Escape Out of Darkness (7 page)

“Why the hell didn’t you say so?” She wheeled around, diving through the door with Mack on her heels, and moments later they were clattering down the stairs. Three flights down, she flung her body against the wall, gesturing Mack to do the
same, and they stayed there, listening, for what seemed an eternity.

“They didn’t see us,” she gasped. “So far so good. Let’s go.”

“Won’t I look a little odd carrying this?” Mack gestured with the gun.

Maggie opened one of the bags. “Toss it in here.”

“And then what?”

“We find a way out of here without tripping an alarm. Then we find a car, a motel, and we find a way out of the country.”

“You want to tell me where we’re heading?”

She pushed herself away from the wall. “Honduras.”

“Honduras?” He managed the semblance of a shriek.

“That’s where we’re most likely to find Van Zandt. He spends far too much of his time as a military adviser for various rebel groups. Last I heard he was stationed in Honduras. So that’s where we’re going. Any objections?”

“No. As long as we get there in one piece.”

“I expect we will. We’ve been damned lucky so far.” She started down the next flight of stairs at a more reasonable pace.

“Luck has a habit of changing,” Mack said from above her.

She paused long enough to meet his troubled gaze fearlessly. “And some people make their own luck. Come on. I promised I’d get you out of this mess, and I’m going to. It’s just going to take a little longer than I expected.”

“That’s all right, Maggie May. I’ve gotten used to having you around.” And he caught up with her just as she was trying to decide whether she liked the sound of that or not. “Let’s go steal another car.”

“A Mercedes this time,” she said.

“Maybe. More likely another Beetle.”

“I won’t be able to walk if my legs are cramped into another VW,” she warned.

“I’ll carry you.”

And she was damned if she didn’t like the sound of that, after all.

“You sure know how to pick ’em, Maggie.” Mack surveyed the shabby motel room with more curiosity than actual condemnation. “I think I preferred the Travers.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers. Jail would probably be more comfortable too.” She dumped the much-abused shopping bags on the bed, then dropped her aching body beside them. It was the worst motel she’d come up with since they left Utah—even the late, unlamented Lone Star Bide-a-Wee was a model of cleanliness and luxury compared to their current quarters. There were two different patterns of paper on the water-stained walls—cabbage roses on the outside wall, green polka dots on the bathroom wall. The two narrow beds were covered with raveled chenille bedspreads, and the wall-to-wall carpeting showed the paths of a thousand weary feet.

But it was outside the sprawling city limits of Houston, ten miles from a small, run-down private airport, and for the moment they were safe.

Somehow, they had managed to escape the death trap in the Travers Hotel. Through a stroke of amazing good luck the stairway had ended in the basement garage of the huge building. It had taken five minutes to retrieve their aging VW, and then they were off, chugging past the police cars with their lights flashing into the early evening sky. Maggie had been right—someone had sent for the police, and she had no doubt at all that Peter’s killer made the phone call. Mack had read the road atlas, directing her toward Simmons Airfield, and the Lazy
Cowboy Doze-Motel had loomed up out of the darkening sky like a beacon.

A somewhat dimmed beacon, Maggie had to admit. “I’m too dirty to sleep and too tired to move. All I want is a hot shower and twenty-four hours’ sleep.”

“Let me go first. There’s a Laundromat two doors down—I can wash the clothes we’re wearing while you’re taking your shower.”

“Suit yourself. Just don’t take all the hot water.” The words came out in a tired mumble as she turned and buried her face in the chenille bedspread. For a few blissful minutes all was silent—just the rustle of paper bags, the rainlike sound of the shower, the quiet little thuds and knocks as Mack undoubtedly tried to fit his large body into a small shower stall. She remembered the turquoise Jockey shorts, and she smiled in her sleep, waiting for his reaction.

The door to the bathroom opened quietly, and Maggie considered staying facedown. But curiosity got the better of her, and she rolled over to stare at him.

He was wearing nothing but the turquoise Jockey shorts. His blond hair was wet and hanging in tendrils around his freshly shaven face. A face that wore an expression of doubt and amusement as he met her gaze. “You’ve got to be kidding, Maggie May,” he said after a long moment.

With great deliberation, she ran her eyes over his body. Hell, it was a great body. Long legs, flat stomach, broad, sort of bony shoulders, and not too much hair. She was tempted to ask him to turn around so she could check out his rear, but she didn’t quite have the nerve. She smiled sweetly.

“I think you look adorable, Pulaski,” she purred.

“Thank you for your thoughtful shopping.” He quickly divested his new khakis of their various tags and pulled them on. Maggie watched the turquoise shorts disappear with a trace of regret. “Your turn at the shower. And believe it or not, there’s plenty of hot water. Dump your clothes on the floor so I can wash ’em.”

“You’re very domestic,” Maggie said as she stumbled toward the miniature bathroom. “Be careful out there.” She couldn’t keep the concern out of her voice.

He paused in the act of buttoning his shirt. “Don’t worry, Maggie. Even if I prefer having you take care of me, I’ve been responsible for myself for years. I won’t let the bad guys get me.”

“Humph,” she said, disappearing into the tiny bathroom.

He was right, there was plenty of hot water and she took full advantage of it, letting the shower scrape the sweat and dust and blood away from her. She heard Mack leave, and the sound of the front door made her nerves tighten in sudden anxiety. He would be okay, she reassured herself. He’d taken care of himself for probably forty years.

Besides, she was absolutely certain that no one had followed them. They were guaranteed a decent night’s sleep, and then she had to get them out of the country. With Peter’s murder, half of her sources had dried up. It was more than likely that someone at Third World Causes was linked up with their hunters—they’d been showing up far too regularly, just when she’d thought they were safe. She no longer knew whom to trust, and she wasn’t about to take chances when it wasn’t just her own life at stake.

She also wasn’t going to worry about it right now. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Right now she was going to collapse on that singularly uncomfortable little bed and sleep the sleep of the dead.

Peter’s blank, dead features suddenly shot into her mind, and a low, keening wail escaped from deep inside her. Quickly she shoved the wet washcloth into her mouth to try to stop the sounds of her sudden grief. And then she leaned against the rusting metal stall, beneath the steady beat of the hot shower, and wept.

She heard the sound of the key in the lock from a distance, hours later. Pulaski, she thought, not moving. The door opened,
someone stepped inside and shut it behind him. She waited with sleep-drugged patience for the dim light to flood the room, but nothing happened. The figure moved stealthily across the room. Not to the television, which would have been Mack’s first move. Not to his own bed. But straight toward hers. It couldn’t be Pulaski.

She was suddenly alert, though she kept her body completely still, her breathing even. The small pool of light from the bathroom provided little illumination, and she didn’t dare move her head. When she made her move it had to be fast and accurate. Doubtless it would be her only chance.

Her muscles bunched, ready to spring, as the dark, menacing figure paused above her. The menace was tangible in the air, a threat of death and violence that all the wishful thinking in the world wouldn’t drive away. Why the hell had she left the gun on the dresser?

He bent over her. She could see the hand coming toward her through the shadows, holding something undoubtedly lethal. She held her breath, counted to five, and then spun around in the bed, leaping toward her attacker without another moment’s hesitation.

Ten seconds is a long time when you’re fighting for your life. It took twelve for Maggie to pin him flat on the floor, straddling him with her long legs, her knee at his vulnerable throat. She was barely breathing heavily. Unfortunately she couldn’t say the same for Pulaski.

He lay there gasping for breath. “Not that this isn’t erotic in a kinky sort of way,” he managed to gasp, “but do you suppose we could use the bed instead?”

Maggie scrambled off him immediately, her hands quickly running over him, assessing the damage. There was little, except perhaps to his pride.

But thank God Mack’s pride wasn’t of the overly macho variety. “Are you okay?” he asked.

She found her hands were shaking. Perceptive of him to have noticed, considering he was the one who’d been decked. “I’m
fine. Why the hell did you sneak up on me like that? If I’d had the gun, I could have killed you.” Her voice was breathless and as shaky as her hands.

“Shoot first, ask questions later? I don’t think so, Maggie May.” He sat up, flexing his muscles a little gingerly. “I didn’t want to wake you if I could help it.”

“Then why didn’t you just get in your own bed and be quiet?” she demanded. “Why did you come and stare at me like you were a … a …”

“I was staring at you like a red-blooded, healthy American male, Maggie,” he drawled. “I wanted to see if you were sleeping in the raw.”

“As you can see, I wasn’t.” The lace bra and bikini panties weren’t much, but they were better than nothing. “What did you have in your hand?”

“Dinner,” he said, with his first touch of irritation.

“For you?”

“For you. I brought you a corned-beef sandwich from the diner across the way. From the smell of it, I expect it’s now decorating the wall.”

Slowly Maggie moved away from him, climbing back onto her bed with more than a trace of embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I guess I’m a little jumpy.”

He rose from the floor, groaning audibly and with a melodramatic flair that should have reassured her. “I guess you are. You want me to get you another sandwich?”

“I don’t suppose you managed to come up with some Jack Daniel’s?”

Mack’s face split in a grin that lit the darkened room. “Someday you’ll learn not to underestimate me, Superwoman,” he replied. He retrieved a half-full bottle from the top of the television, switching it on before he turned back to her. As the sounds of
Dallas
filled the motel room Maggie took a good, healthy swig from the bottle.

“Did you drink this much already?” she questioned.

“Nope. I bought it from the owner of the Laundromat. Paid
twenty bucks for it too.” He caught it from her hand and took an even healthier swig. “Worth every penny,” he said reverently.

“I suppose. You’d better ration it, though,” she warned, grabbing it back and matching his drink. “I don’t know how long we’ll be here.”

“Till tomorrow at ten.”

“What?” She wasn’t sure if she heard him correctly.

“I said we’ll be here till ten. At which point we will meet up with Jesse’s friend Sam, who will take us to Chico, who will pass us on to Lonesome Fred.”

“And who will Lonesome Fred pass us on to?”

“To Honduras, if all goes well. Lonesome Fred is a pilot. I gather it wouldn’t be wise to ask how he usually earns his living in this part of the country. Suffice it to say he’ll take any cargo anywhere, without the inconvenience of customs or rude questions. For a sizable sum of money, of course.”

“How sizable? With Peter dead my resources are limited.”

“I’ve got more than enough.” He dropped down on the bed opposite her. “You don’t approve of messing with smugglers?”

“I didn’t say that. Dopers got us into this mess, they may as well help us get out. You’ve been very efficient.” Her voice was flat.

“And you don’t like it.”

“Why shouldn’t I like it?”

He shrugged. “Maybe you like being Superwoman all by yourself. Maybe you don’t like anyone else saving the bacon.”

“You can save all the bacon you want, Pulaski,” she said wearily. “I’m going to sleep.” She crawled beneath the covers, pulling them over her head to shut out the blue light from the television set.

“That’s all right,” he said softly beside her. “You can save the bacon next time.”

With luck there wouldn’t be a next time, she thought, turning her face away from him. With luck they’d find Van Zandt’s
rebel camp in Honduras and she could dump Mack back on him. The sooner that day came, the better.

She had to get away from him. He was having a terrible effect on her, challenging all her hard-won beliefs, seducing her with nothing more than those warm, laughing eyes of his.

He was probably right, she conceded, sinking down lower in the bed and shutting out the noise of the prime-time soap opera. She didn’t like having anyone else take care of things, not unless she asked them to in the first place. But it wasn’t overwhelming pride or the need to dominate. It was much more basic than that. If you had to rely on someone else for help, you were then in their debt and beholden to them. And if you had to rely on them, they would let you down, sooner or later, and break your heart. Far better to be beholden to no one, to be the one who made the decisions, who stayed in charge and kept things moving in the right direction.

She needed that control to feel safe within herself. And now Mack had taken it away from her, leaving her resentful, grateful, and unpleasantly helpless. Damn him.

She opened one eye, peering at him through the darkened room. He was stretched out on the twin bed, seemingly absorbed in J. R. Ewing, the bottle of Jack Daniel’s by his side, his shoes off and his shirt open. He was entirely at ease, and she was lying there trying to recapture the blissful sleep she needed, feeling guilty and miserable.

He was right, she was wrong. He hadn’t taken control away from her. He’d just done what any sensible person in danger would do—take the opportunity when it was offered. He’d found transportation in a far shorter time than she would have managed it. Damn it, she’d be grateful, and ignore her feelings of uneasiness. And if the chance came again, she’d welcome his taking control, just to show she could do it.

With that noble resolution, she fell back into a much-needed sleep that not even the torments of the Ewing clan could interfere with.

* * *

It was pitch black. The darkness, like a velvet shroud, pressed around her, weighed her down, smothering her in its evil grip. She felt the bed beneath her shoulder blades, felt the cold sweat covering her body, and she couldn’t move. She was paralyzed, darkness all around her, holding her captive.

Desperately, she looked for light. There was none—all was blackness, stealing her breath, stealing her life, leaving her there helpless and alone on the bed. She could hear the air struggle in her lungs, feel her heart pounding so hard it shook the narrow bed. Tremors of panic swept over her, and she was cold, so cold, and so alone. Her mouth moved, but she could say nothing. She was alone with darkness and death, and a thousand hands were grabbing at her, pulling at her, pulling her down and down and down. …

She heard the scream from somewhere up above the pit she was sinking into. And then suddenly light flooded the room, and she was no longer alone in the darkness. Mack had grabbed her, wrapping himself around her, holding her shivering body tightly in a grip that was comfort and safety, his voice soothing, with meaningless, gentle words that were a litany of calm and quiet and clear white light.

Slowly the tremors faded from her body, slowly the tight, panicked muscles relaxed against him. A rasping, tearful sigh caught in her throat and then flowed from her, and she sank against him, against the strong body that was so warm.

His hands were tenderly brushing her tangled hair away from her tear-streaked face. “Are you okay?” he whispered in her ear.