Rachel Lee - The Hunted

He half smiled. “Whatever it takes.”

She didn’t argue. She didn’t want to stay amidst the ruins of her life. And since thieves had already been through every inch of her apartment, she could hardly feel any more violated by the police following them.

She had to lean heavily on Jerrod to make it down the two flights of stairs. Her knees had begun to wobble as the adrenaline rush wore off. “I hate this,” she announced as they reached the street.

“Few people enjoy being robbed and battered.”

“I didn’t mean that. I hate not being able to take care of myself.”

He fell silent as he opened the door of what was apparently his vehicle. Flex Fuel, the dashboard announced with a fancy plate. Under other circumstances she would have asked about it, but right now she lacked the reporter’s energy to ask a bazillion questions.

He helped her buckle in, then closed the door. The heavy thud of the black SUV’s door was solid, sounding like safety.

He climbed in behind the wheel, and a few seconds later, pulled out into Houston’s late-afternoon traffic. He seemed to know his way around.

“How did you get on the Mercator case?” she asked, trying to distract herself from her mega discomfort.

“I was stationed here in Houston when your story came out in Fortune. I was part of the investigation.”

“Ah.” She closed her eyes, since the traffic seemed to want to spin around her. “I was pretty surprised that the FBI paid any attention to that article.”

“Why wouldn’t we?”

“Mercator is powerful, with powerful friends.”

“Thanks a lot.”

She tried to look at him, then decided the effort wasn’t worth it. “I didn’t mean it as a criticism of you.”

“Sure you did. The thing is, at my level, politics don’t matter. The law does.”

“I wish there were more of you. But right now I can only see two in the seat beside me.”

That got his attention. “You’re seeing double?”

“Not really. Well, only once or twice.”

“Christ.”

“You aren’t supposed to use that word around reporters and other persons not on the inside of your club.”

He surprised her with a short laugh. “I know some other words I shouldn’t use, too.”

“Who doesn’t? Well, don’t guard your tongue with me. I have a few favorites you might be hearing.”

“Curse away.”

She sighed and carefully lowered her chin to her chest. “Agent Westlake?”

“Jerrod, please.”

“Jerrod. I don’t think the break-in was a coincidence.”

He looked at her. “Duh. The question is why it happened after you testified.”

His comment was almost a question, but not quite. She chose to equivocate. “The question indeed.”

But she had a pretty damn good idea.

Four hours and five staples later, Erin was back in the car with Jerrod. In her lap were a bottle of pain meds and standard discharge instructions for wound care and dealing with a concussion. The doctor had wanted to keep her overnight for observation. Jerrod, too, had argued for the stay. Yet here she was, on the way back to her apartment.

“You’re stubborn,” Jerrod remarked.

“You don’t survive in my business if you aren’t.”

“Same here.”

“How cool is that? We have something in common besides Mercator.”

He chuckled. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

She half smiled. At least her lips were remembering that it was possible.

“But you’re not staying at your place.”

“No?”

“No. We’re going to collect some clothes and things, and then we’re going to a hotel.”

“Why?”

He looked at her. It was dark now, and flashes of headlights from oncoming traffic chiseled his face even more. “You were attacked at home. Wanna try again?”

She decided he was okay, because he’d asked her instead of telling her. “Honestly? I’m not so sure.”

“Me, either. I don’t know what’s behind this, but my instincts are telling me they’re not done with you.”

“You have good instincts,” she remarked, then wished she hadn’t, because he was no idiot and caught the subtext as if it had been a headline.

“What don’t I know?”

She hesitated. “Plenty,” she said finally. “And I can’t talk about it. Reporter privilege.” That usually shut people up. Not him.

“We’re going to have to talk about it, Erin. Later. When you feel better.”

Not likely, she thought, but at least for now he was letting her off the hook. She would take what she could get until she was back in shape.

The stairs were easier this time, and the crime-scene unit was still picking over the bones of her life like carrion birds. As promised, she noted what was missing, which hadn’t expanded much from what she had already noticed. Whoever had broken in had been looking for information, of that she had no doubt. Her grandmother’s engagement ring, a nice piece of ice, had been totally ignored. Mutely she held it up to Jerrod, and he nodded understanding. Then she slipped it on the ring finger of her right hand to keep it safe.

He helped her pack a suitcase, and she didn’t object. Not even when he scooped underwear up off the floor. It wouldn’t make any sense to object, since even the thought of bending over left her dizzy and nauseous.

Besides, he seemed as interested in it as if it had been cardboard. He was very…clinical, professional. He avoided her few good dresses and instead packed slacks, jeans, Ts and sweatshirts. Her favorite stuff, to be sure, but it began to seem he had some kind of plan. It was more than she needed for overnight.

Abducted by an FBI agent, she thought. Could the world get any crazier?

When she asked him where they were going, he shook his head and indicated the next room with a movement of his eyes. He didn’t trust the local police? Erin began to wonder what he knew that she didn’t.

“Anything else you don’t want to leave here?” he asked finally, as he prepared to latch her suitcase.

“All I have that mattered is gone.” Except for the ring on her hand.

“Let’s move out, then.”

Huh, she thought. Military background, or too many movies?

They drove off again in his car, this time headed for Loop 410. “Where are we going?” she asked again. “Or do I need to jump out of a moving vehicle?”

“That would hurt considerably more than being hit on the head. I told you, I’m taking you to a hotel.”

“I’m not in the set that can afford hotels.”

“I am. And I’m not going to leave you hanging in the breeze. Not at your place. Not even in a hotel under your own name.”

She squirmed on her seat and managed to look at him. “You’re creeping me out.”

“Good. You should have been creeped out before.”

“I was, but not like this. What are you thinking?”

“You’ve pissed someone off enough to commit felony burglary and battery. That’s very pissed off. You know something, or they think you do. You’re still alive, which can’t make them happy. Two plus two equals four.”

Gingerly, she reached up and touched the staples on the back of her head. “You have a point. Why didn’t you want to say anything in the apartment?”

He glanced her way. “Cops talk. Sometimes idly, and sometimes not.”

He was right, she realized. “So I can’t trust the cops but I can trust you? There’s a disconnect there.”

He reached in his breast pocket and tossed her a flip-phone. She barely managed to catch it, considering the world was still trying to bob on invisible waves.

“Call information. Get the number for the Austin field office of the FBI. Ask about me. Check my creds. Get my description.”

She looked at the phone. Part of her said she didn’t need to do that if he was so willing to let her; part of her suspicious reporter’s mind suggested that he might be expecting that reaction.