Into the Crossfire (26 page)

though. There's a lot of work with the military, it's a big field."

"State Department?"

"The State Department has its own internal translators, a really good

service. They don't outsource anything."

"What about industrial espionage?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Do you get translations--texts--that someone could make money knowing?

Some industrial secrets?"

Nicole was shaking her head. "We're too young a company for that. We do

good work, but any corporation that had industrial secrets someone would be

willing to steal at the point of a gun--well, they wouldn't send them to us. I

guarantee a certain degree of confidentiality, there's a non-disclosure clause in the

contract, and my firewalls are pretty good. But any corporation that entrusted me

with truly valuable secrets, well, they'd be so foolish that presumably just about

anyone could access them. Someday I'm going to set up the company to guarantee

a maximum degree of confidentiality, including encryption, but that kind of

software costs a lot of money and I'd have to up my price considerably. Now is not

the time to do that."

Silence, male cogs whirring.

Finally the lieutenant stirred. "All this banking stuff. Is any of it--" his cell

rang and he held up a finger. He listened, grunted, closed the cell. He looked at

Nicole. "My men are in place, your father's protected."

Nicole slumped, letting out a long breath. "Thank you."

Sam's warm hand on her shoulder reminded her that she was protected, too.

"Hey." The tech who'd been dusting for prints lifted something that looked

like a thick plastic string. "Look what I found. Guy must have lost it off his utility

belt."

The men turned to look. Sam's hand tightened on her shoulder.

"Jesus," Harry breathed. It was the first word he'd spoken since coming into

the room.

"What?" Nicole looked around at the grim male faces. "What is it?"

"A goddamned restraint," Sam said, the words falling out of his mouth like

stones.

"A what?"

"A restraint." He turned, eyes burning into hers. "He was planning on

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handcuffing you."

"Why would he--" Nicole began, then stopped. There were all sorts of

reasons an intruder would be willing to handcuff her, none of them good.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. So let's fucking figure out what the fucker wanted so

fucking badly, so we can fucking go get him."

Nicole sat back, a little shocked at the idea that Sam had foiled a plan that

not only included guns but also included handcuffs. And, if they included

handcuffs, it probably also included pain.

A part of her also noticed that Sam's language deteriorated badly when he

was stressed.

"You seem to do a lot of banking stuff," the lieutenant said again, breaking

the silence.

Nicole nodded. "Yes, we do have a great deal of economic expertise."

"Could there be anything someone would be willing to kill for in those

bank reports? Sometimes a lot of money can be involved in these things. Maybe

someone was looking at losing millions."

Nicole was shaking her head before he finished. "I can definitely rule that

out. Most of the economic texts we translate are to fulfil legal requirements, for

board meetings and such. In Europe, the record usually must be in the language of

the meeting and English, so foreign shareholders can read it. No one would send

us information that would involve a lot of money. We're simply too small and too

young for that kind of data. Our work is strictly routine."

Silence.

"Okay. I think we might be done here." The lieutenant was staring at her,

face closed like a fist. He blew out a breath. "Can you send me a copy of

everything you've received over the past three days? No, make that a week."

Nicole hid her wince. It was borderline unethical, her clients definitely

would not want her to be sending out their documents. But this was the police, and

they certainly wouldn't be broadcasting them. "Yes, of course, though most are in

foreign languages."

The lieutenant looked pained. "Yeah, that will be part of the fun." He stood.

"I think we've done everything we can here. Jansen--" he indicated the young

fingerprint tech, "will be taking your prints for comparison purposes. Will we find

anyone else's?"

Would he? Nicole thought about it. "I don't know. I actually don't think so.

The last client in here was Maxwell Rubens, the software guy, to discuss an

ongoing contract for translations of his programs into Chinese. But he was here ten

days ago, and the cleaning service has been in here at least three times since then.

So if you find prints that aren't mine, they might be Mr. Rubens's. And anyway, as

Sam said, the intruder wore gloves."

"We'll check anyway." The lieutenant gave her his card. "If you remember

anything, anything at all, call me. Day or night."

Nicole understood very well that she was getting special treatment because

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of Mike. No way would a botched burglary, where nothing was actually stolen, be

getting all this attention. Not to mention a police lieutenant giving her his private

cell phone number and authorization to call him day or night if she needed

something.

She put the card in her purse and held out her hand. "I cannot begin to

thank you enough, Lieutenant."

His grasp was firm and dry. "No problem." He nodded. "Sam, Harry. Mike,

you're with me."

A source of energy left the room with him, the medic, the young tech guy,

and Mike. Nicole felt suddenly drained, exhausted beyond measure. She swayed

slightly, then felt Sam's strong arms go around her. She leaned into him, into his

strength, leaning her forehead against his chest for just a second, inhaling the scent

that had been imprinted on the primitive part of her brain all last night.

Harry cleared his throat and she straightened, suddenly ashamed of her

weakness, but Sam held her tightly before she could pull away.

He spoke over her head to Harry. "I'm taking her home. You look after

things here."

Harry nodded.

"And check our security cameras, I'll bet you anything we caught him as he

was running away."

"Yeah. I'll freeze a couple of frames and e-mail them to the SDPD. They've

got facial recognition software, just like the FBI. If the guy's in the system, we'll

get him. I'm on it." Harry closed the door softly behind him. They were alone.

Sam tightened his embrace and bent down to her ear. "Let's go home,

honey." His voice was so low, she felt the vibration in his chest more than heard

the words. His breath washed over her ear and she broke out in goosebumps.

She pulled away and looked up at him. At that strong, unhandsome face. Of

course she was going home with him. There was no question of that. He'd come

for her in her hour of need, without hesitation. He'd saved her life. In some

important, primordial way, a way that was blood and bone deep, she now belonged

to him.

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Escaping hadn't been hard. For someone who'd graduated SERE with only a

busted shoulder to show for it, getting out of the fancy building with the pretty,

pretend security had been a cakewalk.

Up the fire escape, and up onto the roof. It was night and the satellites that

passed weren't equipped with infrared cameras. That was for war zones.

Outlaw was seriously annoyed at having his work interrupted, though. And

by someone who knew what he was doing. Fuck, another few minutes and the lady

would have talked. She'd been terrified. He could still feel the deep tremors

running through her. He'd even been tempted for a second there. The bitch was a

real looker and Outlaw liked his women just a little scared. Made them real

accommodating.

But he knew better than to mix sex with the job. It was the kind of mistake

that could have gotten him killed in the service and the kind of mistake that would

cost him money in his new job. So sex while working was off the table, always.

The job wasn't done. He'd just sat down to her computer when he'd heard

the key in the lock and had barely made it to the door and turned out the lights

before she walked in.

And a couple of minutes later, the big asshole from across the way picked

the lock and came in and the whole mission had gone FUBAR in a second.

It was a very good thing that the guy cared about Nicole Pearce. Outlaw

had seen it in an instant and realized that she was his get-out-of-jail-free card.

He'd tossed her at the window, knowing that if the guy didn't catch her,

she'd fall nine stories to her death and he'd never get the info. But he also knew the

guy would rather catch her than him.

Up on the rooftop, Outlaw went to the southern edge of the building. Only

two feet separated this wall from the next building. He tossed the trolley suitcase

and his briefcase over onto the next roof and jumped.

This building had a service elevator from the roof to the garage, and a

quarter of an hour later, Outlaw was dressed in his banker's suit and driving away

in his rental.

Next stop--Nicole Pearce's house. She would either go home and he could

get the job done there or if she didn't, he'd grab the dad and force her hand.

Outlaw had never understood the hostage thing. There wasn't anyone in the

world he'd give something up for. You could blow up any head you wanted and he

didn't care. But for the rest of the world, it was a surefire winner. There were

people who'd give up anything if you held a gun to a loved one's head. Or knee or

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elbow, promising to shoot the hostage to death, piece by piece.

Ah, yes. That always got results.

Outlaw parked two blocks from Nicole Pearce's house, then made his way

in the dark to the back of the Pearce house.

It wasn't a wealthy part of town. The houses were small, about sixty years

old, most of them badly kept.

He knew how to move in the dark, it was in his bones. He ghosted from tree

to shrub to wall, ending up crouching behind the Pearce house, looking out over

the backyard. It was the best-kept house on the street, sporting a fresh paint job.

The garden was well tended, with neatly trimmed shrubbery and flowering plants

and a recently mown lawn. Someone worked hard.

There were lights on in every room downstairs. It was ten thirty. Pretty

soon the household would be going to bed, if there was an old man in the house.

Outlaw would make his move a few hours after lights out, when the father would

be deep in sleep. He leaned his ear against the wall. There were voices in the

room, a male rumble and the lighter tones of a woman, but he couldn't make out

the words.

Well, he'd come prepared. That's what they paid him for.

He entered the combination to open his suitcase. Inside the lining was a

soundless electric mini-drill and a snake mike with inbuilt microcamera. He

carefully drilled a hole through the exterior wall of the house, the drill so silent he

could barely hear it inches away. He broke through at floor level and threaded the

mike and camera into the hole.

Shit!

The room was set up like a hospital room. There was a high cot surrounded

by medical instruments, an IV tree, a bedside table with pills, a man in a

wheelchair. A woman in a nurse's uniform bending over him.

Outlaw pulled his eye away and sat with his back to the wall.

Well, fuck. Nicole Pearce's father was sick. How the hell could he have

known? It's not as if it was on her website. That complicated things, because the

geezer might die on him and he'd instantly lose his leverage. And that bag hanging

from the IV tree would probably have a sedative in it. Outlaw could end up having

an unconscious hostage.

Not to mention the fact that the nurse was contractually obliged to stay

awake and by his bedside all night.

Shit. This was supposed to be fucking easy.

At least the nurse would be easy. And he had a preloaded syringe of

adrenaline he could always shoot into the geezer. It would work.

He'd wait until all the lights went out, then break in. The place had no

security, none. No cameras, no burglar alarm and he'd seen the locks on the front

and back doors. Pathetic. These people deserved what was going to happen to

them.

Outlaw settled with his back to the rear left-hand corner where he could

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keep an eye on the front and back of the house, stretched his legs out, preparing to

go into sniper's lethargy for a couple of hours, when every cell in his body went on

red alert.

A squad car pulled up outside the Pearce house. Two cops in the front seats.

The passenger window rolled down and Outlaw could hear the squawk of the

radio. The guy riding shotgun pulled a mike from the dashboard attached to a

curly wire, put it up to his mouth and talked, staring out the window at the facade

of the house. The cop listened to a static-filled voice, then got out of the car, hand

on the grip of the Beretta 92 in its holster, clearly preparatory to doing a look-see.

He was wearing body armor and he looked alert.

He started walking toward the side of the house.