Carrie's Protector. Rebecca York
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are you?”
“Near the south stairwell. Armed men were blocking the garage entrance. Can you pick us up on the roof?”
“Negative. Unless we get clearance for a helo flight into D.C.”
Wyatt answered with a curse.
A burst of gunfire from below interrupted the conversation.
“Gotta go.”
He led Carrie down the hall to another stairwell then up two more levels. He was pretty sure the attackers had thought they’d get him and Carrie in the garage, which meant they probably hadn’t stationed anyone up here. Yet.
Cautiously he opened the door and looked out into the hallway. Nothing was moving—particularly the dead body lying in a pool of blood in the center of the tile floor.
When he hesitated, Carrie pressed against his back and looked over his shoulder.
“Oh, God,” she breathed as she gazed at Skip Gunderson, the Federal prosecutor she’d been coming to meet.
“We can’t stay here,” Wyatt said.
But when he glanced back at Carrie, he saw the blood had drained from her face and she had gone stock-still.
“Carrie!”
Her gaze stayed on Gunderson. “We have to…” she whispered.
He gripped her arm, squeezing hard. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing you can do for him now.”
When she still didn’t move, he tugged on her arm. “Come on. Before we end up the same way.”
He watched her expression harden as she shook herself into action and let him lead her down the hall, although she kept looking back.
“This is my fault,” she said, as he tried to determine the best place to hide.
“You’re not responsible.”
She made a snorting sound. “Of course I am. He was here to meet me.”
“Because he was doing his job. Maybe you should blame the building security for letting terrorists in here. Or whoever leaked the meeting information.”
He hurried Carrie down the hall, opening doors as they went. Most led to small offices, but one was larger, which had the potential for more hiding places. He stepped inside, looking around. The blinds were partially closed, which would give them more cover. Crouching behind the broad wooden desk was too obvious, but a bank of storage cabinets blocked the view from the door.
“Get back there.”
“What about you?”
“I’m coming.”
Carrie hesitated, then crossed the room and wedged herself into the corner. Crossing to the desk, he opened drawers, looking for anything useful. When he found a box of pushpins, he threw them onto the polished tile floor, watching them scatter. Then he crossed to the cabinets and stepped in front of Carrie, gun drawn.
Of course, if he had to shoot, he’d alert every terrorist in the building.
As he pressed his back to her front, he could feel the tension humming through her.
“Wyatt?”
“I’m here to make sure you get out of this.” He wanted to turn around and take her in his arms. He wanted to stroke her back and hair to comfort her, but he knew that facing the enemy was more important than giving her reassurances.
Down the hall, Wyatt could hear rapid footsteps and doors opening and slamming shut again. When the door to the office where they were hiding opened, every muscle in his body tensed. He saw a shadow flicker on the wall—the shadow of a man holding a machine gun. The guy stood still for a moment, then started across the tile floor toward their hiding place.
Chapter Two
Wyatt waited, his body coiled for action.
In a couple of seconds, if the trap he’d set didn’t work, the invader was going to spot them—and shoot. But before he reached their hiding place, the man stepped on the pushpins and lost his footing.
Wyatt sprang around the corner, reaching for the guy’s gun arm and pulling him forward across the slippery surface. Off balance from the pins and the man yanking on his arm, the gunman scrambled to stay upright while he tried to get his weapon into firing position. Before he could do either, Wyatt kicked him square in the back, sending him sprawling on the tile floor, yelping as the sharp points of the pins dug into his hands and face.
He was a blond guy, young and muscular, and totally unprepared to be attacked by the quarry he was hunting.
Wyatt was on him as he went down. As the guy struggled to respond to the changed circumstances, Wyatt raised his own weapon and bashed the terrorist over the head with the gun butt. The man went still.
“Cover him,” he told Carrie, handing her his Sig while he looked for something to tie the guy up.
She held the weapon in a two-handed grip. He noted that she was savvy enough to stand a couple of yards away so that the man couldn’t grab her leg if he came to and went into attack mode.
Wyatt’s glance raked the desk. Grabbing the phone, he yanked the cord from the wall, then disconnected the cord from the phone to the receiver.
While Carrie kept the gun trained on the guy, Wyatt tied him up using both cords. When he was finished, he took a closer look at the terrorist’s appearance. Definitely not from the Middle East. In fact, he looked like a typical Midwestern farmer with sunburned skin, blond hair and pleasantenough features.
“You know him?” Wyatt asked. “Was he one of the men in the park?”
“No,” Carrie answered.
“Well, that’s a clue to the scope of the organization. Looks like the initial three you spotted in the park weren’t the only ones involved in the plot.”
She nodded.
As Blondie started to stir, Wyatt took back the gun while he debated what to do.
The man’s eyes blinked open. When he tried to move and found that his hands and feet were secured, he swung his murderous gaze from Wyatt to Carrie and back again. Carrie recoiled, but Wyatt ignored the threatening scowl. “How many men are in the building?”
“Enough to kill you and the bitch.”
“I don’t think so.” He wanted to ask how the terrorists had discovered the time and location of Carrie’s meeting with the Federal prosecutor, but he knew that would only be a waste of time.
The guy smirked at him. “You won’t get out of here alive. And once you’re dead, there won’t be anyone to testify against Bobby.”
“They have the pictures she took of your meeting.”
“So what? In this day and age, they could be faked. And—”
To stave off another smart remark, Wyatt bashed him on the head again, and he went still.
Carrie made a low, distressed sound. “Why did you do that?”
“Don’t tell me you wanted to keep listening to his line of crap?”
“No.”
Wyatt found packing tape in one of the desk drawers, and wound it around the guy’s head and over his mouth so he couldn’t call for help. Then he pulled him behind the desk.
“It looked like you handled my gun all right,” he remarked.
“Yes. My father made sure I was able to protect myself.”
“Good.”
He handed her his automatic and took the terrorist’s weapon for himself before crossing to the door and looking out. The hall was clear. But they’d