Trust No One (3 page)

Her feet next. What she’d give for her boots. She had to make do with wrapping layers of blanket squares around her still-bandaged feet. She tied the squares with a slice of rope. The ridges the rope formed beneath her arches were only slightly less painful than those spindly heels.

She needed weapons. The fencing shears would suffice, and she stuck them in the waist of her homemade skirt. She also found a short-handled axe which she tucked in next to the shears, and a hoof knife which was a good fit in her hand and might be used to cut a jugular if it came to that.

Stopping by the horse, she wished she could ride him. But the noise would take away any element of surprise, so with a last pat to his soft nose and a deep breath, she stepped outside.

Immediately the cold air found gaps in her clothing, flowing up between her naked thighs, making her nipples rigid. Chill bumps burst over her body worse than a teenager with bad acne.

It had rained earlier. The ground squished beneath her blanket-layered feet, and she hadn’t gone more than ten steps before water seeped through the rough material. The now cloudless sky had the temperature dropping and she knew it wouldn’t be long before she felt like she was soaking her feet in Lake Michigan in the middle of winter.

Ignoring the increasing pain, she trudged ahead. She didn’t plan to fail at this job, and her extraction team wouldn’t be here for at least two more hours judging from the way the small sliver of moon hung in the sky. She really had no choice but to continue.

She found the Vespa. That meant he left on foot. He would either have a car stashed, or else he was waiting on an extraction. If she were lucky, it’d be the latter—otherwise, he’d be long gone.

Trusting her gut and her knowledge of Keith—this intimacy advantage could work both ways she thought clamping her lips together—MJ headed north toward the road, leaving the vineyard and moving into an olive grove.

She soundlessly penetrated the olive grove, each step measured to assure complete silence. No rustling leaves. No cracking twigs.

When Keith entered her life as an agency-assigned partner, she realized he had exploited her every weakness. With him, she thought she found a love to replace what had been missing since the tragic death of her parents when she was a child. But she was wrong. She had given her love, her body and her soul to someone who’d only told her lies, who only intended to use her.

How many women through history made the same mistake?

She never thought she’d be one.

When she found Keith—and she had to find him—she’d do what was necessary to retrieve the backpack. Or at least hold him long enough until the extraction team arrived to help. If she died in the process, she was willing to take the risk.

And if it came down to having to take Keith out—she’d do that, too. He’d made it easier.

Two hours of slow, painful, joint-freezing searching and then she found him. Soft masculine voices alerted her. Thank goodness they hadn’t decided to sleep, or she would have stumbled on top of their cold camp. No light, no fire, no smoke to give them away. She stopped behind an olive tree. Keeping her breathing shallow, she tuned her ears for any noise to indicate numbers.

She only made out two voices. But she couldn’t be sure. She needed a closer look.

She drew a deep breath and released it to slow her fast beating heart. Nerves steady, she inched from behind the tree scanning the perimeter of the camp, ears straining for other sounds, nose flaring for any smells. Keith sat with his back to her, talking to another man. She strained to hear.

“. . . damned cold. Hope they hurry.” Keith rubbed his arms.

“Fucking worthless car. Thank goodness the chopper can alter course,” said the other man, who in the dim moonlight appeared Slavic with tufts of light blond hair visible under a dark cap.

No sign of anyone else. But her gut told her something didn’t feel right. To be safe, she decided to circle the perimeter so she could-

Click.

The sound of a .45 hammer snapping into place. Cold steel against her left ear. Another man. Damn, he was good.

“Put your hands up,” he told her, his accent American.

She did as she was told adjusting the balance of the hoof knife in her hand. In the dark, he appeared not to see her improvised weapon, more concerned with running a hand roughly across her body as he frisked her.

“Nice get up.” He lifted the edge of her makeshift skirt. “But too bad. I was looking forward to seeing you naked.” He snatched the axe and fence sheers from her rope belt, and dropped them to the ground before he slid his hand beneath the poncho. His cold, groping fingers clutched her left breast. He chuckled. “Might have to have a piece of what Keith had before you die.”

She clenched her teeth and gripped the hoof knife tighter.

No doubt Keith bragged. Probably laughed with them about his method of sedation. And then, when their car died, he had known she’d be after him, and he had a man waiting.

Keith probably regretted not killing her outright, and she wondered why he hadn’t. Maybe she meant a little something to him. She hoped. That bit of feeling might make him hesitate before he killed her, and she’d get her chance.

“Move,” the man told her when she didn’t respond to his dig.

She inched forward, ever conscious of the armed man behind her. Slowly she lowered her arms, trying to keep her weapon hidden.

“What are you doing?” The man jabbed her with his gun.

“I’m cold, do you mind? You already took my weapons.” Not hearing an objection, she crossed her arms under her poncho shirt. Since the man stood behind her to the left, she slipped the hoof knife to her left hand.

A misty light filtered through the naked olive branches as they entered the clearing. It wouldn’t be long before the sun rose. Help would be here soon if she could stay alive that long.

The other two men scrambled to their feet as she stepped into the camp.

Keith met her cold stare with a cocky smile as he took in her costume. Then a slight nod of his head as if he approved of her creativity. “It’s business, baby. No hard feelings.”

“Of course not,” she said, pulling her dignity around her as tightly as her homemade skirt.

“You could switch sides,” he suggested. “The pay is better.”

Was that a hopeful look in his eyes? She’d have to disappoint him. “I think not.”

“I was afraid you’d be that way.” He sighed. “You know you’ll have to die.”

“You got the balls to kill me?”

“You should know.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’d prefer to kill you.”

“I thought you might. Can’t go down that way though.” He drew his Beretta .45 Storm from his shoulder holster inside his jacket. “We had fun together. I’ll be sorry to see you die.”

And she’d loved this man? She hid a shudder, focused on his gun. Death nipped at her heels in all her years in the business. This was nothing new.

Her heart rate kicked up. She wasn’t dead yet. She thought about praying for a miracle, but she’d been taught to depend on herself.

“Who you working for, Keith?”

“No need for you to know,” the man behind her said. He poked his revolver into her back. “You’re gonna be dead.”

She ignored him and focused on Keith. “How much money? Who’s the target?”

“Stalling, MJ? Afraid to die?”

“I knew the risks going in. So did you. But what about the innocent people who’ll die if you sell that information?”

“Sorry, baby, but I don’t have time to debate philosophy.” The sound of a distant engine made Keith pause and tilt his head to listen. “That would be the extraction team,” he said.

MJ tightened every muscle, ready to spring. It well could be his team, but it could as easily be hers. Even if she wasn’t in position for the original pick-up, she’d sewed a small tracking device in that backpack.

“No time for long good-byes.” He raised the gun.

Now or never.

She dropped her left arm down, aiming the hoof knife for the man behind her. She caught the curved point in his crotch and jerked upward. The man’s scream distracted the others long enough for her to snatch his falling .45 revolver. She aimed, squeezed the trigger, firing first at Keith, then the other man beside him.
Boom. Boom.
Two quick shots. Both men fell. The top of one man’s head appeared to be blown off. Keith was lying on the ground. Blood quickly pooled beneath both men.

She vaguely registered a flash from Keith’s gun before he hit the ground. She didn’t have time to worry about it. There was still one bad guy to go.

She heard the man moving behind her. She dove to the ground, rolled to her back and popped off two shots into his head before he recovered enough to draw another weapon.

He fell.

Another hit.

Pain tore into her then, ripping through her gut. She grabbed her stomach. When she pulled her hand away, it was covered in blood. Keith’s wild shot must have hit her as he fell. Gut shot and losing blood fast . . . .

She heard the chopper but didn’t know if it was the guys wearing the white hats or those dressed all in black. Injured and unable to escape, this could be her last breaths if it was the wrong side.

Trying to ramp down her heart rate, she took slow deep breaths, but with little effect. The warm blood flowed out making steam rise from her body in the frigid air. Good guys or bad guys coming, she was done for either way.

She saw two people rappelling from the chopper. When they dropped to the ground, a deep voice of authority snapped, “Check the men. Make sure they’re dead.”

Make sure they’re dead? Did they know already that Keith had gone rogue? She wanted to ask, but no sound came out when she tried.

A man’s face appeared before her. He had the most beautiful chocolate-colored almond-shaped eyes framed by thick, dark eyebrows. Great time to notice a man’s eyes, MJ, she chastised herself. And yet, what better to notice if she was about to die?

“What about her?” the other man said. “She’s as good as dead.”

“No,” the man with almond-shaped eyes answered. “We’re getting her out of here.” He pressed something against her stomach. She presumed to slow the blood.

“You and women,” the second man said. “You can’t save all of them.” Though MJ couldn’t see him, she heard the disgust in his tone and wondered what stick got shoved up his ass.

She blinked at her bizarre thoughts, tried to focus, tried to follow the conversation but her brain felt sluggish and inadequate. Blackness edged into her vision.

“Hang on, MJ,” the man with the eyes told her. “Hang on.”

Chapter 2

MJ jerked awake, gasping for air, her hand clutching her stomach. Moonlight beamed in through the wooden blinds. She blinked against the soft, bluish light, catching her breath, working to orient herself. She rolled her hand away from her stomach, held it up in front of her face, half-expecting to see it covered in blood. Just a dry, white palm. Her muscles relaxed. She sank back in the bed.

The nightmare. Again.

Keith’s betrayal over a year ago, not just moments before, still haunted her. She survived his attempt to kill her. She recovered.

No more danger. Her heartbeat skidded to a slower pace, but as the terror of the nightmare faded, the tears started. They dribbled out of her eyes, rolling down in hot streaks, getting lost in her hair. Her throat clotted with a big lump of anguish. Wiping at her wet face, she cursed the dreams that made her relive the pain in as much detail as if it’d just happened.

She swallowed, tried to take a deep breath, but her nose was stuffy and running. She snatched a tissue from the box on the nightstand and blew. Breathed again.

Beside her, the baby stirred, perhaps even in sleep sensing mommy’s distress. She forced herself to relax and curled close against Angelina, relishing the feel of the baby’s tiny, warm sixteen-month old body. Angelina’s soft curly hair, smelling sweetly of lavender, tickled MJ’s nose while the heat from the little angel, rarely still even in sleep, seeped through MJ’s nightshirt spreading warmth and comfort.

The white crib, with a thick pink comforter and a matching ruffled skirt, stood unused in the corner of MJ’s room with the appropriate baby-related props which were as new as when they’d left the package. She’d read all the pros and cons of sleeping with a baby, even bought the crib thinking if it were in her room she could bear for Angelina to sleep there.

But in the end, MJ hadn’t the heart to put the baby alone in the crib. Angelina had spent most of the first eight months of her life in a crib—in a cold, sterile hospital room—the foster system too overwhelmed to handle one more unwanted drug baby.

MJ’s stomach resonated hollow, low where her uterus used to be before it met with Keith’s bullet. Despite her losses, MJ considered herself lucky. While going through physical therapy at the hospital, she discovered Angelina, who had been abandoned as a newborn. Understanding all too well about feeling lost and alone, MJ immediately bonded with the baby girl.