Pure Dynamite (13 page)

Releasing her, he kicked aside the palm tree and retrieved the scalpel. "If you go for blood make it count. The eyes. The groin. You'll only get one shot. This shit," he waved his bloody arm, "will only piss him off. Which puts you in greater danger."

"Thanks for the pointers," she snapped.

"Yeah? Here's one more." He held up the scalpel, flipped it in midair, then caught it. "Once I overpowered you, I could have used this against you."

But you didn’t
she thought. Which proved nothing. It also did nothing to alter the situation.

"Maybe next time I'll have a gun."

He snorted. "Think that would make a difference? You still couldn't do it. Shoot someone."

"Don't bet on it." She jutted her chin, not wanting him to see her distress.

If she got her hands on his gun could she really shoot him? Yes, if it was truly life or death. But, oddly, with Adam she didn't feel that degree of danger. Lyle, however, was a different story. He'd shot a man and showed no remorse; was only upset that he'd been hurt himself.

A calm realization settled over her. Adam was . . . different from Lyle.

"Everything under control out there?" Lyle called out.

"Fine." Grasping her upper arm, Adam tugged her toward the hall.

But instead of going into the exam room, he returned to the supply closet.

"I thought we were done in here," she said.

"Not quite." He grabbed a small adhesive bandage and handed it to her. Then he held out his arm.

She eyed the cut on top of his arm, steeling herself against the backlash of remorse. Grabbing a brown bottle, she cleaned the wound with peroxide, then pinched the edges closed with a butterfly strip before covering it with a bandage.

Adam looked amused. "I don't think it required all that. But thanks."

She scowled. "Actually, it could have used a suture or two."

 
"If it had needed stitches, I'd have done them myself."

He flexed his arm, then helped himself to another roll of gauze. Instead of loading it into the box with the other supplies, though, he caught her and jerked her close. Tethering both her wrists in one hand he started wrapping the gauze tightly, binding her hands.

She struggled uselessly, the cotton strip biting into her skin. "How dare you!"

He ignored her protest, tying off the gauze.

"Do you have other weapons you want to voluntarily declare? Maybe a stray pair of scissors, or a bone saw?"

"Just the scalpel."

"You'll understand if I don't take your word on that?" He turned her around and forced her up against the counter. His hard body crowded her from behind as his knee urged her legs apart.

Renata stiffened as she realized he was going to frisk her. How stupid to think she was safe from reprisals for pulling the scalpel on him.

"This isn't necessary."

"We'll see."

He started at her neck and worked his way down. She held her breath as his hands cupped her breasts, then moved beneath and into the hollow between them, circling each completely, checking for more weapons.

"Don't worry. This is no more enjoyable for me than it is for you," he whispered.

It was the truth. Her revulsion at his touch was tangible. Not quite the reaction Adam was accustomed to getting from women when he fondled them. They normally begged for his touch, seduced him.
Used him, used his body.

This also wasn't how he'd envisioned his first post- prison encounter with breasts. Mighty fine breasts, too.

He ran his hands down her arms, drew back her sleeve and examined her watch. It was a well-worn little Timex, a man's model that had been shortened for her wrist. He started to unfasten it. That's when he saw the bruise on her wrist. Guilt slit his stomach with a dull knife.

He swore under his breath. Although this was unintentional, he'd never marked a woman in his life. God knows he'd watched his father bruise his mother enough times.

Leaving the Timex, he lightened his touch as he continued moving down to her waist and lower. He quickly emptied the pockets of her jacket, inspecting her key ring with interest. "Is that white Honda out front yours?"

She nodded. "Leave me, and you can have it. I'll even give you my gas card."

"Thanks, but I prefer cash. No paper trail." He turned her around. "This way."

Adam led her back to the exam room. He pushed her into a chair, and quickly bound her ankles. When he glanced up he noticed that her blouse had come unbuttoned during the earlier search. He rebuttoned it.

Lyle watched with interest. "So that's what all the ruckus was about. Guess having a female doctor will come in handy in more than one way. When do I get a chance to check her out?"

"You don't." Adam saw loathing flash in Renata's eyes. She wouldn't know the kid was all mouth, no teeth. And with his injury even his mouth was weak. "Security guard came back to warn her about us. Said the cops have escalated their search." He held up her key ring, jingled it. "Call your brother and tell him we have new wheels."

Lyle frowned. "Hers? I'd rather wait."

"Me too, but we can't stay here another two hours. Tell Nevin we'll meet him somewhere. In the meantime, I'm going to see if I can hide our old car better."

"Fine. Leave me a gun."

Adam shook his head. After the shootout with the deputy, there was no way Adam would let Lyle have another weapon. He hoped Lyle didn't press it; he didn't want to debate the issue in front of Renata.

"Tied up she won't give you any trouble. And I'll be right back."

Lyle shrugged and closed his eyes, but his tone didn't match his cool response: "Whatever."

Adam turned back to Renata. He didn't like leaving her. He didn't trust her. He recalled her pulling the scalpel. It had been a surprise, but it let him know what she was made of. She had plenty of grit. He checked her bindings, then took off.

Outside, Adam checked her car. It had less than a quarter tank of gas. Christ, what was it with women and gas tanks?

He grabbed the dry cleaning she had hanging in the back and popped the trunk. Jumper cables were coiled next to a gray canvas car cover that was still in the box. He dumped the clothes and removed the cover.

Stopping just long enough to scan the street, he jogged back to where they'd left the stolen car and drove it to the run-down service station at the corner. He parked the car beside several others before throwing the cover he'd found in Renata's trunk over it. The station owner would eventually find the car and report it, but by then they'd be long gone.

Next, he circled the building, checking for a pay
phone. He needed to make a call where it couldn't be overheard.

Unfortunately, the phone on the side wall had been vandalized: the cord cut, the receiver gone. He considered using Renata's cell phone for one quick call—except it would leave a record of whom he called. And he knew from experience the smallest slip could bring down the mountain. Adam had a lot riding on this job, professionally and personally.

Before taking this assignment, he had worked undercover in Central America, trailing arms dealers through Mexico to the U.S. border. The FBI's investigation had begun at the request of the foreign government and had taken over a year to establish. A single phone call by a rookie agent—to his girlfriend—had blown the operation. Worse, it had nearly cost Adam and another FBI Special Agent their lives.

Adam was still dealing with the career-damaging fallout. Even though he hadn't done anything wrong, he suffered guilt through association: The rookie had been his partner.

On the heels of that professional snafu, came another: His brother—who Adam had thought was dead—turned up alive and well in the Caribbean, as a person of interest in an Interpol investigation.

At that time, he hadn't seen his brother in twenty- seven years. And while everyone at the Bureau agreed Adam had done nothing wrong—hell, they weren't even sure what his brother was accused of—it was another strike against him. He'd been relegated to a back office, forgotten.

Headlights flashed on the street. Taking cover, he watched as a beat-up station wagon, its muffler dragging, ran a stop sign and sped off, an empty beer can flung out the window in its wake.

He waited until it disappeared, then sprinted across the street to the closed convenience store. When the car's lights had swept the store's parking lot, he'd spotted two pay phones. The first one worked.

Adam quickly punched in numbers. His partner, Stan Beckwith, answered on the second ring.

Stan sounded half asleep until he heard Adam's voice. "Halle-fucking-lu-jah!"

"I don't have long," Adam began. "I'm at a pay phone. And everything that can go wrong has."

"No shit. I've seen the news. How much of it's true?"

"Probably too much." He updated Stan on the shooting, Lyle's injury and Renata's involvement. "If I have to, I'll fold my hand. I don't want to endanger the woman and I won't be responsible for Lyle dying."

"I'm with you. But what's Ethan's take on it?"

Adam snorted. "I haven't talked with him yet."

"I'm not surprised. He's had more pressing matters. But then you probably haven't heard the latest political scuttlebutt. Ethan's name has been tossed in the ring as a potential running mate for presidential candidate Richard Barrington."

Now Adam swore. Ethan Falco, a former CIA and FBI honcho, was the man in charge of the top-secret task force assigned to capture Willy McEdwin and sons.

A high-level security advisor to the White House, Falco had handpicked the task force players from the ranks of FBI, CIA, and other federal agencies. The task force operated outside normal channels, which gave Ethan almost limitless authority. Most important, though, it avoided the leaks that plagued the system and helped Willy to evade arrest and continue his killing crusade.

In fact, part of the task force's agenda was to flush out those moles and spies that aided the McEdwins.
At
any cost.