True Shot (21 page)

His point exactly. “Well, I am your only friend right now. It’s like you’re Jason Bourne and I’m . . . I guess I’d be the . . . well, the resourceful girlfriend who gets killed at the beginning of the second movie. Hmm, not sure I care for that comparison on a couple of levels.”

He glanced at her, expecting an exasperated but slightly amused expression. Instead, her brows had drawn together in a way that looked suspiciously like hurt.

He rushed to amend his point. “I mean, I’m your only friend that you
know
of. Because of the amnesia. Of course you have other friends. I was just—”

“It’s okay. You’re probably more right than either of us knows anyway. Not that it matters. So, shall we?”

Before he could respond, she pushed open her door and stepped out into the ocean breeze.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

A
s Sam strode up the walk, the fresh and salty ocean breeze in her face, she pushed stray hair out of her eyes and studied the front of Arthur Baldwin’s home. Nothing about it sparked recognition, but all that could mean was that she’d had contact with him somewhere other than here.

Her stomach did an ominous dance, and she pressed her hand to her abdomen, willing her nerves to calm. Had to be nerves, right? Couldn’t be . . . anything else. Couldn’t be. And she refused to even think it anyway. Nothing she could do about anything until she got her memory back or figured out why her boss wanted her dead . . . whichever came first.

At the door, with Mac reassuringly beside her, she knocked and waited.

The door opened after about thirty seconds, and Arthur Baldwin stood there in frozen shock. “What are you doing here?” His raspy voice, as though he’d smoked a carton a day for the past forty years, carried not one tiny welcoming note.

His longish white hair was brushed back from his face, a contrast to the golden brown of his skin. In red plaid shorts and a yellow polo shirt, he appeared to be on his way to the golf course. The man had to be well into his seventies, but he had a healthy glow about him that most likely came from a privileged life of eating well and regular exercise.

“May we come in and talk to you?” Mac asked.

Sam jolted at the sound of his voice. She’d been so focused on trying to recognize Arthur Baldwin beyond the picture she’d seen on the newscast last night that she’d forgotten to say anything.

Baldwin shifted electric blue eyes to Mac. “Who the hell are you?”

Mac held out his hand. “Mac Hunter, sir.”

Baldwin seemed to shake his hand automatically before Mac continued his pitch. “Sorry to bother you on such a beautiful morning, but my friend and I would like to ask you a few questions.”

Sam marveled at his professionalism—and the absolute conviction in his tone that Baldwin would invite them in with a hale and hearty hello. Perhaps they could sip mint juleps on the back porch.

Then, amazingly, Baldwin stepped back and gestured them inside. His eagle gaze remained on Sam the entire time, and she imagined that if looks could kill, she’d be well on her way to the embalming table. Her stomach clutched at the thought that however she knew this man, it wasn’t pleasant.

Once Baldwin shut the front door, he turned to face them. “If your boss sent you here to shake me down for more money, go ahead and try. I already told him I’ve got nothing left.”

“Money?” Sam repeated. Not what she was expecting.

Baldwin’s face twisted into a mask of such hatred that she took a step back.

And then he lunged at her, his hands going for her throat.

Mac cleanly cut Baldwin off from his assault and shoved him against the far wall with a thump, where he pinned the man with a forearm across his throat.

“Easy!” Sam shouted, grabbing onto Mac’s arm.

He backed off as fast as he’d attacked, leaving behind a wad of wrinkles where he’d grabbed Baldwin’s shirt, and cast a chagrined glance at her. “Sorry.”

Baldwin straightened away from the wall and smoothed a hand over the front of his polo. To Sam, he said, “It doesn’t matter what your muscle does to me. I’ve got nothing.”

Mac snorted. “You think
I’m
the muscle? You obviously haven’t seen this woman in action.”

Baldwin kept his hard eyes on Sam. “Apparently you don’t know her as well as you think you do.”

Sam took a steadying breath. Her stomach was staging a revolt against the Egg McMuffin, and she feared a coup if she didn’t sit down soon. “Look, can we sit and talk?”

“I’ve already told you. There’s no more money. Don’t you people watch the news? I’m as broke as you can get.”

“This beach house is pretty nice, Artie,” Mac commented.

Baldwin’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I owe more than it’s worth, so the bank is letting me stay here and pay rent.”

“Yet, if you’re able to pay rent, you must have income from somewhere,” Mac said.

Sam put her hand on his upper arm to subtly warn him to back off. Such hostility—and violence, judging by how quickly he’d intercepted Baldwin—from a normally mild-mannered man surprised her. “We’re not here for money,” she softly reminded Mac.

“Right.” He rolled his shoulders as if to loosen tightness. “Guess I can’t control my journalistic instinct to try to flush out a lying politician.”

Sam did her best to give Baldwin a nonthreatening smile, trying not to notice the way his eyes widened, as though her smile unnerved him far more than it reassured him.

“I just want to ask you some questions,” she said. “I promise I’m not here for any other purpose or on anyone else’s behalf.”

Doubt lifted Baldwin’s bushy white brows. “Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe.”

“Ten minutes,” Sam said. “Please.”

Baldwin’s shoulders stiffened further as he turned to walk into the house. “As if I have a choice,” he muttered.

Sam followed him, and Mac fell into step beside her. “So . . . any bells ringing yet?”

She shook her head.

“He obviously knows you. I think you scare the bejesus out of him.”

“I noticed.”

“You’re one badass mo-fo, aren’t you?”

The fact that he gave her an impressed smile just made her stomach twist further. “You think I should be proud of the fact that this man is frightened of me?”

“It’s not like he’s a minister running the local food bank. He’s a douche bag who ripped off the people closest to him and let his kids go down for it. Yeah, you should be proud that your presence makes him quake in his old-man shoes. Maybe if we’re lucky, you could make a fast move toward him and see if he pees himself.”

She stopped walking and faced him, anger flushing warmth into her face. “This isn’t a joke.”

Mac raised his hands, palms out. “I know. I’m just . . . damn it, that guy’s a dick. Sorry if I think he deserves to squirm.” He gave her an intense, soul-searching once-over. “Wait a minute. You’re bugged that you’re the one making him squirm. Were you hoping that you’re one of those nice spies who rescues kittens from trees? I’m ninety-nine percent sure you’re not.”

Now she was the one wanting to squirm. Instead of responding, she turned her back on him and followed Baldwin into a sitting room at the back of the house that looked out over a private beach. Sliding glass doors were closed against the chill outside, but the sound of the rush and retreat of the ocean waves bled through the glass. Other than a black microfiber recliner with a well-worn seat, the furniture was white wicker with solid blue cushions. A large flat-panel television hung on the wall adjacent to the glass doors, tuned to a news channel starring a ranting political commentator.

Baldwin said nothing as he settled himself into the recliner, picked up the TV remote and muted the sound. His demeanor screamed defeat.

Sam sat on a wicker chair and clasped her hands in her lap. She didn’t want to feel sorry for this man, but she did. Maybe because she feared—no, she was
certain
—that she’d played a significant role in his despondency.

She cleared the tightness from her throat. “Mr. Baldwin, could you tell me how we know each other?”

He stared blankly at her. “Excuse me?”

“You made a reference earlier to my boss. You meant Flinn Ford, right?”

He turned a suspicious gaze on Mac. “What is this?”

“Just answer the questions, Artie, and everything will be fine,” Mac said.

Baldwin pressed his lips together. “Flinn Ford is the man who blackmailed me, yes.”

Blackmail. Terrific. She swallowed and shifted to try to alleviate the tension in her back. “What role did I play in that?”

Baldwin pushed out of the chair, his features twisting in rage. “What the hell is going on here? Is this some kind of joke? Are you people here to fuck with me? I told you! I’ve got nothing! And even if I did have anything, the deal is off. You people broke your end of the bargain. I’m ruined now. My life is
over
!” Spittle flew from his mouth, and his face turned heart-attack red. “I did everything I was supposed to do.
Everything
. I played by your fucking rules. I gave you millions of dollars. Fucking
millions
. And my brother still went to prison and when the market collapsed and I lost everything and the rumors began to fly, you did nothing to help me. I have nothing now. I
am
nothing. Because of
you
.”

“Mr. Baldwin, please calm down.” Sam rose, fearing he would send himself into cardiac arrest. She grasped one of his flailing arms, fingers digging into his shirt as she braced to angle his arm behind his back to control him. He yelped.

In her peripheral vision, Sam saw Mac jump to his feet. “Stay there!” she ordered.

The distraction was all Baldwin needed. He yanked away from her, whipped around and backhanded her.

The floor dropped out from under her.

Mac leapt forward and grabbed the older man’s wrist before he could deliver another blow. The first had been so lightning fast, Mac hadn’t seen it coming any more than Sam had. One instant the man had been gesturing wildly, and the next, he’d taken a swipe at Sam that had sent her reeling. Now, she slid in slow motion down the wall, limbs boneless, eyes fixed and far, far away.

Shit, shit, shit. Mac had to all but wrestle the struggling Baldwin back into his recliner. “Stay put,” Mac growled when the older man started back up.

Baldwin ignored the order, and Mac had to push him back with a none-too-gentle hand to the chest. He would have preferred to punch the living daylights out of the bastard. “Move and I’ll knock you flat. I’m not kidding.”

“What’s the matter with her?” Baldwin asked, the fury in his gaze morphing into worry. Not for Sam, though. The pathetic old geezer feared what would happen to him if he’d harmed her. “I lost control of myself for a moment. I didn’t mean to strike her.”

“Yeah, like you didn’t mean to attack her when we first got here, either, right?”

“I’m a crazy old man. You people took everything from me. I’ve got a right to be angry.”

“Whatever. Just stay put. You can go back to watching your TV in about two minutes.”

Mac turned his back on Baldwin and knelt next to Sam. He had no idea how to snap her out of her fugue state. He tried her name first, uncertain whether touching her would make the situation worse. “Sam?”

And just like that, she blinked.

Relief sagged his shoulders. That was easy. “You’re back.”

Her eyes tracked to him in such a sluggish way that the muscles in his chest retightened. If possible, she looked whiter than she had all morning. “You okay?”

She gave a distracted nod as she pushed to her feet, ignoring his offer of a hand up, and turned toward Baldwin, who sat still and tense in his chair. She gazed at him for a long moment, her breathing heavy but steady. “Your brother Jake. Where is he?”

Mac didn’t move, not liking the coiled tension in her muscles, the controlled rage in the way she breathed. “Who’s Jake?”

Baldwin’s eyes narrowed to slits of ice, and his hands tightened on the arms of the recliner until his knuckles lost color. “Fuck you, bitch. Fuck both of you!”

Sam lunged at him, pinning him in his chair with a strong hand at his throat. The muscles in her forearm flexed as she squeezed.

Mac took an alarmed step forward. “Hey—”

“Stay back!”

Mac stopped.

Baldwin’s face started to turn purple, and his eyes bulged, a strangled cough escaping his lips.

“Where. Is.
Jake
.” Sam’s voice had gone low and deadly.

Baldwin gagged, sputtered. His lips moved in a soundless “Fuck . . . you.”

“Sam, you’re killing him.” Mac tried to speak in a reasonable tone.

He didn’t think she’d heard him. Or perhaps she ignored him. “Sam,” he said more firmly.

A beat later, as though it took a few seconds for his warning to reach her brain, she loosened her grip.

Baldwin heaved in a raspy breath.

Sam kept her hand at his throat, her other hand braced on the arm of his chair. “Tell me where he is or I’ll crush your trachea. You’ll be breathing through a tube for the rest of your miserable life.”

Jesus.
Mac’s head spun a little at the threat. If he’d been at the other end of it, he would have pissed himself. And this was a woman he’d earlier thought had to have the most adorable smile on the planet.

“My brother is dead,” Baldwin rasped. “You killed him.”

Sam backed off so fast that she stumbled into Mac. He caught her with his hands at her waist and steadied her. She shoved him away, though not violently, and pushed by him.

Mac started to follow her but turned instead at the sudden ruckus behind him.

Baldwin was charging after Sam, and Mac blocked him like a defensive linebacker. “Oh no, you don’t.”

As Mac shuffled the older man back to his chair, Baldwin started screaming after Sam’s retreating back. “You killed him, you fucking bitch! You killed my brother!”