Angela asked me to…keep him safe…from the cops.
Madrid knew better than anyone that people weren’t always who they said they were; first impressions could be deceiving. After all, he was a master at deception himself. But he’d learned a long time ago to trust his instincts. He didn’t like it, but right now his instincts were telling him something was amiss.
He’d wanted to end this tonight and take this woman in. He wanted her to pay for taking a life and leaving a little boy without a mother. He’d wanted to prove a point to Sean Cutter. Madrid hated it, but none of those things was going to happen as quickly as he’d wanted.
“Who the hell are you?” he whispered above the din of rain against the roof.
Recalling she’d mentioned a photo, he looked around, found nothing, then glanced down at her. Her eyes were closed, but her limbs were restless. He wondered if the photo really existed or if she’d been delirious. Or lying. Would the photo answer any of the questions zinging around in his head?
He wasn’t above searching a woman, unconscious or otherwise. Especially if it might help solve the murder of a fellow agent. The sweatshirt had no pockets, but her jeans did. Frowning, he slid his hand into her front pocket and felt around. Nothing. He shifted her slightly and tried the other, found it empty. Turning her onto her side, he checked the rear pocket. His fingertip brushed something slick—plastic. He slid it from its nest. A plastic bag…with a picture inside it.
The quality was grainy, but clear enough for him to discern the dozen or so young women jammed into what looked like a small room. He removed the photo and studied it. Most of the women appeared to be of Asian descent. Some were bound, a few looked battered. All of them looked frightened.
“What the hell?”
The floor creaked behind him. He reached for the pistol he’d taken from Atwood, and swung it around. The sight of the little boy standing a few feet away hit him in the gut like a punch. He was five or six years old, tops, and wearing a pair of baggy blue jeans, a red sweatshirt and a Giants baseball cap. In his arms he clutched a stuffed hippo.
“Mah-mah.”
For the first time since arriving, Madrid felt as if he were out of his element. He might be a whiz at chasing down killers, but when it came to kids he hadn’t a clue. “It’s okay,” he whispered.
The little boy didn’t acknowledge him. His eyes were fastened on the woman collapsed on the sofa. Crying out, the child ran to her, threw his arms around her and began to rock.
“Mah-mah.”
Madrid watched the scene unfold. He might not know a damn thing about kids, but he knew enough about human nature. One thing was for certain—this child was not afraid of Jessica Atwood.
“What the hell is going on here?” he muttered.
The only answer he got was the pounding of rain against the roof and the uneasy sensation that nothing was as it seemed.
JESS FLOATED TO CONSCIOUSNESS one sense at a time. The first thing she became aware of was the incessant crash of the sea against the rocky shore. Then the ebb and flow of pain in her left arm. She was lying on her side with her knees pulled up to her chest.
Everything that had happened rushed back like the memory of some terrible nightmare. Adrenaline sent her bolt upright even before her eyes were fully open. Pain in her arm wrenched a cry from her, sent her back down. For a moment she lay there, confused and fighting panic.
“Welcome back” came a low male voice.
Jess opened her eyes and found herself staring at a man with eyes the color of midnight. A day’s growth of whiskers darkened his lean jaw. He was watching her with an intensity that unnerved her, the way a predator might watch injured prey seconds before pouncing.
He was the man who’d accosted her outside the cottage. She remembered struggling with him. He’d identified himself as a federal agent. But then, why wasn’t she in jail? Or at the very least in a hospital bed with an armed guard posted at the door?
“You don’t look like a fed,” she said.
One side of his mouth curved, but his eyes remained cool, aloof. “You don’t look like a killer.”
She thought of Angela and closed her eyes against the quick swipe of pain. “I’m not a killer.”
“Save it for some bleeding-heart jury.”
“I want to see your credentials.”
The sound he made was more growl than laugh.
“The last guy who identified himself as a cop tried to kill me,” she added.
Scowling, he tugged a thin black wallet from his jeans and held it out for her to see. It was a photo ID— Mike Madrid. U.S. Attorney’s Office.
“It’s a fake,” he said.
“I figured that,” she returned dryly.
“I’m not with the U.S. attorney’s office. I’m CIA. More specifically the MIDNIGHT Agency. The fake ID was to get me past the local PD.”
“Why is the CIA involved?”