Love Inspired Suspense June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Exit Strategy\Payback\Covert Justice (6 page)

He smoothed strands of it from her neck, slid his fingers to the pulse point beneath her jaw, felt the slow steady beat of her heart beneath cool clammy skin.

“I'm not dying,” she muttered. “I just feel like I am.”

The comment surprised him almost as much as the wry smile she shot in his direction. Even sick as a dog, she had a sense of humor and an easy smile. That was one of the things Essex had mentioned. That Lark was likable, the kind of person who filled up a room with her smile, who made others comfortable, would drop anything to help a friend.

Cyrus had been surprised by his army buddy's high praise of a woman who wasn't his wife, and he'd asked point-blank what Lark was to Essex. He'd been put in his place, told flat-out that Lark was the little sister Essex had never had and that if Cyrus thought anything else, he could forget the debt that he owed Essex and move on with his life.

That wasn't going to happen. Cyrus always repaid his debts.

Besides, he'd believed Essex. The guy was a family man through and through. He loved his wife with a loyalty and passion Cyrus admired. He was also smart and savvy about people. Which was why Cyrus had agreed to go to Amos Way. He'd still been more than a little convinced that Lark was just another lonely soul who'd decided to join a cult to gain connection and acceptance. People did it all the time. Cyrus contacted a few every year—men or women or teens who'd decided to separate themselves from loved ones so that they could follow a charismatic leader who called them family.

Now that he'd met Lark, he knew the truth. She wasn't the kind of person who'd follow anyone blindly.

She shifted, throwing her arm over her eyes and leaning her head back against the seat. He wanted to tell her that one of the members of HEART was a nurse, that when he called, he'd ask her to bring medicine to help with the migraine, but he didn't think she'd appreciate the words any more than a promise of help that wasn't going to come for hours.

The semi passed, whirling by at high speed. Cyrus wanted to drive just as fast, but he couldn't risk being pulled over for speeding. He had no license, and he didn't want to be locked up in the county jail while he waited for the authorities to run a background check.

Slow and steady. That was the way to do things. Keep focused on the mission, on the goal. Don't veer from the plan unless absolutely necessary.

He chugged along the highway, going exactly the speed limit, the Mustang a smooth ride despite its age.

The drive seemed to take forever, but he reached the gas station in just under an hour, pulling into the well-lit parking lot and driving around to the back of the building. That lot wasn't visible from the road, and that mattered since they might be waiting for a while.

“Finally.” Lark sighed, straightening in her seat, her hair tumbling around her shoulders. She had a lot of it, and he wanted to brush it off her cheeks and out of her eyes.

“I thought you were sleeping.”

“It's kind of hard to sleep when a knife is being stabbed through your eye over and over again.” She opened the glove compartment. “What's the plan?”

“We go in and ask for a phone.”

“Together?” She dug through some papers, pulled out a rubber band and pulled her hair into a ponytail. “Don't you think we'll get more attention that way?”

“Probably, but I'm not going to leave you out here, and I'm not going to let you go in alone. That doesn't leave a whole lot of options.”

“Too bad pay phones are obsolete. I probably have enough change under these seats to make the phone call.” She leaned forward, winced. “Never mind. If you need change. You can look.”

He got out of the car, rounded it and opened her door, lights from the building illuminating Lark's paper-white face.

“You're not looking so hot,” he said, taking her hand and helping her out of the car.

“Just what every woman wants to hear from a good-looking guy.”

“Compliments, Lark?” he asked. “You're obviously in worse shape than I thought.”

“Not a compliment. A statement of fact. I am a woman. You're a good-looking guy. Of course, being a woman doesn't mean I need or want to be told I look good. Being good-looking doesn't mean you're anything more than a pretty face.”

“Pretty, huh?” He reached for the gun belt she still had strapped around her waist, unhooked it and unloaded the pistol. “I know it's cold, but I'm going to need my jacket back until we're done in here. I walk in with my gun belt showing, and we'll lose any chance we have of borrowing a phone.”

“Pretty,” she responded as she unzipped the jacket and handed it back to him.

He slipped it on, dropping the ammunition into his jacket pocket and setting her gun and belt on the floor of the backseat. “Don't say that to my team. They'll never let me live it down.”

“I'm sure they already know it.”

“Maybe, but they wouldn't dare say it to my face,” he responded, closing the door and taking Lark's elbow. “If we're asked any questions, we're out of gas and money, and I'm calling a friend for some help. Maybe we'll get to use the phone and get offered a couple of gallons of gas to get us on our way.”

He led Lark around the side of the building, stopped under a streetlight. The light highlighted a dark bruise on Lark's cheek, the blood that stained her wrists. There was a rip in her skirt, dirt smudged across her sweater, leaves caught in her hair. She looked exactly like what she was—an escapee. She also looked a decade younger than he knew she was, vulnerable and in danger.

“We need to do something about this,” he said, tugging her sleeves over her wrists, pulling a small twig from her hair. “The cashier is going to get one look at you and call the police.”

“I can wait out here.”

“Not in a million years.” He glanced through the front window of the small gas station convenience store. The attendant was behind a counter, staring at his cell phone. Young. Maybe late teens or early twenties, he seemed intent on whatever he was doing. “The restroom is to the left of the door. Walk in behind me and head straight there. Hopefully the guy behind the counter won't care enough to ask questions. If he does—”

“I'll tell him I ran from Amos Way. That you picked me up on the road, and that you're trying to help me get home. I'll ask to use the phone, and tell him that I want to call a friend to come get me.”

She was quick on her feet. Even with a migraine.

He opened the door, stepped into the store, Lark pressing close to his back as she moved in behind him. The kid at the counter glanced their way but went right back to his cell phone. Lark hightailed it down a little hall that led to the bathroom.

So far, things were working out just the way he'd planned.

He approached the counter, waited until the young man looked up again.

“Help you?” the kid asked.

“I hope so. My cell phone battery is dead, I'm out of cash and I'm almost out of gas.”

“Not allowed to give freebees to anyone.” The kid ran a hand over his hair, his attention on his phone again.

“I wasn't planning to ask for one. I know times are tough. I was just wondering if I could borrow a phone to call a friend.”

The kid frowned. “I don't know...”

“It will take me two minutes, and then I'll be out of your hair.”

“My boss doesn't like anyone in the office, and that's where the only landline is.”

“I'm stranded man, and I've got my girl with me. You know how bad I'm starting to look? No gas? No phone? No money?”

The kid hesitated, his gaze shifting to a point beyond Cyrus's shoulder, his eyes widening.

“That your girl?” he asked, and Cyrus turned.

Lark walked toward them, her hair down, her face and hands clean. She'd pulled the sleeves of her sweater over the cut on her wrist and had used the rubber band to cinch her sweater in the back. She must have rolled the waistband of her skirt. Instead of ankle-length, it hit her right at the knee. She still looked done-in, her eyes shadowed, the bruise on her cheek obvious, but she didn't look like an escapee from Amos Way.

“Yeah,” he finally responded, slipping his arm around Lark's waist.

“You hit her?” the kid asked. He might be young and more interested in his phone than his job, but his concern was obvious. “Because that wouldn't be cool, man. I'd have to do something about it.”

“I don't hit women,” he responded at the same time Lark laughed.

“He wouldn't dare. I tripped and fell into a door.” She touched the bruise, shook her head ruefully. “I might need to take some lessons on walking.”

The guy smiled, obviously charmed by Lark. “You and me both. I broke my foot last year walking off a curb. You can go ahead and use the office phone. Office is down the hall past the restroom. Door is unlocked.”

“Thank you,” Lark said smiling, and Cyrus thought it would be pretty easy to be charmed by someone like her.

He touched her back, was urging her to the hallway when headlights splashed across the storefront window. Cyrus's pulse jumped, and he looked outside, saw a police cruiser idling there.

Could have been a coincidence, but Cyrus wasn't willing to wait around to find out.

“The police,” Lark whispered as if he could have missed the car.

“Let's make sure we're not seen,” he responded, hurrying her into the office and closing the door behind them.

SIX

N
o windows.

That was the first thing Lark noticed.

The second thing she noticed was the phone sitting on a small desk against the far wall.

Cyrus had the receiver in hand before she took a step toward it. He dialed, his gaze focused on the door.

Was he expecting the police to barrel in?

Lark sure was.

Her head throbbed with every movement, the sharp pain behind her eye making her dizzy and sick. She couldn't afford to give in to either. She pressed her ear to the door, tried to hear past the pulse of blood in her ears. Nothing. She was tempted to open the door, look out into the hall. As if seeing the threat coming would make things better.

The only thing that would make things better was going back in time, making a different decision, staying in her Baltimore apartment rather than returning to Amos Way.

She had a little too much confidence in her own abilities.

That's what Essex had said before she'd left town. He hadn't wanted her to go, had said he'd had a bad feeling about the trip. He'd even tried to get his wife Janet to talk her out of going.

She hadn't listened.

Stubborn as a mule, that's what Joshua would have said. He'd have said it with a smile, and she'd have smiled in return. She knew because they'd had the same conversation dozens of times during their marriage.

Old memories. Good memories.

Almost all her memories of Joshua were.

“You still with me?” Cyrus asked, his hand settling on her shoulder.

“I'd rather be somewhere else, but yeah. I'm here.”

“That's the spirit,” he responded, reaching past her and turning the doorknob.

“What are you doing?” she gasped, terrified the police would be standing on the other side.

“Standing here isn't getting us anywhere. I'm going to see if the police came inside.”

“And, what am I supposed to do?” she asked, grabbing his arm when he would have stepped into the hall. “Wait here for whatever the duration of your jail sentence is?”

“I'm not planning to go to jail.”

“I wasn't planning to be held captive at Amos Way, but I was,” she responded, not releasing her grip on his arm. “If a police officer is out there—”

“Lark, we can stand here and discuss this all night, but it's not going to change the situation. My boss has already sent some people our way. They'll be here in a few hours. If I get arrested, you ask the kid at the counter to give you a ride into town. Wait at a diner or in the library, somewhere where you won't be alone. Someone from HEART will find you there.”

“But—”

“I don't think I'm going to be arrested. That's a ‘just in case.'” He gently removed her fingers from his arm and strode down the hall like he didn't have a concern in the world.

Lark had plenty of them.

If he was arrested, there was no way she was going to wait around town for some strangers to show up and save her hide.

She grabbed the phone, tried to think of someone who would drop everything to come to her rescue.

Essex would have, but Cyrus was right. She couldn't pull him into her trouble. Other than him, there was no one. She had friends, but most of them were married with kids. Most had busy schedules, hectic lives. They were friends but only in the most perfunctory way. Lark's fault. She'd kept herself busy since Joshua's death. Too busy for things like coffee with friends, nights out on the town. She didn't enjoy the party scene, had no interest in double dates. She'd been happy with her job, with her coworkers, with church and the charity work she did.

None of those things were benefiting her now, so maybe she should have spent a little more time building relationships and a little less time trying to forget the past.

She set the phone down, walked out into the hall, heard the murmur of voices. Not raised. Just quiet conversation. She didn't know who was talking, and she didn't dare creep to the end of the corridor to look. An exit door stood at the far end of the hall, and she ran to it, her stomach heaving as pain shot through her head. She wanted to sit on the floor, close her eyes, let whatever was going to happen happen. She'd never been a quitter, though, had never known how to give up without a fight.

She opened the door, stepped out into darkness. Cold air bathed her cheeks, and she inhaled deeply, trying to fill her lungs and clear her head. The night smelled of wood-burning fire and rain, the moisture in the air seeping through her sweater. Straight ahead, a small copse of trees separated the gas station from the lights of distant houses. River Fork. It was a half-mile walk. An easy one. If she wasn't being hunted.

She wrapped her arms around her waist, moved away from the building. If she made it to town, she could ask someone for help. There were plenty of elderly women in River Fork, and she doubted any of them would turn her away.

She couldn't leave Cyrus, though. Not without being certain that he was okay.

She pressed close to the building, and eased around the corner. She could see the front parking lot from her vantage point. A police car was parked near the front door, lights off, doors closed. Not the sheriff's patrol car. This one was a state trooper's vehicle.

She wasn't sure if she should be relieved or terrified.

Elijah had connections in law enforcement. She knew that. She just wasn't sure how deep those connections went, how far they reached.

The shop door opened, and a police officer stepped outside, a bottle of soda in hand. He took a sip as he walked to his vehicle. If he was looking for someone, he wasn't acting like it. He leaned against the hood of the car, gaze focused on the highway. A few cars sped by as he took another swallow of soda and yawned.

She could only see the back of his head and torso, the police emblem stitched to the shoulder of his jacket, the gun holster that peeked out from beneath black leather.

Was he waiting for someone?

Elijah maybe? One of his men?

She wanted to ease farther into the shadows, hide herself in the darkness, but she was afraid to move. There were pebbles and debris littering the ground. If she kicked something, moved it with her foot, accidently knocked into the building, the officer would turn and see her.

A lifetime seemed to pass while he drank the soda, every beat of her heart throbbing behind her eye. She'd never passed out from having a migraine, but she felt like she might. She couldn't sit, didn't dare sit. Too much noise, and she didn't want to have to explain who she was or why she was sitting on crumbling pavement in the shadow of the gas station store.

Finally, the officer got in his car and drove away.

She needed to go back inside and find Cyrus. He wouldn't be happy that she'd slipped out the door. She didn't care. She'd done what she'd thought she'd had to, taken care of herself and her safety the way she had hundreds of times before. She reached the side entrance, tried to open the door. Locked.

“Perfect,” she muttered. “You took care of yourself and got into trouble like you have hundreds of times before.” She tried the door one more time because she didn't want walk around to the front of the building, walk in the front door, have the kid behind the counter question how she'd gotten outside without being seen and why she'd felt the need to do it. The door hadn't miraculously unlocked itself in the two seconds since she'd tried it the first time. Which left her with no choice but to go in the front door.

“Great,” she whispered, turning back the way she'd come. To her left, the copse of trees was dark as pitch, the leaves rustling in a rain-filled breeze. Something moved at the edge of the blackness, a darker darkness against the tree line.

She froze, eyes probing the shadows, brain trying to register what she was seeing.

Tree?

Bear?

Man?

It moved again. Quickly. In a sudden rush that had her sprinting toward the corner of the building.

Too late.

It was on her. He was on her. Hand on her mouth, arm around her waist, hot breath ruffling the hair near her ear. “You shouldn't have run, Lark.”

The voice filled her with cold terror.

John.

She tried to pry his fingers from her mouth, tried to wrest herself out of his grip. He was strong, and she was exhausted, all the days and nights in the shed without food making her weak, the migraine making her weak.

“Stop fighting me,” he growled. “I don't want to hurt you. I told you that before. I just want what Joshua took from Elijah.”

He took nothing.

He gave me nothing.

I know nothing.

She couldn't get the words out past his tight grip, so she just kept tearing at his fingers, elbowing his gut. All the things she'd learned on the streets of Chicago.

She slammed her head into his chin, felt his grip loosen, slammed it back again and was shoved with so much force she hit the side of the building and fell backward. She landed with a thud that sent pain shooting through her eye, scrambled to her knees, expecting John to be in front of her, dragging her back up again.

He was gone. Back into the trees? There wasn't a hint of movement in the darkness.

She stumbled to her feet, her body stiff and sore, her muscles tense. Did he have his gun trained on her? Was he planning to—

Someone grabbed her arm, and she screamed, turning toward her attacker, fists flying as she screamed again and again.

* * *

Cyrus managed to grab one of Lark's fists before it hit his throat. He snagged the other as she went for his nose.

She was in full-out panic, her eyes wide, her face devoid of color. He doubted she was seeing anything but her own fear, didn't think she was hearing anything but the pulse of blood in her ears.

“It's okay,” he said, keeping his voice calm, his tone gentle. He'd been mad as a hornet when he'd realized she'd left the store, but confronting her now wasn't going to help either of them.

She tugged frantically, trying to free herself.

He wasn't going to let her go, but he didn't want to hurt her either. He pulled her arms down, holding her hands close to her sides. They were inches apart, her chest heaving with the fear and exertion, her eyes wild in the darkness.

He leaned down so they were face-to-face, nearly nose to nose. “I said it's okay,” he repeated.

She blinked, stopped struggling.

“Cyrus,” she said, and he nodded, running his hands from her wrists to her shoulders, afraid she might fall over if he didn't support her weight.

“Were you expecting someone else?” he asked.

She took a deep shuddering breath.

He felt it through his palms, felt her gathering strength and courage and all the things that had gotten her through the time she'd spent in Amos Way.

“John was here,” she finally said, her voice trembling. He felt that, too—all her terror, her fear. It made him angrier than he'd been when he'd seen the empty office, realized she'd left. It made him want to pull her in close, promise that things were going to be okay.

He didn't do that kind of thing.

He wasn't the guy to reassure and offer comfort. Jackson Miller was good at that. Boone Anderson was good at it. All Cyrus knew how to do was act.

Right then, he wanted to hunt John down, drag him to jail and have someone lock him away.

“Where?” he asked, probing the shadows, searching the darkness, his body vibrating with the need to move.

“He was over near the trees.” She gestured to a small grove that separated the gas station from an old country road that led to town. He could see distant house lights and streetlights, the small quaint town pretty and inviting. Even at night. Even when everything else looked bleak and lonely.

“You're sure?”

“I've known him for years, Cyrus. There was no mistaking who he was.”

“Did he hurt you?” he asked.

“No. He asked me to give back what Joshua took.”

“What did he take?”

“I have no idea.”

“You're sure?” He needed her to be certain, because whatever it was had to be the key to what was going on in Amos Way.

“I'm sure.” She was shaking harder, her teeth chattering.

He unzipped his jacket, dropped it around her shoulders, his fingers brushing her nape.

“Thanks,” she murmured, and he nodded.

“Aside from asking for whatever he thinks you have, did John say anything?”

“He said he didn't want to hurt me.”

A lie. They both knew it, so there was no sense pointing it out. “Didn't want to hurt you, so you shouldn't force him to by withholding information?”

“That was the gist of it. He disappeared right before you arrived.”

“He must have heard me coming.” And run off like the coward he was. Without a dozen men backing him, John wouldn't confront Cyrus. That was the type of guy he was. More than willing to bully people weaker than him, but not willing to take a stand against someone who could bring him down.

“It's odd,” she said, pulling the edges of his coat closed and burrowing her chin into the collar. “He was alone. As far as I could tell, the team wasn't with him.”

“I don't think he wants to call attention to what he's doing,” he responded, scanning the tree line. If John was there, he'd hidden well. Cyrus could have tracked him, but that would have meant leaving Lark.

“I guess if I were trying to kill people, I wouldn't want to call attention to it either,” she responded, her voice still shaking, her body trembling so violently, his coat slipped from her shoulders.

He pulled it back into place, held it there as he looked into her eyes. “Trying to kill
me
. Not you. He wants to take me out. He wants something from you. He won't be able to get it if you're dead.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she asked.