lot more bullet holes to explain.”

“Oh, well.” She slid toward the driver's door and eased it open. “After the first one, will more really make a difference?” She slipped into the truck, keeping low.

Tate followed, knowing he couldn't keep out of target range for long before he had to put himself into position to drive. Well, he'd have to trust God had gotten him this far and wouldn't drop the protection now. “Ready?”

“As I'll ever be.”

The truck roared to life as Tate twisted the key and shifted into four-wheel drive, making a hard right and barreling across the shallow ditch toward their target. He braced himself for gunshots.

But they didn't come.

The man stood and walked toward them, arm raised and weapon loose in his hand as Tate ground the truck to a stop.

Tate focused on his face, trying to memorize the features. They locked eyes, and Tate knew with certainty. This was the same man who'd executed Isaac's crew and let him walk away alive.

A phenomenon he probably wouldn't allow twice.

“What's he doing?” Meghan had her pistol raised, sighting on the man through the windshield.

“I'm going to find out. Keep him and me both alive.” Tate shoved the door open and leveled his gun on their pursuer as he rounded the front of the truck, leaving himself without a barrier. Behind him, the passenger door popped opened. Meghan would cover him. Later, she'd kill him for being stupid.

Fine.
He wanted answers and he was going to get them. “Gun down.” He fired the command, keeping his own pistol level, his elbows tucked close.

The man laughed, his ice-blue eyes remaining cold as the gun dangled from one finger. “You'll have to shoot me, and I don't think you want to risk losing what I know.”

“Don't tempt me.”

“My death won't get you any answers.”

Frustration dug into Tate's shoulders, and he worked to keep his muscles loose.
Control.
Situational control was shifting from power to knowledge. He had to regain it somehow.

Tate dropped his aim and crept slowly closer. “A blown knee won't do you any favors.” He shifted his aim again. “And I'm sure you know a gut shot won't kill you straight off. Just make you wish it had.” He leveled the pistol. “Gun down. Now. You have no other out.”

The end was close. Tate could taste it. The level of assassin this guy probably was, they could threaten him with anything to get him to talk about what he knew. Surely there was a string of unsolveds with this guy's fingerprints all over them. Leverage. He had a new avenue to aim straight for Phoenix.

“There's always an out.” The man flicked a gaze to Meghan, then to Tate. “Though it's not always the best way.” He whipped the gun higher as Tate fired, Meghan's pistol a retort behind him.

Then a third shot as their sole informant pressed the gun to his own temple and pulled the trigger.

EIGHT

T
he sweetly bitter scent of fresh coffee drifted from the open kitchen window onto the small covered deck at the rear of the farmhouse. Meghan ran her hands along the rough wood railing, calculating the time needed to sand everything bare and repaint it pristine white.

Pristine white.
The way she wished her mind was. If she could sandpaper the images away, she would. It had been a long time since she'd pulled the trigger. Since someone died in front of her. Her shot had been wide and their suspect had taken his own life, but still...the blood. The violence. It would never not turn her stomach, the clamp doubly tight this time because he took his answers with his life.

Tate had called Ethan, who'd called the authorities to step in, allowing Tate and Meghan to guard the body and make a quick search of the car before disappearing when the sirens drew close. With the operation ongoing, Tate couldn't afford to risk what little cover he had left. They'd processed the small sports car, finding nothing of value. Ashley had run the plates and found the vehicle stolen, meaning the whole mess had landed them nothing but another death.

Tate had been silent all the way to the farmhouse, and past experience said it best. He'd stay silent. They would never discuss the death they'd seen today. Each would deal with it their own way, their mutual silence the one way to keep the images from etching in deeper.

Meghan dug into the railing, itching to take sandpaper to the weathered wood, to make something beautiful out of the faded, splintered mess. The ache that much sanding would drag across her shoulders and back would be preferable to the one eating away at her insides.

It would be fabulous if she could scrub away today's images and her past the same way she could get rid of the old paint clinging to bare wood.

Sighing, she sipped her too-hot coffee and let the bitter brew burn its way down, then rested her forehead against the porch post. She definitely wasn't cut out for this anymore. She should have fired sooner, incapacitating him, but she'd held back for answers, a hesitation she'd never have made in the past.

Meghan pressed her palms against her eyes and watched the swirls of color that played in the pressure. There was nothing to do about it now. In a little while, Tate would come downstairs from where he was probably unsuccessfully trying to sleep, and he'd want answers from her since he couldn't get them from their dead suspect.

Dread fused with the sick knot in her stomach. She needed to move, to forget, even for a few minutes. When she'd choked down her coffee, she'd finish painting the window trim. Then, when Phoebe arrived, they could paint the living room and maybe get the front door hung. By the time Phoebe left, Tate should be awake and Meghan could face whatever condemnation he doled out.

Condemnation that might trash every bit of the work she was doing here. Phoebe Snyder might be one of Meghan's only real friends—especially since Yvonne had stepped off the tracks—but even she couldn't override the board of her own foundation. Once they got wind of the danger Meghan was in now and the things she'd done in the past, they would never trust her. And then where would she go?

The floorboards in the house creaked a rhythm indicating Tate was awake and wandering. And like most good soldiers, he was following the smell of strong coffee.

She glanced at her watch. If he'd slept, it had been for twenty minutes. Probably, he'd stared at the ceiling, then conceded defeat. Well, he should have slept longer, because as soon as he found Meghan, they'd have to discuss her past, and a well-rested Tate would handle her transgressions better than one running on leaded coffee and sheer willpower.

It was a couple of minutes before he stepped out with his own steaming mug. He took a position at the rail about six feet away and stared at the woods. After a moment, he yawned and scrubbed his hand back and forth across the top of his head, standing his dark hair on end.

A familiar gesture if she'd ever seen one, and it brought Meghan a moment of peace. Whenever he was tired, he'd do that, and the muss he left behind had, near the end, left Meghan wanting to reach over and smooth it all into place.

She bit down on a smile, more of her heart giving way to him. Right now, she was too tired to care her thoughts were dangerous.

Until he looked at her. Her cheeks flushed, and she took a sip of coffee and turned away, hoping he wouldn't notice. She swallowed hard, scalding her throat. Desires like these were the reasons she'd let Ethan talk her into walking away from the job. Getting too close to your partner could get you both killed.

Getting too close to anyone was dangerous. Meghan had watched love grow and die too many times, and she wasn't about to risk her heart the same way she'd watched her mother do over and over. The same way she'd watched other kids in the system do and then be left broken, pregnant...or worse.

Tate leaned on the porch rail and watched Meghan over his coffee cup. He took a long sip, then smiled. “I see some things never change.”

Meghan jerked, sloshing hot coffee onto her wrist. Surely he hadn't developed the ability to read her mind. “What?”

“You still make coffee thick as mud and strong as an ox.”

“Oh.” She sat her mug on the railing and swiped hot coffee off her arm with the hem of her T-shirt. She kept her gaze on the faint pink burn.

“What did you think I meant?”

She shrugged. This subject needed to change. Fast. She definitely did not need him to figure out her imagination was tripping down the aisle with him. “What's your plan?”

“For the moment?” He pointed to the small lawn that ran from the rear of the house to the tree line, his amusement fading. “Mow the grass.”

“Excuse me?”

“I need to move, to do something before I drown in my own thoughts.” He dragged his hand along the porch railing and studied the paint chips stuck to his fingertips. “It sorts out the mess and lets me think.”

She'd forgotten his quirky way of dealing with life's puzzles. In times past, he'd often wandered to the motor pool after a mission to see if he could find something to work on with his hands while his brain downshifted and his subconscious toyed with their immediate problems.

“I've got a lot to sort out.” He watched her, the meaning a whole lot heavier than it sounded. “We're going to have to play this one slow. I'm warning you, Meg. You have to second-guess everything with this guy. He wields a lot of power if he can make a killer take his own life rather than talk.”

True.
“So for now...”

“We regroup, wait for your program to give us a hit on our hacker's location.” He tapped his thumb on his coffee mug. “Not to reopen a sore subject, but you really should send your software to Ashley and let her give it a once-over. She's got a similar program running, but I'm sure she'd love to see yours, if you're willing. Maybe the two of you together can hit on some results.”

Meghan shrugged. She still had plenty to say to Ethan, but she couldn't hold his hypocrisy against Ashley or her former teammates. “I'll upload it from the secure server upstairs in a little bit.”

“I'll let her know it's coming.” He stopped, but he looked as though he approved of the fact she was still using her talents and not letting them lapse. Then, just as quickly, he was back to business. “Anyone know you're out here?”

“Yvonne knows I'm working on the house for the foundation, but she has no address.” She waved off the warning he had yet to speak. “She's safe. I've known her since high school. And until today...” She fought the hurt once again, the same hurt she'd felt every time her mom vanished. “She's been in my life way too long to be the one you need to worry about.”

“I worry about everybody in your life right now.”

The low rumble in his voice was probably more intimate than he'd meant it to be, but Meghan held on to the sentiment, wrapping the promise of protection around herself. She only relaxed into it for a moment, though. If Yvonne's behavior had done nothing else, it had reinforced the belief no one stayed around very long. Even Tate would move on soon enough, and the sooner she remembered people would always disappoint her, the better off her heart would be.

She forced her attention to his original question, to the mission. “The only other person is Phoebe Snyder. She comes out most weekends to work on the house with me. She's the chair of the Snyder Foundation. In fact, she's the one who hired me. And who might have to fire me.” Her thoughts darkened like a cloud blocking the sun.

“Meg, listen.” Tate's voice shifted, and he stepped closer until the heat of him brushed her skin. “You were young, you were scared and you were blackmailed. You've done everything you could to make it right. You've got a stellar military career behind you, and I think your work for the country will outweigh anything else.” He exhaled loudly. “You should know without me having to say it that it doesn't change what I think of you. It won't change what anyone who knows you thinks, either. As far as I'm concerned, it never has to go beyond this unit, and they need to know because it's pertinent to this mission.”

His meaning took a moment to sink in. He wasn't condemning her, wasn't showering her with scathing distrust. It was more than she could handle, especially after two days of heavy-duty body blows. “Thank you.” The gratitude came out soft, but he must have heard it because he lifted his hand, brushing his thumb against her cheek and watching her as though he had something more to say.

His touch jolted through her, vibrating beneath her skin. Whatever was softening his eyes right now, Meghan wanted to sink into it and never come up for air again.

She needed a change of subject or else her heart was in greater danger than Phoenix could ever conceive. Stepping away, she tried to will her pulse into a normal rhythm. “You might not know what to do next, but I can give you a plan for the immediate future.”

For a second, Tate acted as though he wasn't going to let her go easily, but then he slipped away and reached for his coffee. “What's the plan?” His voice was deeper than usual, a husky tone that swept over her soul.

A tone she had to ignore to save herself when he inevitably took off on another mission. “I've got to hang a new front door, which is a two-person job. After you finish your mower-powered thinking, you can help me.”

Tilting his mug, Tate drained coffee that had to be scalding. He didn't even wince. “Work would be good.”

Truer words were never spoken. If Meghan didn't get moving soon, she'd spend way too much time in her imagination. And if Tate kept talking, he might take up permanent residence in her heart.

* * *

The hum of the old push mower drifted over the house from the backyard as Meghan dragged another coat of paint across a window frame. Tate had spent a large chunk of the morning tinkering with the machine in the shed, trying to get it to run.

Meghan had left him alone. He needed manual labor to get his mind straight the same way she'd needed to slap paint onto wood until some of the confusion and pain ebbed. She'd tethered her computer to Tate's secure satellite phone and uploaded her program to the address he'd given her, resisting the urge to pepper Ethan's wife with questions about what had changed to make him turn his back on his own code.

She smacked the brush against the trim again with a little too much force, splattering paint on the window. After grabbing a rag off the porch floor, she scrubbed at the spots. When this was over, Ethan had a lot of answers to give her about why he'd steered her away from Tate while popping the question to Ashley.

Meghan rolled her shoulders, trying to shake off the tension, then slipped her brush into the pail to reload. She paused at the smooth purr of an engine. Setting the brush aside, she turned slowly, not touching her gun but mentally measuring how long it would take to reach it. The thought of using it again curled her insides.

Phoebe Snyder's silver luxury sedan glided to a stop near the porch.

Meghan relaxed. So far, no one had shown any indication that they knew Tate and Meghan were here, so it was safe for Phoebe to drop by. Telling her not to come would raise more red flags than letting her follow her routine as usual.

Besides, Phoebe was a safe intrusion who brought some much-needed distraction. The pair had been close since they'd met freshman year at Michigan State, and Meghan had stood by Phoebe when her marine brother was killed in a friendly fire incident overseas. Phoebe had drifted for a while, grieving for her brother with fierce anger that had divided their friendship, but they'd reunited almost two years ago when Phoebe found her bearings and started the foundation to foster kids through difficult times in memory of her brother.

Meghan counted Phoebe as the sister she'd never had. Her father owned a plant that made engine components for the auto industry. Through some savvy business practices, Snyder Industries had weathered the migration of factories to other countries, remaining profitable enough to fund the foundation Phoebe had started. Relieved to see his daughter overcome her grief, Clinton Snyder had been more than willing to finance her dream.

Phoebe slid out of the car, decked out in paint-stained blue jeans and a shirt from a college fun run, her ponytail straggling blond tendrils around her makeup-free face. Her presence was what Meghan needed to soothe the last of her pain. She'd embrace Phoebe's friendship for as long as the other girl offered it.

Phoebe tossed her a wave as she pulled two huge plastic bags from the trunk, hefting her home improvement haul to the porch. “You've been busy this morning.”

A galactic understatement. “Decided to get moving on the outside. The sooner we get done, the faster we get the kids here.”

“You got that right. The trim turned out amazing. I'll dump this inside, and we can start on the living room. Or we can finish out here. I'm ready for anything.” Phoebe stopped at the steps and tilted her head, arching one perfect eyebrow. “Is someone mowing the grass?”