Mistaken Identity. Shirlee McCoy
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for him, and that seemed to always lead them to Mason.
It wasn’t surprising. A computer chip Mason built into every prosthesis collected real-time information about the amputee’s movements and muscle strength. The information was sent wirelessly to Mason’s computer system. He used it to create the best prosthetic design possible for the individual. The system had a built-in tracking system that could be used to find the prosthetic if it was stolen or misplaced. In theory, it could also be used to track the amputee who was wearing it.
It would take Mason all of five minutes to figure out where Tate was. He wasn’t going to. He had client confidentially to protect. Plus, he didn’t trust people. Not much, anyway. If Tate had thought he needed to hide from the organization that was supposed to be protecting him, he’d had good reason for it.
It wasn’t Mason’s job to find out what it was. It wasn’t his job to turn him over to the military police, either. Eventually Mason might be subpoenaed. For now, he’d refused the request for information.
Yeah. No. He wasn’t taking Trinity’s story at face-value.
He stepped into the shadow of an old elm, the heavy branches leaning toward the ground and hiding him from whoever was approaching. He could still see the light, and he watched it as it crawled along a fallen log and passed Mason’s hiding place. Finally, a man stepped into sight. Tall. Lean. No weapon that Mason could see. That didn’t mean much.
The perp he’d disarmed had been stupid enough to carry his gun tucked in the pocket of his jeans. This one could be hiding a weapon anywhere.
The man passed, leaves crunching under his feet, his breath heaving. He might be lean, but he wasn’t in good shape. He sounded like a steam engine huffing and puffing his way through the darkness.
A man called out and Mason’s quarry flicked off his light, darting back in the direction he’d come.
Mason sprinted after him, not bothering to be quiet about it. He could hear more voices—several men and at least one woman.
“Police!” one of them called as lights flashed across a nearby tree. They were on the ledge, heading down, and Mason could have stepped back and let them make the apprehension. He was annoyed, though, and just angry enough to want the guy to be stopped sooner rather than later.
He followed the perp onto the path that led to the beach, tackling him as he tried to sprint to a small dock that jutted out into the lake.
“Who are you?” Mason growled as he patted the guy down and found an ankle holster and small pistol. “What are you doing on my property?”
He kept his knee in the center of the guy’s spine and checked the safety. “Did you discharge your weapon tonight?”
The guy remained silent, and Mason added a little extra pressure to his spine.
“You’re going to break my back,” the man gasped, finally struggling. “Get off me. I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“Did you fire your weapon?”
The man shook his head.
“That a no?”
“You figure it out,” he gasped.
“I’d rather move on to another question. Where’s your buddy?”
“I don’t have one. I was out walking alone.”
“Walking, huh?”
“It’s not a crime.”
“It is if you’re on private property while you’re doing it. You have a permit for the pistol?”
“In my car. Let me up and I’ll go get it.”
“How about we just wait for the police and they can do it for you?”
They were charging down the slope, crashing through underbrush and thickets.
He glanced toward them, counting half a dozen lights flashing in the darkness.
“Drop the gun! Hands in the air!” one of the officers shouted and Mason did exactly what he’d been told immediately. No way was he going to take a bullet for this guy.
The pistol landed with a soft thud and officers swarmed closer.
“Facedown on the ground! Keep your hands where we can see them!”
Mason followed orders.
The perp was doing the same, staying prone on the ground, one arm straight above his head, the other...
Moving.
Subtly.
Reaching for the gun that was a few feet away.
“Don’t,” Mason warned, but it was too late, the guy lunged toward the weapon, lifting it as he tried to run.
Mason dropped to the ground as the first bullet flew, the police yelling commands, the scent of gunfire in the air. The crack and pop and zing of weapons being discharged, and for a moment he was back in time, lying on the hot sand of an Iraqi outpost while bullets whizzed over his head.
Five rounds fired in quick succession.
Law enforcement officers yelled commands.
And, then, silence. To Trinity, that was the worst sound of all—the emptiness and quiet filled with the echo of violence.
She stepped from her hiding place, searching for the path that would lead her back to the beach. She was almost certain that’s where the gunfire had come from. The police were there. That being the case, she should be safe enough.
She hoped, because she wasn’t going to keep cowering in her hiding place. Not while Mason faced down the men who’d been chasing her through the woods. She’d caused her own trouble, and she was going to get herself out of it.
Once she did, she’d concentrate on getting what she’d come to Maine for.
That was going to prove difficult since Mason had already refused to hear her out. He was angry that she’d trespassed, irritated that she’d gotten herself embroiled in a mess on his property and probably anxious to see her leave the area.
She had a weekend to change things.
A weekend to convince him to listen.
First, she had to make sure he was okay.
The moon had inched above the trees, and it glowed gold-green, illuminating the dead leaves and scrub that littered the forest floor. The path should be right up ahead, and she headed in that direction, moving as quietly as she could, afraid to break the ominous silence.
She reached the path and hesitated, her skin crawling, her pulse racing. Voices carried through the trees, drifting up from the beach. None of them frantic or excited. Whatever had happened, whatever the gunfire had meant, it was over, but Trinity still felt uneasy.
She stepped onto the path and turned toward the beach, skirting past giant pine trees that could have been hiding anyone or anything.
Sounds drifted up from the shore, men and women talking, a dog barking, radios buzzing with activity.
She thought about calling out, but she was afraid of who else might be listening. Not just the law-enforcement officials who’d converged on the property. There’d been at least two men in the woods and it was possible both of them were still free.
She shivered, her teeth chattering as she jogged toward the beach. The slope was easy, but her feet were numb and she could barely feel the ground beneath them. She tripped over roots, stumbled over rocks. Her foot got caught in a tangle of weeds spreading across the path and she fell hard.
Someone grabbed her arm, dragged her up.
She went fighting, swinging her