No Safe Place. Sherri Shackelford
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had, he doubted she’d read too much into his earlier conversation. The less she knew at this point the better. He had a greater chance of inspiring her confidence if she didn’t see him as a threat.
“I’m sorry.” She ducked her head. “But I don’t trust anyone from Quetech Industries right now.”
“Why not?”
“I have my reasons.” She swiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “Are you former military? I heard rumors.”
“I served.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong. I promise you that.”
“Sure.” He blinked rapidly against the sting of the toxic spray. “Don’t rub your eyes, it will only make them worse.”
He shifted into gear and pulled out of the parking lot. His rental house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac populated by nondescript houses in a bedroom community. The previous occupants had been college kids, and his neighbors preferred having a quiet, single man next door instead of a noisy frat house. Keeping a low profile had been difficult with the welcoming bandwagon of visitors and casseroles.
He parked in the drive and left the engine running. He glanced at Beth’s shivering frame and cranked the heater.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
“Okay.” Her complexion ashen, she clutched the passenger door handle as though she might leap out of the car at any moment. “Please don’t take long.”
She was terrified, that much of her story he believed. Were they blackmailing her? Somehow that was easier to swallow—picturing her as the innocent victim. What did it matter? That sort of thinking got people killed. He had a mission to accomplish. This wasn’t the time to go soft.
“I’ll be quick,” he said.
A little time alone gave her a chance to stew over her present circumstances. Given the current technology, even if she stole his car, she wouldn’t get far. Without transportation, she was at a considerable disadvantage. It was cold and raining, and she was in a strange neighborhood. There was no place to hide.
He took the shallow porch stairs two at a time and punched his security code into the panel. Once inside, he quickly unlocked his safe and retrieved his Glock. He strapped the holster around his shoulders.
Glancing outside, he caught sight of Beth’s silhouette shimmering in the rain against the soft glow of the streetlight. If she finally decided to call the police, he’d deal with the interference. The police tended to be battering rams when he needed finesse, but at this point, he didn’t have much choice.
Keeping vigil before the window, the lights doused to prevent glare, he retrieved his phone from his pocket and dialed a memorized number.
The voice on the other end answered with a curt, “What do you have?”
“A problem.”
“Go ahead.”
A pair of headlights flashed across the window. A vehicle pulled into the next driveway over, and Corbin squinted through the sheeting rain. He recognized his neighbor’s familiar battered minivan with a parade of stick people marching across the back window.
“This is more than embezzlement,” Corbin said. “Someone tried to grab the accountant in the Quetech parking garage. They were professionals. Armed.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.” Corbin raked his hand through his hair. “The civilian prevented an engagement.”
“Then you were right about the terrorism connection.”
“Looks that way.”
“We’ll see if they left any evidence behind in the garage. Anything else?”
“Cayman Holdings isn’t listed in Quetech’s public records, but I traced an email about the bank.”
“Where’s the accountant now?”
“She’s with me,” Corbin said.
As long as she didn’t bolt, she had a chance at partial immunity. Maybe she hadn’t meant for things to go as far as they did. Maybe she hadn’t realized where the money was being funneled. Maybe she wanted to repent. The Bible said there’d be more joy in heaven for one sinner who repented than for ninety-nine righteous men.
Or maybe he just wanted to make excuses for her because he’d seen her hovering near the door of the break room during the monthly celebration of birthdays and anniversaries. She’d lingered just beyond the crowd of coworkers as they laughed and joked, looking in, but never crossing the threshold.
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts, then turned and snatched his identification from the open safe.
None of that mattered. She was in his custody, whether she knew it or not. She was suspicious of him, a disadvantage. Right now, she was probably weighing her options. Trying to decide if she was more afraid of him, the police, or the men in the garage.
Given that he didn’t trust her allegiance, he wasn’t confident how she’d react to his true identity.
Another pair of headlights flashed across the front window. The hazy shape of another car snagged his attention. His neighbor, Ruth, and her husband drove a sedan, but he couldn’t decipher the make and model from this distance through the rain-streaked window.
“You still there?” the voice on the other end of the line demanded.
Corbin stepped closer, and his breath fogged the glass. “The accountant needs protective custody.”
“I can’t authorize the expense until we know for certain she has viable information.”
“She’s become a liability. Those men weren’t taking her out for ice cream.”
“I trust your judgment, but I need something concrete. Find out what she knows. I’ll walk this up the chain and see what I can do.”
A car door slammed.
Corbin’s scalp tingled. “We’ll talk later.”
He raced out of the house and skidded to a halt. His driver’s door hung open, and his jacket lay neatly folded on the seat. Rain trickled down his collar, and he muttered an oath.
Beth hadn’t called the police. She’d run. Strike Three.
Beth cut through several yards, grateful for the chain-link fences and caring pet owners who kept their guard dogs safe by the fire when it rained. Ominous clouds blocked the setting sun, rapidly darkening the twilight. Enormous trees dotted the landscape of older homes. Above her, leaves in brilliant shades of autumnal gold and crimson remained caught in that stunning moment before the branches grew bare for winter. The wind whipped between the close-set houses, turning the chilled rain into icy, stinging pellets.
Her heels sank in the rain-soaked grass. At least she’d had the presence of mind to grab her shoe in the parking garage. She spotted the glowing lights of a gas station in the distance and traversed a low retaining wall into an alley behind a row of houses. She dodged between garbage cans and detached garages, making her way toward the streetlights at the far end of the block.
Who was Corbin Ross?
One thing was obvious—he was no financial consultant. He’d handled the terrifying situation in the parking garage with far too much aplomb. He’d also known she lived in an apartment. A lucky guess? Maybe. He’d said he’d served in the military, but he hadn’t elaborated. Had he been with Special Forces? Was he a mercenary?
He could be working for the Feds, for Quetech Industries or for Cayman Holdings Limited. None of which boded well for her.
Huddled