Sherri Shackelford - No Safe Place

Strike two.

Once he was confident the men following them had given up, he exited the freeway and drove toward a park near his rented house. The lot was empty save for a single vehicle. A young couple played Frisbee in the distance, oblivious to the darkening sky.

He turned toward Beth and came face-to-face with her container of pepper spray.

Lifting his hands, he said, “Easy there. Don’t shoot.”

He’d been pepper-sprayed in the army, and he’d prefer not to repeat the experience.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“Corbin Ross. You might remember me from the finance meeting this morning. The one with the stale donuts and the endless PowerPoint.”

His joke lifted one edge of her mouth.

“Sam must have had over a hundred slides,” she said.

“And half of them were charts.”

Her blond hair had come loose from the severe bun she wore at the nape of her neck and tumbled over her shoulder in a gilded wave. Though her hands shook, she stared him down with a steely determination in her leaf-green eyes. Her words were light, but her intentions were deadly serious. His heartbeat kicked. This wasn’t personal. This was business. The first rule of undercover work was never get involved with your subject . Fraternizing with a suspect was a surefire path to the unemployment line.

The container wavered. “Take me back to my car.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, soothingly. “Someone may be watching your car. Your apartment isn’t safe, either. I’ll take you to the police station.”

“No.” Her gaze narrowed. “No police.”

“You can’t run from this,” he said. “Whatever you’ve done, it’s time to own up.”

A series of suspicious transactions with Cayman Holdings had brought Quetech Industries to the attention of the Cyber Division of Homeland Security. Two years before, Corbin had worked with the FBI on a case involving the same bank. A forensic accountant, Timothy Swan, had claimed to have evidence against Cayman Holdings, Limited. Beth Greenwood’s name had come up during the investigation. With no suspects in Swan’s death and insufficient evidence to pursue the fraud, the case had languished.

When the bank had come to the attention of Homeland Security once more, Corbin had volunteered for the undercover assignment. Beth Greenwood’s employment at Quetech Industries had been too much of a coincidence. She’d worked with Timothy Swan before. She’d spoken to the accountant about the case before his death. This was the second time her name had been linked to Cayman Holdings.

For the past two weeks, Corbin had worn a suit and tie and gossiped over the water cooler. Two weeks hadn’t given him enough time to unravel the complicated financial dealings. All he had were his suspicions, but they were adding up quickly.

“If you tell the truth,” Corbin said. “I’ll do what I can to help you.”

He wasn’t lying to her. Not exactly. As long as she turned over state’s evidence, he’d put in a good word with the prosecutor.

“What are you saying?” Beth rapidly shook her head. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Those men attacked me .”

“What did they want?”

She ducked her head. “How should I know?”

“Then why aren’t we going to the police station?”

Since he’d left the army for stateside government work, he’d seen plenty of embezzlement scandals. In his experience, white-collar criminals didn’t hire killers when they were caught red-handed—they bought boats and disappeared in the Caribbean. Beth and Quetech Industries were involved in something far more sinister than simple embezzlement.

She shook her head. “It’s complicated. The less you know, the better.”

“Look, I’d rather be listening to Janice’s rendition of ‘Total Eclipse of the Sun’ than having this conversation, but those men had guns. They used bullets.”

One of them was embedded in the hood of his car. Evidence he’d check later.

The dark gray clouds overhead gave way, and a steady drumming of rain tapped against the car roof. The couple playing Frisbee dashed toward their vehicle, giggling and holding hands. The man held the Frisbee over the woman’s head in a poor attempt to shield her from the rain.

Beth’s distress tugged at Corbin, cementing his resolve. He had to keep his distance, both mentally and physically. He’d seen how her sort operated. Once she knew she was caught, there’d be a sob story, a tearful plea for clemency.

Except he wasn’t in the business of providing sanctuary. “Do people just randomly kidnap you, or is this Friday special?”

The canister of pepper spray shook violently, and her breath came in quick, sharp gasps. “What about my car?”

As the shock penetrated her defenses, her bravado slipped.

“Your windshield is shot out. We caught them off guard. You’re fortunate you weren’t hit.”

Her breath came in sharp huffs. She glanced through the rain-streaked windshield at the park, a frown puckering her forehead. “I can’t just abandon my car.”

“Breathe,” he said. “They’ve probably stolen your car.”

“Are you always this positive?”

“It’s a gift.”

Beth Greenwood didn’t look like someone who’d launder money for terrorists, but what did he know? His midwestern childhood had been poor training for covert military ops. Everyone lied. Four years ago, his brother had trusted the wrong person, and that one mistake had cost his life. The loss had devastated their entire family. His sister-in-law and his nephew had suffered the worst. When Corbin had followed in his brother’s footsteps and joined covert ops to settle the score, he’d kept the truth from his family. They’d been through too much already.

His parents didn’t know what he did for a living now, or what he’d done in the army. They thought he was a desk jockey, and he let them believe the lie. He didn’t want them to worry. After seeing what his sister-in-law was going through, raising a child alone, he’d known he had to choose between having a family and having this profession. He’d called off his engagement to his high school sweetheart. He’d chosen the job.

“I c-can’t seem to stop s-shaking for some reason,” Beth stuttered.

He tamped down a wave of sympathy for his frightened passenger. His personal life and his work life never mixed. Never. He existed in two different worlds. When he was with his family, the job didn’t exist. When he was on the job, everyone else was an enemy. His ex had complained he kept too much hidden. She’d taken his secrecy personally. She’d never understood that it was all part of the job.

“It’s the adrenaline.” He slipped out of his jacket. “Take deep breaths and focus on a pleasant memory.”

“Like what?” Beth asked. “I can’t think of anything.”

Her chest rose and fell in an uneven cadence. The sight of her bare foot, the painted toenails curled against the cold, tugged at something in his chest. She was going to hyperventilate soon.

“What was your favorite hobby as a kid?” he asked, an emotion he didn’t want to identify spreading through him.

He didn’t want to like her. He didn’t want to feel sorry for her. This was a job, and in this job, the risk of betrayal was the difference between life and death.

“Horseback riding.” She covered her mouth with her free hand, her words muffled. “I loved horseback riding.”

She hesitated a moment before lowering the pepper spray. As she reluctantly accepted his coat, his fingers brushed against the silk of her blouse. The rumble of the car engine and the steady patter of rain faded into the void.

“That’s a good memory,” he said. “Think about that.”