Guarding Grace. Rebecca York
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about her next move. Now she knew she was going to have to disappear—again. And come back as someone else. If she had the cash to do it again.
Not that she’d committed a crime. She’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
In the bedroom she switched on the television, turning the volume low, and caught the news on CNN.
They were reporting John Ridgeway’s death. But nothing had changed about the story.
So much for honesty in the halls of power.
As she stared at the television set, she wanted to curl up in a ball on the bed and close her eyes. She wanted to wake up and find out the past hour was all a horrible dream. But it was real. Just like the nightmare of two years ago.
Only now a powerful man was dead, and she was a witness. And if she didn’t want to end up like Karen, a secret detainee, she’d better get the hell out of here.
She was throwing clothing into a duffel bag when she heard the wooden stairs creak. Her hand on a pair of jeans, she went rigid, listening intently.
It could be one of the neighbors. Maybe nosy Mrs. Sullivan who was always peeking out her front door to see if Grace was bringing anybody home.
The next sound she heard was something metal sliding into the lock of her apartment door.
No knock. Nobody calling out, “Police. Open up.”
For a second, she was too stunned to move. Then she shoved the money into her purse, along with Karen Hilliard’s evening bag.
Without a second thought, she abandoned the duffel bag in the middle of the bed, thrust open the window and climbed out onto the ledge.
She hated to take extra time. But an open window was a dead giveaway, so she turned to ease down the sash behind her.
Thank God she was in good shape from all those laps at the pool—and the fencing lessons she’d been taking.
After slinging her purse strap over her shoulder, she lowered herself by her hands and let go, landing with a thunk on the roof of the next building. As soon as she hit the flat surface, she sprinted toward the edge, skirting puddles of standing water.
Behind her, through the old glass, she heard footsteps running through her apartment—then men’s voices.
“Where the hell is she?”
“Maybe she didn’t go home.”
“Where else would she go?”
Without looking over her shoulder, she kept moving across the gravel, then over the side of the building. “She’s on the roof.” “Don’t let her get away.”
Lord, who were these men? The DC cops? Or more likely John Ridgeway’s private security force.
Either way, she was pretty sure that getting caught could be a fatal error.
Fear swelled inside her chest, making it hard to breathe. But she didn’t break her stride until she came to the edge of the building. As she lowered herself over the side, she saw a man coming out the window.
Two of them had barged through the front door without announcing their presence. Was the other one going around back to cut her off at the pass.
She dropped to the roof of a garage, then to the alley.
“Stop her!”
Praying she could make it, she hurtled down the alley, her running shoes splashing through puddles of dirty water. Before she reached the car, a hand whipped out from the shadows and grabbed her shoulder.
Grace screamed, the sound coming to her above the roaring in her ears.
She’d almost made it—and now …
A man barked out a gruff order. “Hold it right there, sweetheart.”
It wasn’t necessary to fake terror. She was literally shaking in her shoes. “Please don’t hurt me,” she whimpered. “I won’t. If you come quietly.” Oh sure.
When he turned her toward him, she went still, pretending to comply, letting him think he had control of a woman too terrified to resist. But as she came around, she lashed out, whacking her elbow into his armpit the way they’d told her to do in self-defense class.
He was totally unprepared for the attack. Grunting, he dropped his hold on her shoulder.
Free of his control, she struck out with her foot, catching him in the balls. He screamed as he doubled over.
But he wasn’t the only one she had to worry about. Another man dropped over the side of the roof, charging toward her.
If she ran, she had no chance. So she played deer in the headlights, standing still and breathing hard, forcing herself to wait until he was almost on her. Then she moved, using her body weight to shove the first guy into the second.
They both went down.
A curse rang out behind her as she turned and sprinted away, knowing this was her last chance.
Her lower lip wedged between her teeth, she kept moving, braced for the pain of a bullet slamming into her back.
Instead, just as she turned the corner, another man stepped into her path, trapping her.
“Come on,” he said.
As he took in her wide-eyed look, he snapped, “I’m not one of them.” “Then who?” “The cavalry. Come on.” “Where?”
“Away. Let me help you, before they catch up with you.” With a gun in his hand, he gestured toward a car pulled up at the curb. The guy looked tough and capable but subtly different from the men who’d broken into her apartment. Making a split-second decision, she climbed into the car.
Her heart was pounding so hard that she thought it might break through the wall of her chest.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“It looks like I’m your bodyguard.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“You put up a good fight, but they would have gotten you in the end.”
She sighed, eyeing him. “What’s your name?” “Brady Lockwood.”
Oh Lord. She should have recognized him! But the photos she’d seen of him had been old. He hardly looked like the same guy.
“You’re John Ridgeway’s brother.”
Brady drove toward Georgetown with no particular destination in mind. The one thing he knew was that going home wasn’t an option at the moment. Despite claiming to be her bodyguard, he still didn’t know if he was going to end up taking Grace Cunningham to the cops. And he sure as hell didn’t trust her enough to let her into his apartment.
As she sat next to him, she radiated tension. Yeah, well, she should. She’d been involved in something pretty nasty this evening.
He saw her hands trembling. She was on the edge, and maybe he could use that to his advantage.
Turning off Wisconsin Avenue, he pulled onto a side street and under a streetlight that gave him enough illumination to see her.
When the car came to a stop, she glanced around in alarm. “Where are we?”
“On the run. But you look like you could use a friend.” “I’m fine,” she protested.
“Of course not. You’ve been through a rough couple of hours.”
He cut the engine, then reached across the console and gathered her close, stroking his hands over her back and shoulders, then into her hair, feeling her tremble.