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Betrayal on the Border
Jill Elizabeth Nelson


WHO CAN BE TRUSTED? Former army communications specialist Maddie Jerrard may not remember the details of the deadly mission on the Texas-Mexico border, but she knows one thing. She’s not responsible for the massive ambush that left only her and investigative journalist Chris Mason alive.Yet with suspicion—and danger—targeting Maddie and Chris, and a killer on their trail, partnering up is the only solution. But as Maddie and Chris get closer to uncovering the truth, they’ll have to trust each other to make it through alive.







WHO CAN BE TRUSTED?

Former army communications specialist Maddie Jerrard may not remember the details of the deadly mission on the Texas-Mexico border, but she knows one thing. She’s not responsible for the massive ambush that left only her and investigative journalist Chris Mason alive. Yet with suspicion—and danger—targeting Maddie and Chris, and a killer on their trail, partnering up is the only solution. But as Maddie and Chris get closer to uncovering the truth, they’ll have to trust each other to make it through alive.


Maddie whirled and ran.

The vehicle followed, and a voice called her full name—her real name. No bullet for her. Just a hit and run with her own car. A greasy spot on the pavement.

She wasn’t about to let them win that easily. As she ran, her hand dived inside her pack and closed around the handle of a 10mm Glock pistol.

“Maddie!” The male voice called again. Too familiar. And impossible!

Her racing feet jerked to a halt, and she pivoted on her heel, Glock extended in both hands. The Oldsmobile’s tires locked, and the car skidded toward her. The scent of burnt rubber met Maddie’s nostrils as she leaped up and forward. The vehicle rocked to a halt, bumper covering the spot where she’d been standing. She landed atop the hood on her knees and the knuckles of one fist. The other arm trained the Glock on the driver.

He lifted his hands, palms out, lips pressed into a tight line.

Blood pounded in Maddie’s ears and blackness edged her vision. It was him.

The most gorgeous man on the planet. He was supposed to be dead, but he was alive.

She should shoot him.


JILL ELIZABETH NELSON

writes what she likes to read—faith-based tales of adventure seasoned with romance. By day she operates as housing manager for a seniors’ apartment complex. By night she turns into a wild and crazy writer who can hardly wait to jot down all the exciting things her characters are telling her, so she can share them with her readers. More about Jill and her books can be found at www.jillelizabethnelson.com (http://www.jillelizabethnelson.com). She and her husband live in rural Minnesota, surrounded by the woods and prairie and their four grown children who have settled nearby.


Betrayal on the Border

Jill Elizabeth Nelson


















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust.... A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee. Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold and see the reward of the wicked.

—Psalm 91:1–2, 7–8


To the brave, honest and loyal men and women who protect and serve on the front lines

of the war on drugs. May you dwell securely under the shadow of the Almighty and walk in supernatural triumph as you battle with spiritual weapons greater than what is common to man.


Contents

CHAPTER ONE (#ud0da2197-eae7-5f85-b963-f146ad669223)

CHAPTER TWO (#u60f08fea-c370-5e7b-be59-b61269c72c6c)

CHAPTER THREE (#ub2cf9004-f506-526d-98af-01f4a1598946)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u7fd9c5b5-d20a-5452-99d7-1f107e1c1fe2)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)

Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)


ONE

If that off-white chunk of clay was craftsman’s putty, Maddie Jameson would eat her tool belt. What was C-4 explosive compound doing on the kitchen table in this unit at Morningside Apartments? A chill rippled her insides.

Not everyone would recognize the remnants from the construction of a pipe bomb. To the untrained eye, the dab of C-4 could be mistaken for putty and the bits of wire and lengths of sawed-off pipe merely scraps from a handy-man project. But then, not many apartment-maintenance workers were ex–army rangers with Maddie’s skill set—or a history that meant she must keep her head down and her eyes peeled.

Those who hunted her were relentless and ruthless, and she was damaged prey. She needed to see them coming before they got to her.

Not that she ever knew exactly what hired assassin would be after her. She could bump into one on the street and not know it until he tried to take her out. Everyone was a suspect. If only she could figure out why she was marked for death. Had she seen something the night of the attack a year ago on the Rio Grande? If so, her head injury had erased it from her memory.

Was she the target of the bomb these Morningside tenants had been making? If the three attempts on her life within the past year were any clue, she’d be an idiot to think otherwise. Where was the bomb planted? Her caretaker’s apartment on the premises? Maddie’s mouth went dry. There could be collateral damage. Dozens of people—including children—lived in this building, and a bomb didn’t care who it destroyed.

Dear God, please don’t let innocent families be hurt because of me.

Fighting for a full breath, she looked down at the work order in her hand. No, she hadn’t made a mistake. The order listed this apartment and stated that the tenants had given permission for the maintenance person to enter in their absence in order to replace a torn window screen. But she’d checked the screens—they were whole. Why would the tenants give permission for her to enter the premises on a trumped-up excuse and then leave their bomb-making scraps lying around in plain view?

Unless this was a trap.

The air in Maddie’s lungs went arctic. Maybe the bomb was planted in this very unit. The timer could click down to zero at any second.

Her feet cried Run—seek safety somewhere...anywhere! But flight wouldn’t help the other people who could be blown to smithereens.

Sweat trickled down her scalp, despite the coolness blowing from the wall-mounted air conditioner. The scar above her right ear itched, but she ignored the sensation as she yanked her two-way radio from her belt and began to search the premises with her eyes. There wasn’t much space to cover in this studio apartment. A kitchenette. A living-room area with an easy chair and matching ottoman, a television the tenants had left blaring, and a couch that had been slept on, if the rumpled bedding was any indication. A hide-a-bed pulled out from the wall filled the rest of the space. That, too, hosted a nest of wadded bedding.

“Bill, do you have a copy?” Maddie spoke into the radio.

She took her thumb off the button and listened for a response. Silence answered. Great! The apartment manager had chosen this critical moment to be absent from his office.

Maddie gingerly cracked the oven door open and peered inside. No bomb. She checked the refrigerator. A half-gallon carton of milk, a partially eaten brick of cheese and an overripe peach, but no bomb. She opened the cupboards with one hand while using the other to keep calling for Bill every few seconds. Still no answer. Her throat tensed as if invisible fingers had tightened around her windpipe. A little voice in her head screamed she was running out of time.

The tenants in this unit had opted not to hook up a landline phone, and company regulations dictated that employees not carry cell phones. Bad policy in this instance. Maybe she should run to the office herself and phone for the bomb squad. But the bomb could go off in her absence and kill any of the neighbors above, below or on either side. If she found the apparatus, she could defuse it as well as—or better than—the police experts.

She went to the clothes closet and pulled back the sliding door. Phew! The scent of onions rolled out. One of the owners of the stack of luggage that filled most of the space must have a love affair with the vegetable she most despised. Maddie let out a heavy sigh. She’d have to search each bag, and she’d be surprised if she didn’t find a different name on every airline tag. Crooks who wanted to fly under the system’s radar sometimes generated pocket money by walking off with pieces from baggage carousels and pawning or selling the contents.

From the hallway came the sound of male voices. They drew nearer...nearer...and then stopped on the other side of the apartment entrance. Maddie froze. The tenants were returning? Then the bomb wasn’t here. Her shoulders slumped, but then her gut tensed. It was too late to slip away unseen. She could hide in the closet with the onion odor, but to what purpose? If the tenants were in for the evening, she’d be found eventually. There was no way to exit this third-floor unit except through the front door.

Well, then, that’s how she’d leave. If she could bluff her way out, fine. If not... Tingles traveled down her extremities. Her muscles gathered. Combat instincts reared their ugly heads. Instincts she wished to forget. Instincts she might need. Again.

Maddie clipped the radio onto her belt and shoved the closet door shut as a click sounded in the entrance lock. A pair of men stepped inside, closed the door and then halted at the sight of her. Above a tall, whipcord body, a dark face with reddened eyes glared at her, lips peeled back from white teeth. Behind him, a short, pale man with doughy cheeks gaped in an astonished O.

She forced a smile and held out her work order. “I was sent to repair your screen, but I can’t find any damage.”

Lanky Man’s face grew darker as a spark of recognition lit his ink-black eyes. She didn’t know him, but he knew her. How? His hand slid beneath the front of his suit jacket as Dough Man leaped toward the table.

With a feral growl, Maddie dropped the work-order slip and swept her leg toward Lanky Man—her immediate threat. Her heel hooked the back of his knee. Crack! A handgun discharged while her assailant toppled backward. The bullet pinged against metal—likely a piece of the sprinkler system.

Cursing, threat number two rushed toward her, length of pipe raised. She chopped the rigid edge of her left hand into the soft bend of his elbow. The pipe fell from the arm she had numbed, and her right-handed chop connected with his Adam’s apple. The man went down, gagging and clutching his throat.

She whirled toward threat number one, who was climbing to his feet and bringing his Beretta to bear. Her radio squawked as her leg swept up, higher this time, and the heel of her work boot struck the smaller bone near the gunman’s wrist. The bone broke with an audible snap, and the gun rocketed into the far wall. Roaring and cradling his disabled hand, Lanky Man charged her, shoulder in ramming position.

Maddie danced aside, but the calf of her leg met the ottoman. She lost the fight for balance and tumbled backward onto the soft body of the Dough Man. Air gushed from his chest, and the struggle to breathe through his damaged windpipe faded into limpness beneath her. Her radio squawked again with Bill’s voice calling for her.

Now he wanted to talk? Sorry, pal, I’m a little busy!

The toe of a hard shoe hammered Maddie’s side. Pain splintered through her, and a scream rent her throat even as she rolled away from the next kick. From a catlike crouch, she caught the foot intended for her face and sprang upward while twisting her assailant’s ankle into an unnatural position. Lanky Man howled as his other foot left the floor. Airborne, he flipped and dropped, face-first, onto the unforgiving floor. Stunned and groaning, he lay still.

Maddie scooped up the gun and held it on her attackers, then pulled her radio from her belt.

“Bill, do you have a copy?”

“Maddie, where are you?” Static. “I’ve been trying to raise you to let you know the wrong apartment number was entered on the work order. The damaged screen is in Apartment 312, not 315.”

“Copy that, Bill, but there’s been an incident in Apartment 315. Call the police and the paramedics. And tell them to send the bomb squad. We need to evac this building.”

Heartbeats of radio silence were punctuated by another moan from the floor. The lean one stirred.

“Are you serious?” Bill’s voice came over the air in a tight squeak.

“Do it now.” A grim smile lifted her lips. About time she had the opportunity to order the paper-pusher around.

Lanky Man eased to a sitting position, glaring at her above a bloodied nose. The pale one lay inert. His throat was swollen, but his chest moved up and down. She had refrained from striking with deadly force. There was a time when that wouldn’t have been the case.

A time when she didn’t live like a hunted creature, scurrying from burrow to burrow. Thanks to these two scum of the earth, it was time to run again. But first—

“Where’s the bomb?” She extended the gun toward her conscious assailant.

He curled a swollen lip.

“You can tell me, or you can tell the cops. Or maybe the FBI. Someone like you is probably on their list.”

The alarm began to blare in the hallway, summoning the residents to evacuate, but Lanky Man’s gaze darted toward the television set. Maddie followed his stare, and her jaw dropped. The camera zoomed in on the flaming wreckage of a midsize sedan sitting at the end of a row of vehicles in a large lot. Maddie strained her ears to hear the commentator above the scream of the alarm.

“Thirty minutes ago, a bomb exploded in a car outside San Antonio’s Embassy Suites Airport Hotel.” The female news anchor spoke with a practiced air of concern.

Maddie’s heart rate stalled and then raced. Unless these zeros had made two bombs, she wasn’t the target. That meant a pair of vital things—the innocent residents at Morningside were likely safe, but someone else had already died. Who?

“The Chevrolet Impala was rented yesterday by this man,” the newscaster went on.

The report cut to a grainy security-camera shot of a tall, broad-shouldered figure dressed in a sport shirt and slacks, standing at the Enterprise rental counter of the San Antonio International Airport. The face was blurred, but Maddie’s grip loosened around the butt of the Beretta.

No! She couldn’t be seeing right.

Then a professional head shot of the same dynamic, thirtysomething man filled the 42-inch screen. Larger than life, he grinned at her with perfect teeth. An aquiline nose, tanned complexion and artfully tousled brown hair shouted class and hinted at arrogance. The glint in his eyes and the square of his chin spoke equal parts daring and determination.

A squeak left Maddie’s throat. Lanky Man made a sudden movement, but she leaped back and cocked the gun. He raised his hands in surrender and went still as the newscaster continued speaking words that hammered in Maddie’s brain.

“Christopher David Mason, an Emmy Award-winning reporter for World News, is presumed dead in the blast. The authorities have not yet been able to approach the vehicle to recover the remains. Mason is best known for his award-winning coverage of the massacre along the Rio Grande that occurred one year ago last month. The tragedy claimed the lives of all but himself and one member of an international team of military and law enforcement personnel. The team was scheduled the next day to mount an assault on the main stronghold of the Ortiz drug cartel near Nuevo Laredo, Mexico.”

As the woman eulogized, the vivid blue of Chris’s eyes gripped Maddie, ensnared her. She tumbled into them, helpless. He’d always had that affect on her. To her shame. Guilt twisted her gut. How could she be attracted to a traitor! Someone on the ground with them that night on the Rio had to have betrayed their location to the cartel forces they were supposed to take out the next morning. She knew she didn’t betray her team, so it had to have been Chris. He belonged behind bars. Suffering. Anywhere but in the grave like the others.

“The Ortiz Cartel claimed responsibility for the Rio Grande Massacre,” the newscaster continued. “Today’s fresh tragedy begs the question—have they struck again? And, if so, why? We hope to have more information for our viewers on the late news.”

The program switched to the weather. Hot. Sunny. No rain in sight. Nothing unusual in that forecast for mid-June in Texas, but her world had just turned inside out one more time.

* * *

An hour later, the bomb squad had searched the building and declared all clear. The tenants were released to return to their dwellings, while the tight-lipped suspects were hustled off to jail. Maddie strode toward her first-floor corner apartment.

The cops had been tickled to gain custody of the bombers so quickly after the explosion in the hotel parking lot. It was easy to secure their promise to keep Maddie’s involvement in the arrest confidential. Her reprieve from further scrutiny would be temporary, however. The police had taken her fingerprints for elimination on the gun. When they ran the prints, hopefully not too soon, they’d sit up and take notice that Madison Jameson was really Madeleine Jerrard, former communications specialist with the army ranger unit slaughtered in the Rio Grande Massacre. The link to the freshly murdered Chris Mason would be obvious, and they’d look to bring her in for further questioning, but they wouldn’t find her. Neither would those who wanted her dead.

Maddie reached her apartment, glanced up and down the empty hallway, then slipped inside and shut the door. Normally, this would be the moment in her day when she would strip the band from her ponytail, shake her thick, dusty-blond hair loose around her shoulders and head to the bathroom for a good, long soak in a tub of scented water. Not this evening.

Her head injuries had stolen critical memories of that night along the Rio Grande, but the cartel—or more likely an official in their pocket on this side of the river—thought she’d seen something that would expose them. She’d been on the run since their first attempt on her life barely a week after her release from the military hospital.

Too bad her faceless mortal enemy didn’t know she couldn’t remember whatever it was that might incriminate him. He might not be so set on doing her in then. Of course, a traitor to his country had motive to be hyper-paranoid. He’d probably sign her death warrant regardless, on the off chance that she might remember.

Now they’d tied up another of their other loose ends by taking out one of their accomplices in the very city where she hid, which meant Chris had probably been on the hunt for her and closing in. His killers had recently rented an apartment where she worked and lived. No coincidence there. Her enemies had located her, and their hired goons had intended her to be their next target...if she hadn’t stumbled onto them first through a mix-up in apartment numbers.

Random providence? Or the hand of the God she doubted?

She didn’t have time to seek answers to a spiritual question. As soon as her faceless enemy discovered their boys had been nabbed, they’d maneuver fresh troops into place to finish the job. Maddie’s heart rate slowed, her breathing deepened and her senses sharpened. Even the hum of the refrigerator motor sounded loud in her ears. She’d been in this position before and knew what to do.

She swift-footed to the bedroom, shedding her tool belt on the way and letting it thump to the carpet. In less than a minute, she had removed her jeans, work boots and button-down shirt that made her look like a skinny tomboy and donned a pair of casual capris, pullover top and running shoes with tennis socks that gave her the appearance of any other lean, mean soccer mom in this middle-class neighborhood. Not that she was a mom. Never yet had that chance in her twenty-eight years of life.

From the bread-loaf-size purse on the dresser, she removed all the cash, then went to the closet and tugged a string that looked like it went to a lightbulb but didn’t. A hatch she’d made in the ceiling popped open and dropped a bulging backpack. She caught it, then headed for the bathroom, where she tossed into the pack the emergency makeup kit she kept ready for this moment.

The mirror over the sink betrayed the tension sharpening her rather angular features. Chris was dead? The shock left a vacant cavity in the pit of her stomach. She truly was the only survivor from the massacre on the Rio—but for how long? Tears attempted to pool in the corners of her eyes. She pressed the heels of her palms against her cheekbones then splashed cold water on her face.

Grief would have to wait—like it always did.

Maddie turned on her heel and left the apartment, senses alert for threat.

Two hours later, she descended from the bowels of a metro bus in an industrial district. The bus pulled out with a hiss of air brakes and a spurt of diesel fumes, leaving her standing on the sidewalk.

Her gaze consumed her surroundings. Pedestrians’ activities raised no red flags. The spotty after-hours traffic behaved normally. Everyone seemed to be minding their own business.

Excellent!

She’d spent the past hours switching buses at random until she was reasonably convinced no one followed. The imaginary bull’s-eye between her shoulder blades itched nonetheless. She shrugged her shoulders against the weight of her pack and stepped into the crosswalk. Gathering dusk spread long shadows. Maddie followed hers across the street and into the ground-floor bay of a long-term parking garage.

The pad-pad of her running shoes echoed faintly in the cavernous space. Her gaze searched the dimness as she trod to the fourth level. The place was deserted this time of the evening when everyone had gone home or out on the town. Not even the tick of a cooling engine invaded the quiet emptiness.

Maddie halted within sight of her corner stall, offering swift and unimpeded getaway. The ginger-brown front section of a 1972 Oldsmobile Cutlass coupe poked out from behind its neighboring late-model Sebring. She slipped the pack onto one shoulder and fished her keys from an outside zipper pocket, then pointed the remote control toward the vehicle and pressed a button. The Cutlass purred to life as gentle and unassuming as its appearance. No fireworks.

She exhaled a long breath. They hadn’t found this vehicle. It wasn’t registered to Madison Jameson or Madeleine Jerrard, but she’d learned to be safe rather than sorry with her hunters. Their noses were sharp and their reach was long. She hurried toward the vehicle. The sooner this city faded in her rearview mirror, the better.

The engine revved and the Cutlass sprang forward. Maddie skidded to a halt feet from the grill, bitterness coating her tongue. Someone sat behind the wheel. No way to discern more than a silhouette in the dimness, but whoever it was couldn’t be a friend. She had no more of those.

Maddie whirled and ran. The vehicle followed, and a voice called her full name—her real name. Sure, they’d mock her identity at the end. No bullet for her. Just a hit and run with her own car. A greasy spot on the pavement.

She wasn’t about to let them win that easily. As she ran, her hand dove inside her pack and closed around the handle of a 10 mm Glock pistol. She tossed the pack and disengaged the safety on the pistol.

“Maddie!” the male voice called again. Too familiar. And impossible!

Her racing feet jerked to a halt, and she pivoted on her heel, Glock extended in both hands. The Oldsmobile’s tires locked, and the car skidded toward her. The scent of burnt rubber met Maddie’s nostrils as she leaped up and forward. The vehicle rocked to a halt, bumper covering the spot where she’d been standing. She landed atop the hood on her knees and the knuckles of one fist. The other arm trained the Glock on the driver.

He lifted his hands, palms out, lips pressed into a tight line.

Blood pounded in Maddie’s ears and blackness edged her vision. It was him.

The most gorgeous man on the planet. He was supposed to be dead, but he was alive. She should shoot him.


TWO

Chris Mason stared past the gun barrel and into the tawny eyes of Madeleine Jerrard. His insides melted. She could put a bullet in him right now, and he’d die a happy man. What kind of a fool did that make him?

God, this has got to be Your best joke on me yet.

He knew better than to fall for the subject of an investigation. Years back, as an eager-eyed neophyte in the reporting business, he’d paid too high a price for that mistake and vowed never again. He gritted his teeth as if a tense jaw could steel him against the unwanted stirrings in his heart for this woman who could kill him in a heartbeat—and had good reason to do it. Or thought she did. A year of stretching every investigative skill and resource, and he’d found her. But at what cost? They were both on enemy radar now.

“What are you doing in my car?”

Her demand reached him through the driver’s-side window he’d opened in order to call her name.

He shrugged. “Trying not to run you over, but this thing’s got more power in the tap of a toe than my toasted rental had if I floored it.”

Maddie grinned and slid off the hood of the Oldsmobile. She stood a few feet from the open window, gun lowered, but not all the way. “Ginger looks like granny wheels but drives like a Ferrari.” The gun lifted. “How did you find this car?”

“It wasn’t easy, and it looked hopeless, but then I found something in my notes from those weeks I spent with the team during preparation for the mission.”

“What was that?” Interest sparked in Maddie’s gaze though her tone wielded a sharp edge.

“If you recall, I asked everyone a trivia question for a human-interest angle I was hoping to develop. You said the two people you admired most in history were Harriet Tubman, because she risked her life to free others, and Joan of Arc, because she took up the sword for what she believed was a divine cause. When that piece of information clicked in my brain, and I ran a DMV search, guess what I found in San Antonio?”

“A vehicle registered to Joan Tubman.”

“Bingo! A little more digging uncovered a long-term parking space rental for the same vehicle. But don’t worry. I handled the searches personally. Our mutual friends don’t know about this car.”

“So you admit they’re your friends.”

Chris snorted. “Don’t you recognize sarcasm when you hear it? Friends don’t blow up friends.”

Maddie frowned, and her gaze scanned his face. “Unless there’s a deeper game.”

“What might that be?”

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out. Answer me this—how did you get inside? I always lock my vehicles.”

Chris smirked. “Hanging out with your unit taught me skills for functioning in enemy territory, like reaching the locking mechanism of an older model car with a wedge and a coat hanger. All I needed to do was let you start the car. I never did get a lesson on hot-wiring.”

She sniffed and her eyes narrowed. “Why weren’t you French fried in that sedan at the hotel? I thought you were dead.”

“No such luck, sweetheart.”

She scowled.

“You saved my life,” he continued.

“Me!”

“Ever since Mexico, I use the remote start before I get behind the wheel. A tip you shared.”

“Hurray for me. Now, get out.” She motioned with the gun.

Chris shook his head. “You’ll have to pull that trigger and dump my dead body. You’re stuck with me. Apparently, my search for you picked up a tail, and they’re trying to kill me, too.”

“Thanks for leading them to my hidey-hole.” Her lips thinned. “How do I know you’re not still working for them?”

“Still?” Irritation spiked in Chris’s breast. “Did you forget that I was investigated and exonerated?”

“Not by me.”

“Obviously.” Chris scowled. “Maddie, they tried to kill me! Doesn’t that prove my innocence?”

“I know I’m not the one who betrayed the coalition. Everyone else is dead, except the investigative reporter the big shots saddled us with during the touchiest mission of our lives. Do the math.” She raised her chin. “Attempting to blow you to kingdom come proves you’ve made them nervous that you may be a liability—nothing more.”

Chris’s molars ground together. “Since I’ve clearly made their hit list, we might as well go on the lam together until we can figure out a way to put a stop to this evil.”

“Stop it? That’s what we were doing in Nuevo Laredo until someone tipped off the cartel to our location.”

“That someone was not me.” Chris glared at Maddie. “Believe it or not, I may be the only person who can and will help you expose the cartel’s state-side allies. Our survival depends on delivering them, gift-wrapped, to the Senate subcommittee.”

Maddie sniffed. “The same committee that publicly blamed my unit in order to save their pitiful reputations over the failed mission they authorized? In case you haven’t noticed, my career in the army is blown to the winds like dandelion fluff. And apparently someone thinks I might remember something from the night of the attack that is worth hunting me down.”

Chris leveled a long look at Maddie. Her high cheekbones stood out above tensed muscles, and her nostrils flared beneath a molten amber gaze. She looked wild and beautiful...and off-limits to this hard-nosed reporter. And don’t you forget it, he told his heart. This was about a story, maybe the biggest of his career, but one wrong move and he’d see nothing of Maddie but dust. Patience, Mason, patience.

“Whatever you think of me,” he said, “both our lives are in danger from the same people. I won’t last ten minutes without you.”

“You said a mouthful, buckaroo.”

“And you will never be able to lead a normal life until we gather enough solid evidence about what really happened at the Rio Grande for me to go public with it. If anyone knows how to go about getting that evidence, I do, but I need your help to stay alive that long.”

Maddie’s generous lower lip disappeared between her teeth and her gaze darted away, then returned. The chill in her eyes skewered his hopes. He’d taken his best shot and lost.

“Shove over.” She motioned with the gun, then trotted toward the spot where she’d tossed her pack.

Chris complied in haste, twisting his long body into crazy contortions to surmount the center console and settle into the bucket seat on the passenger side. He wasn’t about to step out of the vehicle and have her change her mind, then leave him sucking exhaust. Her reasons for letting him ride along, given what she thought of him, were likely as layered as her personality, but he wouldn’t find them out until she chose to share them.

Maddie climbed in, maneuvered the stick shift, and they drove, smooth as glass, out of the parking garage. “Where to, Mr. Investigative Reporter?”

“Grab I-35 south toward Laredo.”

Maddie frowned, but headed the vehicle in the proper direction to catch the Interstate. “Back to the scene of the crime?”

“It’s a good place to start.”

“And the last place our enemies would think to look for us.” She grinned wolfishly. “I may not trust you, but I like the way you think.”

“You used to like a lot more about me than that.”

Chris could have slapped himself. Why did he shoot off his mouth about the mutual attraction they’d danced around since the day they were first introduced? So what if they’d flirted with their eyes and sometimes their banter during the training days before the mission? Romance between them was strictly off-limits.

“Don’t remind me of my bad judgment.” She shot him a glare that could have sizzled bacon.

“Is there some reason you don’t think someone on the Mexican side of the equation could have betrayed our location?”

She snorted. “They’re as dead as the rest of the U.S. forces. Only a member of the coalition team on the ground with us would have known which of half a dozen designated safe zones we chose to bivouac that final night before the assault on the cartel was to begin. We operated under close cover for a reason. Even the Mexicans know plenty of their officials are on the cartel’s payroll. What our good U.S. citizens don’t like to face is that drug money talks as loudly on our side of the border. Government pension isn’t that good.”

“I hear you.” Chris nodded. “That’s why I want to start by talking to the DEA agents in the Laredo field office. I ferreted out their home addresses before I took my flight to San Antonio.”

“Good thought.” She ghosted a grim smile. “They lost comrades. Some of them were in on the planning phase. Some may even be dirty. If anyone can dig out a nugget that the FBI investigation missed, it’s The Man with the Golden Tongue from World News.”

She laughed but Chris frowned. He slumped against his seat, closed his eyes and pretended to fall asleep. The real thing eluded him, as usual. For the past year, exhaustion and a latent sense of desperation had dogged his every step. Maddie had no idea how many sleepless nights he’d spent since that horror in the desert.

When he slept the dreams came. The scream of incoming mortar rounds. Visions of smoke and fire and the scent of burning flesh. Worse, he saw her broken and bloodied body sprawled on the ground in the middle of the encampment. He’d carried her in his arms away from the war zone to save her life, but in the end she’d saved his. Someone had followed them away from the camp and started taking potshots at them. Maddie revived long enough to draw her sidearm and return fire. Did she remember any of that? Clearly not. And he couldn’t explain right now. Anything he said or did was suspect.

In her mind, the fact that he was the only one to escape that night without harm equated complicity with the attack. The logic made sense on the surface...only that wasn’t what happened, and he had no idea how to convince her otherwise.

Lord, you’ve got to help me here. I have no idea how to regain this woman’s trust.

* * *

Maddie glanced at her passenger. He was pretending to sleep. The twitch of a muscle under his jaw betrayed him. He was frustrated, probably angry with her for not buying into his innocence the minute he gazed at her with those baby blues and exercised his honeyed voice. She’d been tempted. Mightily. But too many of her friends had lost their lives for her to trust anyone involved who was still breathing. Not until she knew for sure what really happened.

Chris said he wanted to help with that. Well, all right. He had the skills. She didn’t. She’d give him some rope and see where it led. Letting him into her car, inviting him back into her life, had to number among the gutsiest things she’d ever done, because now she couldn’t trust herself any more than she trusted him. The attraction was too strong. She’d have to make sure her head stayed in charge.

Right! Like hugging a viper ever turned out well.

Her foot itched to press on the brakes. She should pull over and toss him out. One fact stopped her. Death dogged her trail, with or without him by her side. What was that old saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. The frenemy in her passenger seat would betray himself one way or another soon enough.

“Did you soup up this car yourself?”

His question jolted Maddie. He suddenly wanted conversation? She glanced toward the passenger seat and found him sitting up straight and alert, subterfuge laid aside for the moment. If that was the way he wanted to play it, she could be cool and cordial, too.

Maddie shook her head. “Ginger was my big brother’s pride and joy. He restored her chassis to near original, but supercharged her insides. Then he was deployed to Afghanistan, and a roadside bomb ended his life before he got to enjoy the fruits of his labor. I inherited her, and she’s one possession I’m not about to give up, even when I’m on the run for my life.”

“I don’t blame you. Pretty smart, though, selling Ginger to yourself under an assumed name and changing the license plate numbers.”

“You figured that out from your Department of Motor Vehicles search?” A shiver slithered down her back. Could someone else follow the same trail? Sure, if they dug too deeply into the background of the buyer of record, Joan Tubman, and discovered her to be a phantom. Keeping Ginger might rank among the top stupid choices of her life. So be it. Her hands clenched the steering wheel.

Chris patted the dashboard like a man caresses a beloved pet. “As long as you have Ginger, you have a tangible connection to your brother.”

Maddie awarded him a wide-eyed stare. “Do you have a degree in psychology, too?”

“Comes with the reporter territory.” He smiled with one side of his mouth. “You get to know a thing or two about how the human soul ticks. Your attachment to the vehicle is natural. I respect that.”

The backs of Maddie’s eyes stung, and she glued her gaze to the road. “I suppose your research told you Jason was the last living member of my immediate family. The news of his death reached me while I was in the hospital, recovering from the Rio Grande. My parents and only sibling are gone, my nearest relatives are a few scattered cousins and an aunt who lives on the other side of the country, and the army has divorced me. I’m a free agent. Works well for someone on the run.”

She finished in a glib tone but made the mistake of glancing at him. The compassion in his eyes nearly gave birth to the tears that lurked behind hers. Every once in a while, like now, it was daunting to think there was no one in the world who would miss her if she was gone, but she couldn’t reveal her vulnerability to this man. He’d take full advantage of it to get his story.

Her gaze narrowed. So that was the motive behind his dogged search for her. An Emmy wasn’t enough? She was his one-way ticket to another sensational story. He probably hadn’t figured on joining her in her enemies’ crosshairs.

“You’re slick as a weasel in the weeds. Do you know that?” She sent him a sidelong look. “You thought I’d buy into the idea that you’ve stepped back into this mess for truth, justice, and the American way. But it’s all about the story, isn’t it? Expose the mastermind behind the Rio Grande Massacre, and win another award. A scoop like this ought to be worth at least a Peabody.”

Tenderness evaporated from his face. Maddie’s heart jolted, and she tasted the loss. What was the matter with her? She didn’t want warmth from him, did she? His kindness was dangerous to her peace of mind. When he looked at her like he’d welcome her into his arms, she yearned too badly to go there. Then why did it bother her that she’d hurt him?

His skin darkened. “I thought you considered me in the employ of the mastermind. Why would I dare expose the person or persons who could expose me as a traitor to my country?”

“Good question.” She lifted her chin. “Like you, I’m hoping for answers on this joy ride.”

“Like you said earlier, I know I didn’t betray the coalition team. But unlike you, I don’t assume the other survivor did.”

“Survivor? If you mean I’m alive, yes, but I did a tough stint in the hospital. You? Your hair didn’t even get ruffled in the cartel’s attack. How did that happen?”

An odd look passed across Chris’s face, half earnest, half eager, with a hint of baffled frustration thrown in. He opened his mouth, and Maddie waited for a revelation regarding his survival. Like where he was hiding while her team was being slaughtered.

But he turned his face away and stared out his passenger-side window. “I don’t know how the cartel got word of our location, but I intend to find out.”

Maddie suppressed her irritation. Evidently the information highway didn’t work two directions with a reporter.

She forced a grin and kept her eyes on the road. “At last, we agree on something, Mr. Mason.”

* * *

Rousing a DEA agent at midnight in the privacy of his home would send a tide of reaction up the chain of command. Possibly provoke a rash move by someone who would prefer to remain hidden.

At least, that was the theory, and Chris intended to test it. He gripped the door handle as Maddie pulled the Cutlass to the curb outside Agent Clyde Ramsey’s two-story house in a modest subdivision of Laredo, Texas. She killed the headlights but left the engine running and fixed a steady stare on Chris.

“Wait here,” he said.

“Not going to happen. I want to catch every word either of you speaks.”

“It might be a good idea if our enemies don’t yet realize we’ve joined forces.”

“Maybe.” She frowned. “Here’s the deal. I’ll lurk in the shadows while you knock on his door. Do your best to hold your chat right there. But if you move inside, I’m stepping out and coming in, too.”

Chris frowned. Not the best plan, but he wasn’t likely to get a better concession from someone who didn’t trust him. “Deal.” He held out his hand.

She brushed his palm with her fingertips. An intake of breath hissed between her lips, while a minor earthquake went through him. Did she feel the tremor, too? Or did the tentative touch—uncharacteristic of her usual forthrightness—mean that she found him loathsome? Impossible to tell with Maddie, and he had no time to ponder the answers. She was getting out of the car, her Glock in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

Chris hastily exited the Cutlass onto the sidewalk that led up to the house. Quiet draped the area, except for a soft shush of traffic noise from the Interstate only a mile distant. The scent of verbena drifted on the breeze, the only thing innocent and winsome about this moment.

He remembered Ramsey from the planning phase of the operation. The guy liked to talk tough and throw his weight around, but original thought was pretty negligible. If he was a participant in the tragedy on the Rio Grande, he was an order taker, not a mastermind. Chris’s research told him Ramsey was a family man with a wife and two half-grown kids. Not surprising that his house lay dark...or maybe not completely. As Chris moved up the sidewalk he discerned a faint bluish glow filtering around the edges of heavy blinds on a front right-side window. Was someone up watching television? Insomnia or a guilty conscience? Chris’s steps quickened.

They reached the front stoop, and true to her word, Maddie faded into the shadows against the house. Chris rapped on the door. No response. He hammered, waited and then his finger headed toward the doorbell, but a light flipped on in the foyer before his pointer hit the button. He stood quietly, staring at the peephole, while whoever was on the other side scoped him out.

A lock rattled, the door eased open several inches, and a pair of smoke-colored eyes set deep in a bulldog face peered out. Their gazes locked. The DEA agent wore a pair of lightweight pajamas, and the hand that wasn’t holding the door was hidden behind his back. Chris’s scalp prickled. Was he armed? Maddie’s close presence might be more necessary than he’d thought.

“Surprised to see me?” he said.

“You’re that reporter who’s supposed to be dead. Why aren’t you?”

“I wasn’t in the car when it blew.”

“Yeah, I knew that much. The late news said they found no body in the vehicle. The cops have you listed as a missing person. What do you want here?”

“What does any reporter want? Answers. Only now, getting them is personal.”

“That leads you to me how?” The smoky eyes narrowed.

“The attempt on my life was related to the Rio Grande Massacre. I’ve been searching for Madeleine Jerrard, and I was getting close. Someone didn’t care to have me find her.”

“There you have your answer.” Ramsey let out a piglike grunt. “It was Jerrard. She wasn’t right in the head after the Rio, and she tried to take you out. Those rangers are more dangerous than a nest of rattlers. Better back off, newsman.”

“Not until I uncover the truth about how the cartel found the encampment.”

“Don’t you listen to your own network’s news? They reported months ago that the investigators concluded the ranger scout got careless and led the cartel forces back to the camp.”

“I don’t buy that story. Never have. I spent weeks observing and cataloguing the preparation phase. I’m not easy to impress, but that ranger team did it for me. As soon as the need for secrecy was past, I expected to share the story of their triumph with the world.” Chris leaned closer to the DEA agent. A faint scent of whiskey teased his nostrils. What kept this guy up nursing booze in the night? “I didn’t like being left with a story of posthumous heroism. My cameraman was killed in the first barrage, and I want to know who’s really responsible.”

Ramsey stiffened and drew back. “What? You think I had something to do with it?” A blue vein pulsed in the man’s forehead. “Don’t forget, my office lost several good agents.”

“Are you saying that no one in the Laredo DEA office could possibly be dirty?”

“I’m not saying they couldn’t. I’m saying they aren’t. Including me. Now get off my property, or I’m calling the cops. Right after I fill your pants with buckshot.” He pulled a shotgun from behind his back and cradled it in the crook of his elbow.

Chris lifted both hands and backed away a step. “I’ll go, but I’m not through digging.”

Ramsey’s gaze took on a mean glint. “You will be if you enjoy breathing.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Naw. A prediction.”

“Fine. Now here’s my prediction. Whatever’s eating you up inside is going to take you down with a stroke or an ulcer, or else it’s going to trash your career with a DUI.”

Ramsey growled and started to raise the shotgun. Chris turned on his heel and hustled down the sidewalk, shoulder blades tingling. He didn’t look back. His life was in Maddie’s hands if the DEA agent decided to try pulling the trigger. He reached the car, which was still running, climbed in the driver’s side and drove off. She was smart enough to slip away and meet him around the corner. He pulled over to the curb and waited. Sure enough, she slid into the passenger seat less than a minute later.

“Good job of rattling the bones in the closet.” She gave that throaty chuckle that turned him to molten putty, only he’d never let her know it. “Now we’ll see what falls out.” Her hand on his stopped him from putting the car into gear. “I had no idea you didn’t buy the official story about our team scout, Don Avery. That guy could sneak up on a mouse, tie a ribbon to its tail and slip away without the critter ever knowing he was close. There’s no way he led the cartel to our bivouac.”

She took her hand away, but the warmth of her touch lingered. He smiled as he headed the Cutlass out of the neighborhood.

“I’m impressed that you didn’t get in his face when he was spouting that stuff about your unit.”

“We do learn a little self-discipline in the army.” Her tone was dry. “It sticks, even when we’re not right in the head anymore.”

“Forget that stupid remark.” Chris chopped the air with his hand. “I think you’ve made a remarkable recovery.”

“Thanks.” The word dripped gratitude.

A lump formed beneath Chris’s breastbone. It had probably been a long time since someone who cared had offered her a vote of confidence. He’d give anything to chase away the shadows in those beautiful, tawny eyes. Maybe uncovering the real traitor would accomplish that, because he couldn’t offer her the comfort of a personal relationship. Last time he’d blurred the lines between his personal and professional lives the wrong person took a bullet.

“Could you stand a snack break?” His question came out a little husky.

“Sure.” The answer echoed his tight-throated tone.

They stopped at an all-night convenience store to use the facilities, put on gas and grab a bite to eat. Then they headed toward their next destination—the home of Edgar Jackson, the other DEA agent who participated in the planning but not the performance of the ill-fated Rio Grande operation.

“He’s divorced. Lives alone,” Chris informed Maddie as they parked in front of a dinky rambler wedged between a colonial and a Southwestern-style stucco home.

He walked up to the front door while Maddie disappeared into the darkness.

Standing on the stoop, Chris’s insides clenched. “Maddie?”

“Yo,” she answered out of the shadows.

“Something’s not right here. The front door is ajar.”

“Don’t touch anything.” She appeared beside him. “Step to the side of the door like you’ve seen in all the cop shows and call the guy’s name.”

He did as he was told while she stood with her back pressed to the wall on the other side of the door. Silence answered Chris’s call. The heavy stillness stole his breath. What was that faint metallic smell?

Maddie sniffed. “Blood,” she murmured, answering his question. “Stay back.” She moved in front of the door, gun at ready angle, then shoved the door wide with her shoulder and clicked on her flashlight.

A man’s body sprawled, faceup, in the foyer. Beside one wide-flung arm lay a paperback novel with a thin scrap of colorful cardstock paper on the floor nearby. The other hand clutched what looked like a matching scrap in its fist. Gunpowder speckled the man’s slack face around a black hole in his forehead. The blood they’d smelled spread in a crimson pool beneath the body’s head.

Bile burned the back of Chris’s throat. Agent Edgar Jackson wouldn’t be answering any questions.


THREE

Death. Maddie’d had her fill of it, but here it lay again, staring with sightless eyes. She suppressed an internal shiver.

A distant sound brought her head up. Sirens.

She grabbed Chris’s arm. He stood mesmerized by the body. She shook him.

“We’ve got to go. Someone has called the cops. Maybe a neighbor heard the shot. That blood’s fresh. The killing couldn’t have happened more than a few minutes ago.”

Chris turned a fierce blue gaze on her. “He was silenced because we were coming for answers.”

“Maybe. Or else he stepped on some dealer’s toes because of his job. We don’t have time for debate right now. And I sure don’t want to discuss the issue with the police if they arrive to find us standing over a dead DEA agent.”

“What’s that in his hand?” He pointed at the scrap Edgar Jackson clutched in his fist.

“What difference does it make?” Chris’s reporter curiosity was going to land them in a cell at the local jail, sitting ducks for their enemies.

He broke free of her grip on his arm and bent over the body.

“Come on!” Those sirens were getting scary close.

“All right. All right.” He waved at her but didn’t move or look up.

She clicked off the flashlight. “Enough sleuthing, Sherlock. We’re out of time.”

He let out a disgusted snort, rose, and charged out the door ahead of her.

“Finally!” she muttered and followed him toward the car. “I’m driving.”

He piled into the passenger seat. She slid on her rear across Ginger’s hood, then took her place at the wheel. Lights off, she skimmed the Cutlass away from the curb. Within seconds the units would be in view of the house. She took the first available turn. No! A cul-de-sac. Wait! What was that? A dirt drive angled off through a vacant lot between a pair of the houses. Maddie turned onto it.

The drive petered out behind the neighborhood at the edge of an open field. Maddie applied the brakes and studied the situation. The full moon revealed a couple of large pieces of machinery hunkered to their left, and directly ahead, a swath of excavation possibly several feet deep and a few car-lengths wide. A new subdivision was about to be born. Multiple sirens chorused not more than a stone’s throw distant.

She looked toward her passenger and sensed more than saw his return gaze.

“I’m game for the next move. Your call,” he said.

Maddie’s heart expanded. Chris was bold as any ranger, smart enough to know he wasn’t one, and too comfortable in his manhood to be threatened by ranger skills in a female package. A rare combination, as she’d had cause to learn from a few dating fiascos. Not that she had the least interest in romance with a reporter who was playing her for the sake of a story, especially when he might have had a pivotal hand in the deaths of her brothers-in-arms.

Maybe he was tricked into betraying their location.

She batted away the feeble excuse. Either Chris Mason was a full-on traitor or he had phenomenal luck, surviving both the attack at the Rio Grande and the attempt on his life at the hotel.

“Have you ever watched any reruns of that old show Dukes of Hazzard?” she asked.

“One of my dad’s favorites.”

“The General Lee’s got nothing on Ginger.”

“Which am I? Bo or Luke Duke?”

“Take your pick. I’m Daisy. Tighten your seat belt.”

She threw Ginger in Reverse, took her back a few yards and then opened her up. The engine’s purr rose to a growl. The landscape rushed toward them to be gobbled beneath the Oldsmobile’s tires. The rough terrain chattered her teeth together. Then they went airborne, and the bottom fell out of Maddie’s stomach.

“Yeee-haaa!” Her passenger’s rebel yell brought a grin to her face. He looked more like Luke, but evidently he’d decided to be Bo.

The wheels met terra firma, and Maddie’s head grazed the roof. Pressure steady on the accelerator, they zipped across the remainder of the field, bumped over a curb and hit pavement. Maddie cramped the wheel to the right and fishtailed them onto a residential street.

“We made it!” Chris’s grin came through in his voice. “If there’s anything fun about this situation, that was it.”

“That was nothing. You should try flying over a hill on a dirt bike.”

“Anytime.”

“It’s a date.”

The breath stalled in Maddie’s throat. Why had such intimate terminology escaped her mouth? Maybe because this was the way they had bantered in the days of excitement leading up to what should have been a resounding victory in the war on drugs. Before her world got blown up and everyone became a suspect. She stole a glance toward the shadowed figure of her passenger. His gaze faced straight ahead, and he had the good sense not to respond to her quip.

The first time she’d seen Chris her team had been debarking from their air transport at the secret training facility in the Arizona desert. Their orders were simple and straightforward, just the way the army liked it. Her team was to meet with a handpicked task force of DEA agents and Mexican federales, forge a plan, then go after the Ortiz Cartel, capture whoever would surrender, and those who wouldn’t—well, they had the sanction of two governments to wipe them out like the nest of vipers they were. But then this reporter was thrust into their midst.

The day preparation began, Maddie had leaped from the chopper, full pack on her back, and trotted behind her commanding officer toward the underground bunkers that would house them for the duration of their planning and training. Chris had been standing in his shirtsleeves next to his stocky cameraman, watching her unit pass, coffee-colored hair whipping every which way in the airstream from the whirling helicopter blades. His deep blue stare had collided with hers, sending sparks to her toenails.

The team CO had nearly blown a gasket when he discovered the bureaucrats upstairs had saddled them with a civilian reporter to document their activities from start to finish. But Chris had refused to back down in front of a man whose bark sent chills down the backs of hardened G.I.s, and he’d won a smidgeon of grudging respect. Then he threw himself into whatever was on the docket, even attempting some of the grueling training activities. Sometimes he didn’t do half bad, other times he made a complete fool of himself with good grace, earning more respect.

By the time their final orders came through, Chris was accepted by the hodgepodge strike team of rangers, Mexican law enforcement personnel and DEA agents as nearly one of their own. Then they were moved to a top-secret bivouac on the Mexico side of the Rio Grande, poised to strike the very next day...except the cartel had been tipped off to their location and descended with high-tech weaponry that used to be available only to the military of legitimate governments.

The cartel considered itself an authority of its own, superseding the civil governments. They made their own rules and broke them at will, and either coerced or bought cooperation from everyone necessary to conduct their slimy international trade. Had Chris been bought before or after he wormed his way into the good graces of her team?

What if he’s innocent? The question echoed in her mind and sucked her breath away.

The longer they were thrown together, the more her conviction about his betrayal weakened and the stronger her attraction toward this way too charming man grew. Coward! She flinched at her mental blast toward herself. The brave men and women who died at the Rio Grande deserved better than her vacillation. But didn’t she deserve a chance at happiness with someone she could love and trust?

Futility gripped her by the throat. What she wanted and what she could have always seemed like opposite things.

* * *

The pink rays of dawn roused Chris from a fitful slumber. He blinked his eyes open. They were parked in a far corner of a Walmart lot, trying to grab a few z’s.

He looked toward Maddie, snoozing in the driver’s seat. Her head leaned against her side window. The sun’s beams outlined her profile, so delicate and fine for such a tough woman. Maddie didn’t think of herself as beautiful, but she was. Not in the classic sense, but Barbie-doll looks didn’t interest him. He liked the strong, clean lines of her nose and jaw and the graceful length of her neck beneath the seashell curve of her ear. And that mouth. His dreams weren’t always about blood and death. Sometimes—for just an instant—he tasted those full, firm lips.

What would it be like to taste them for real?

Forget it, buddy! But the heart was a rebellious organ and resisted his stern command.

Maddie stirred and lifted her head. She met his gaze. He smiled, but she grimaced and rolled her jaw.

“My mouth is so dry it thinks we must be back in the Iraqi desert.”

“Texas in the summertime isn’t much better. Good thing it cools off at night, or we’d be roasting right now.”

She gave him a stare that questioned his sanity. “Have you ever been in Iraq?”

“I haven’t had the privilege. I’m not a foreign correspondent.”

“One hundred twenty in the shade makes a Texas summer feel like a day at the spa.”

Chris chuckled. “Guess I’ll have to cancel my vacation plans to Baghdad.”

She shook her head with a muted smile. A low rumble carried to Chris’s ears, and her face turned pink.

Maddie pressed a hand to her abdomen. “I’m hungry, as well as dry.”

“Ditto.”

They went into the Walmart to freshen up in the bathrooms. Chris caught up with Maddie browsing in the produce section.

“What do you want for breakfast?” She hefted a peach. “These look awesome to me.”

Chris took the fruit from her and set it in the bin. “I may not be a soldier but I need some he-man sustenance in a sit-down restaurant.”

Her brow puckered. “What about keeping a low profile? Someone could recognize you, and then our enemies would have a read on our location.”

Chris shrugged. “After last night’s visit to Agent Ramsey, they already know I’m in town—or soon will. The guy will hardly keep our presence a secret, and the news will filter through the system pretty quickly. Besides, anyone could recognize my televised mug anytime, anywhere...even standing in a store like this.”

Maddie’s gaze swept the area, and she heaved a breath. “Roger that, but we’ll have to stay on the move so we can’t be pinned down.”

“Uh...Roger that.” He grinned. “Now how about a rib-sticking breakfast?”

They adjourned to a restaurant down the road.

“What next, Sherlock?” she asked as the waitress withdrew from delivering cups of stout black coffee.

Chris pulled the colorful scrap of card stock from his jeans pocket.

Her narrowed gaze focused on what he held in his hand. “You didn’t!” The words spat out through gritted teeth.

Chris’s neck warmed. “I’m a reporter. Digging is what I do.” At least if he talked to her about this in a public place she couldn’t murder him, could she?

“At a crime scene?” Her voice rose to a muted screech.

He leaned toward her across the table. “Advertise to the world, will you?”

She crossed her arms on a huff, a mulish set to her jaw. Fortunately, they were seated a good distance from any other patrons. The restaurant wasn’t busy this early in the morning.

“It was an instinctive move,” he said. “I snatched the stray piece from the floor, not the other half in the dead guy’s hand. We needed to leave, but if this scrap of paper can lead us closer to the truth, isn’t it worth the risk?”

“Taking anything from a crime scene could put us behind bars.” Her words emerged low but sharp. “Not that we’d ever have the opportunity for a trial. As stationary targets, we won’t survive that long.”

“What if taking this could keep us from getting dead? I don’t want either of us to add to the body count.”

“You really think Jackson was killed to keep him from talking?”

“Don’t you?”

She canted her head and seconds passed. “Maybe,” she conceded.

“It’s too big of a coincidence for this journalist to swallow that within an hour after we confront one of the DEA planners of our intended assault on the cartel, the other planner is dead and left for us to find.”

“Do you think someone meant for us to take the rap for the killing?”

“Me, anyway. Hopefully, they don’t yet realize we’re a team.”

Her expression shuttered as her gaze focused on her coffee cup. Did she object to his use of the word team? The term implied trust and interdependence.

Finally, she lifted her gaze to his. “Whoever planned the betrayal of our coalition forces is very smart. Since we’re both known to be alive, and we’ve disappeared at the same time, it’s a fair guess this person suspects we’re together.”

“Suspecting and knowing are two different things.”

“We need to listen to the news and find out what they’re saying about the murder.”

“That and visit the nearest library.”

“A library?”

“The novel on the floor beside Agent Jackson was a Western, but he was marking his place with this bookmark promoting a memoir about the Vietnam War. A lot of soldiers came out of that war either addicted to drugs and/or savvy about drug distribution. Maybe the author has some connection to what happened on the Rio.”

Maddie frowned. “I doubt the connection could be that simple or direct. I mean, Jackson would have had all of a few seconds after he opened his front door to realize he was going to die. By what coincidence would he be holding a bookmark promoting a book written by his killer?”

“I can’t answer that question...yet.”

Maddie shrugged. “A slim lead is better than no lead.”

Get a lid on your enthusiasm, would you? Chris contented himself with thinking his frustration rather than speaking it aloud. Just as well. The waitress was approaching with their breakfasts. A gurgle from his stomach welcomed the savory smells of bacon, hash browns, fried eggs and pancakes. He winced toward Maddie’s choice of whole-grain toast, a fruit cup and a veggie omelet.

“You’ve been busy in the past year,” she said as she snagged a piece of omelet with her fork.

He raised his eyebrows toward her, and a flush worked its way from beneath her collar onto her cheeks.

She lifted her chin. “I mean you’ve gone after more stories than this one since last we met. You didn’t spend all your time looking for me.”

Chris savored a bite of hash browns then leaned back in his chair. “My hunt for you was private—on my own time. The station had plenty of what they considered new news for me to investigate and report.”

“Like the David Greene case?”

Ah, so that’s where this conversation was going. The lurid business of a Texas oil millionaire under suspicion of strangling his girlfriend had dominated the airwaves for quite some time. Too long, in his opinion.

“You followed that one, did you?” He drizzled syrup onto his pancakes, keeping half an eye cocked toward his companion.

Her stare skewered him. “I thought it was very interesting that your segments were the only ones that left room to believe the louse might be innocent.”

“You have something against unbiased media coverage?”

“I have something against killers getting away with murder just because they’re rich and can hire slick lawyers.”

“Is that what you think happened?”

“It’s what everybody thinks happened...except you! What fries my goose is that Greene didn’t end up charged with anything, even though he was found in the same room with the dead body.”

“Passed out cold, I might remind you.” Chris wagged his fork at her.

Maddie sniffed. “So the booze and pills knocked him out after he went nuts on his girlfriend.”

He laid down his fork and crossed his arms over his chest. “David Greene was tried and convicted in the court of public opinion, but it might do the public good to realize that there could be a reason why he was never formally charged.”

“Insufficient evidence. Blah. Blah.” She wrinkled her nose and took a swig of her orange juice. “I suppose it’s just as well that they wait to haul the slime into court until they have a case that will convict...if that ever happens.”

“I’ll be happy if enough evidence is uncovered to convict the right person—whoever that may be. Even David himself is unsure what happened that night.”

“David? First-name basis, huh? I noticed you were the only reporter Greene would allow to interview him. Huge coup for your network. You’re all about grabbing those.”

Chris frowned. She was back to needling him with her suspicions about his career-building motives for tracking her down.

She leaned toward him. “Do you have some sort of inside track with this creep?”

“If you must know,” he said on a sigh, “Davie Greene was a hooligan who lived in the same town as me when I was a snot-nosed kid. Way before his Apache grandfather died and left him a swatch of sand and cactus that turned out to be floating on a lake of oil. We went to the same elementary school. David was a wild child, but one thing I remember about him, he couldn’t tolerate anyone picking on girls or weaker kids. He ended up with more bloody noses than I can count from standing up to bullies who were tormenting other children. We weren’t close friends or anything, but I rather admired his rowdy gallantry.”

A sharp chuckle left her lips. “So this candidate for knighthood grew up, got rich quick and power corrupted his saintly character.”

“Saintly? Hardly. Just an underdog who defended underdogs.”

“And who you happened to know from back in the day. Lucky break for you and World News.”

Chris bit back angry but useless words. There was a lot more to the story, but nothing that stood much chance of changing her opinion of him or David. How could he explain that he owed it to his network, as well as the natural-born newsman inside him, to pursue stories how and where they were presented? But that didn’t negate his personal quest for answers about the Rio Grande Massacre, regardless of whether or not he was ever credited with another word of the coverage. Fat chance she’d put any stock in his higher motives when she saw him as someone who would take advantage of a personal connection with a killer in order to bolster his career and boost his network’s ratings.

Uneasy silence fell between them, and they both attacked their food like it was a mutual enemy. As they finished their breakfasts, Maddie’s head lifted, and her gaze fixed on something beyond his shoulder.

“Don’t turn to look,” she said softly, “but we’ve got company on your six.”

“My six?” Oh, yes, that meant behind him in military-speak. Chris swiveled his head and caught his breath. A pair of uniformed police officers were striding through the front door of the restaurant. He quickly turned back toward Maddie. “Cops!”

Her gaze held stern reproach. “I told you not to look.”

“I’m a reporter. I’m trained to look anywhere someone tells me not to look.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Where are they now?”

“Heading for us like we’re a pair of homing beacons.” Her face went grim. “You’d better hope they don’t arrest us on the spot. Forget a charge of tampering with a crime scene. What you’ve got in your pocket will convict us of murder in any court of law.”


FOUR

Maddie stared at the morsels remaining on her plate as doom trod closer...closer. Her muscles tensed and tingled into combat mode. Clearly, her body wasn’t getting the memo from her common sense. There was no way she could resist arrest.

Even if submitting to lockup meant certain death?

The policemen reached their table and strode past with scarcely a glance in their direction. Maddie’s head went light as a helium balloon. Then she remembered to breathe.

Chris sent her a wicked grin. “Don’t look now, but the officers have taken a table on your six. Guess they’re here for breakfast like the rest of us law-abiding citizens.”

Maddie scowled. “Let’s get out of here while the getting is good.”

She began to swivel out of her chair, but a shadow loomed over them and froze her in her seat. One of the officers. Her throat closed against an involuntary squeak.

The stocky man gazed down at them—well, at Chris anyway—thick brows drawn together. “Excuse me, but would you be Christopher Mason from World News?”

Chris leaned back in his chair and answered the man’s stare with a steady, cool expression. “That would be me. What can I do for you, officer?”

Maddie’s teeth ground together. If Chris possessed this level of acting ability, she was right to suspect he could be hiding his complicity in the Rio Grande Massacre and playing her for a story at the same time. Then why did that conclusion feel so wrong in her gut? She shook herself inwardly. Better to keep listening to her head—safer for everyone if she trusted no one.

The policeman scratched under his ear and offered a small grimace. “Are you aware that the vehicle you rented at the airport blew up yesterday?”

Chris nodded. “Fortunately, I wasn’t in it at the time.”

“Yes, but sir, you’re now listed as a missing person. I advise you to contact police headquarters in San Antonio as soon as possible. They will want a statement from you.”

“Yes, I suppose that would be sensible of me. Thank you for bringing the matter to my attention.”

A smile flickered on the officer’s face. “No problem.” The man turned toward his table then quickly swung back toward Chris. “My wife would be thrilled if I’d bring your autograph home.” Color traced the edges of prominent ears poking out from his buzz-cut hairline.

“I’d be honored.” Chris grinned wide. “Do you have anything for me to write on?”

“Sure.” He pulled the ticket pad from his belt and ripped off a sheet.

Chris took the paper and raised an eyebrow. “Signing this isn’t going to get me into any trouble, is it?”

“Naw. Write your name on the back. Best use of one of these things I’ve seen in a long while.”

Seconds later, the officer strolled away, smiling and tucking the autographed page into the breast pocket of his shirt.

Chris stuck more than enough cash to cover the bill into the discreet black folder the waitress had supplied, and then he stood up. “Shall we?”

Nursing reluctant admiration, Maddie followed him toward the exit. Chris Mason possessed a brand of courage she could only dream about. His occupation kept him in the public eye 24/7 and thrust him in front of a camera, speaking to millions of people at a time. She’d rather engage a squadron of enemy forces single-handed than give a speech.

They climbed into Ginger, and Maddie directed the car out of the parking lot with extra caution not to exhibit the fire under the old gal’s hood. Next to her, Chris pecked and swiped at his smart phone.

“Evidently, we’re not wanted for anything at the moment,” she said, “or that encounter would have ended with us in handcuffs, not a publicity op. But news of your presence in Laredo will now spread to San Antonio as soon as that officer reports in.”

“At least he didn’t ask me to introduce you, or it would go viral that we’re hanging out together.”

Maddie chuckled. “Suits me fine that my chair might as well have been an empty seat for all the attention he paid me. Where to now?”

“Here’s the location of the nearest library.” He read off the directions.

Ten minutes later they had cruised a few miles up I-35 and were entering the main library on Carlton Road. Maddie inhaled the warm, woody, slightly sweet smell of books and bookshelves overlaid by air freshener. Chris proceeded at a brisk pace to the main counter, and Maddie trailed him, casing the area for potential threats and escape routes.

“Excuse me,” Chris said to the man behind the counter. “I’m looking for a book entitled A Grunt’s War in Vietnam. Do you have a copy?”

“Let me see.” The librarian, whose name tag identified him as Phil, tapped a few keys on the computer keyboard, hummed, and then turned toward them. “Yes, we have a copy, but I’m sorry, it’s checked out.”

Maddie’s gut tensed. At least Chris had the presence of mind not to show the librarian the half bookmark taken from the crime scene.

“Too bad.” Chris leaned a forearm on the counter. “Can you tell me anything about the author?”

Phil poked a little more at his keyboard then his face lit up. “Well, what do you know...”

What? Maddie bit her lip against barking the question aloud.

“The author bio in our system says Hector Herrera was a native of Laredo. One of our hometown boys.”

“Was?” Chris canted his head.

The smile died on Phil’s face. “Says here his sister Bonita Herrera issued his memoir posthumously. I recognize the publisher. It’s one of those self-publishing outfits, but reputable. Copyright date is just last year.”

“Is the sister still a resident of Laredo?”

Phil showed empty hands. “No clue. Doesn’t say. You doing research or something?”

“Research, definitely.”

The librarian’s eyes narrowed. “You look familiar. Have we met?”

“I have one of those faces people seem to recognize.”

Phil pursed his lips and looked unconvinced, but he turned back toward his computer monitor. “Let me check our event archives for you. Since the author was a local, we may have hosted a book-launch party. In which case, the sister would most likely have been the presenter, and we would have contact information. I couldn’t give out an address or phone number, but I could take yours and let her know a researcher is interested in talking to her.”

“That would be great.”

The clicking and scanning went on for some time. Maddie eased from one foot to the other. Were they on the verge of a breakthrough or a dead end? This research business was every bit that combination of tedium and tension that marked the countdown before an assault.

Phil let out a huff. “Sorry, we have no record of an event hosted by our library for that book release.”

“Thanks for trying.” Chris backed away from the desk.

“Welcome.” The librarian’s gaze drifted toward his computer monitor.

Maddie’s stomach knotted as Chris took her elbow and led her into a maze of bookshelves. “What now?” Her words came out in a breathy whisper.

“We attack the problem from a different angle. Have a seat.” He motioned toward a wingback chair in a reading alcove.

Maddie eased into it while Chris sat across from her and tapped and swiped on his cell phone, making little clicking noises with his tongue against his teeth that got on her last nerve. She twiddled her fingers against the faux-leather arm of the chair and then rose and paced. Shadows moved and air currents shifted faintly as patrons soft-footed through the area. She didn’t like being trapped in a corner like this. They needed to move soon.

“Houston, we have liftoff.” Chris chuckled.

“You found something?” Her tone was sharper than intended.

Chris’s eyebrows arched as he rose. “Ms. Herrera has a website for the book, but the contact form goes to a blind mailbox. Not much help there. Plugging Bonita Herrera into a White Pages search for Laredo, Texas, offered similar bupkes. That didn’t worry me too much. I figured she might be using her maiden name in connection with the book release, but then her White Pages listing would be under her married name.”

“How did you get around that little detail? Sounds pretty hopeless to me.”

Chris grinned. “I entered Hector Herrera.”

“But he’s dead.”

“True enough, but I got a hit with that inquiry, and the family member in the sublisting is a woman by the name of Bonita Bates.”

“The sister?”

“I’d be surprised if it wasn’t.”

“But why—”

Chris held up a quieting hand, and Maddie contained her impatience—barely.

“Evidently Hector’s sister uses his name and number as her own telephone number. I surmise that she may have been widowed at some point and wound up living with her brother until his passing. Women living alone often retain their phone listing under the man of the household as a means of protection.”

Maddie snorted. “Not much protection if you could expose her ploy with a few keystrokes. So much for personal privacy.”

“It’s largely an illusion in this electronic age.”

“Not comforting with all the crazies out there.”

Chris rolled his shoulders. “Makes you look higher than your own resources for a sense of safety.”

“Tell that to my dead comrades in arms...and my brother, too.” Maddie tasted the bitterness rolling off her tongue, but she couldn’t stop the words.

Chris’s steady gaze oozed sympathy. Maddie dropped her attention to the low-napped carpet beneath their feet.

“It’s okay to be angry, Maddie. I’m angry, too.”

She peered up at him. There was no judgment on his face. She sucked in a long, deep breath. “Let’s keep hunting for justice. Okay? Maybe then I can...”

Maybe then she could what? Resolve her grief? Find peace? Forgive God? How clichéd was all of that?

“You shouldn’t feel guilty because you survived. It wasn’t your fault. Any of it.”

Huh? Maddie blinked and froze.

Chris strode away between the shelving. She shook off her paralysis and scampered after him. The guy was going to get himself killed if he dropped verbal bombs on her and then pranced away from the protection of his unofficial bodyguard. She caught up with Chris, tugged his arm to slow him down, then passed him, gaze roving, assessing, marking potential threats and possible cover. They exited the library, and Maddie thumbed Ginger’s remote start button. The Oldsmobile purred to life, and they walked over and climbed inside.

She glared toward her passenger. “So, Mr. Therapist, what makes you think I feel guilty for living?”

“Because I did—for months. My whole perception of reality and what’s truly important shifted that night. Finally, I figured that for my survival to matter, I needed to expose the truth about what happened that night.”

“The real truth? Not just whatever dirt you can scrounge that will shoot you up the celebrity ladder?”

Chris’s blue gaze darkened, but he didn’t look away from her charged stare. “The whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

Maddie squelched a reluctant grin that tugged at the corners of her lips. “You’re not on the witness stand, you know.”

“But I feel like I’m on trial.”

She looked away from him and headed Ginger out of the parking lot. “Which direction now?”

A heavy sigh let her know that her nonanswer had stung. Maddie’s heart squeezed in her chest. He had no idea how much she wanted to believe him, and for that very reason, she needed to keep her guard up until the truth he was talking about became crystal clear to her.

Chris consulted his phone and rattled off directions to a neighborhood on the south side of the city very near the Rio Grande and the lawless bastion of drug runners—Nuevo Laredo, Mexico.

“Prime location for someone tied in with moving drugs,” Chris said.

“No argument there. Maybe we’re onto something after all.”

A sensation like a feather brushing down her spine sent a shiver through her frame. Could she really hope they would find answers and win free of the threat that had dogged her steps for so long that carefree moments were bittersweet memories?

A half hour later they pulled up in front of a small brick bungalow fronted by a low, open porch. The house looked well kept, though the door and windows wore bars, and the yard was brown and dead.

“I’m going to introduce myself by name,” Chris said. “It’s a gamble, considering we’re trying to avoid killers on our trail, but knowledge of my identity could produce a telltale reaction of guilt and fear... That is, if this Bonita Bates played a part in the betrayal.”

Maddie nodded. “And if she didn’t, a little name-dropping from someone who might publicize her book could get her to talk freely. Maybe she’ll say something that will give us a lead. I think it’s worth the risk.”

Chris’s answering grin shot tingles through her.

They got out of the car, and Maddie came around to stand on the cracked sidewalk beside Chris. The man stared at the house, then suddenly jerked and rocked back. Maddie gripped his arm. The muscles beneath her hand were rigid. She followed the line of his gaze toward the side of the house where a white-haired woman in a wheelchair rolled slowly down a long ramp toward them.

Then she looked up at Chris’s drawn face. What did she see there? Guilt? Fear? Sorrow?

“Serena, I’m so sorry.” The words pulsed from his lips, barely audible.

Who was Serena? Something nipped Maddie’s insides. Jealousy? No way! But his reaction was guilt. Definitely. The emotion they’d been talking about less than an hour ago. What was it about this woman that raked raw shame to the surface of this man’s iron composure?

* * *

The vise squeezing his arm brought Chris back to the present—away from the remembered flash and thunder of a single gunshot and the blood. So much precious blood. He glanced down. That was no vise. It was Maddie’s white-knuckled grip around his biceps.

“What was that all about?” She took her hand away while he scrubbed his fingertips across his forehead and inhaled a deep breath.

“Bad memory. Sorry about that,” he said.

“What—”

“Let’s just say that the Rio isn’t the only time a bullet has nearly taken me out.”

Maddie’s brow furrowed and her mouth opened, but Chris walked away from her toward the woman in the wheelchair, who had stopped at the bottom of the ramp to survey them with wary eyes. The dumpling-shaped woman dressed in a T-shirt and lightweight sweatpants really looked nothing like his petite, elegant Serena. It was just the wheelchair and the bone-white hair that had thrown him back in time. This person was old enough to warrant the snowy locks that frizzed around her head, not like the vibrant young woman with her whole life ahead of her who went white in a single day and landed in a wheelchair because he had trusted the wrong person. If he’d needed any reminder that his attraction to Maddie was a recipe for disaster, this was it.

“Hi, I’m Christopher Mason, a reporter from World News.” He stopped in front of the woman’s chair and extended his hand. “I’m interested in the memoir you published about your brother’s experiences in Vietnam.”

The sixtysomething woman’s cautious expression melted into a smile, and she offered a weak but steady handshake. “World News! What do you know about that?”

Her gaze showed no alarm. Either Bonita Bates wasn’t in on the conspiracy, or she was the uncrowned queen of subterfuge. Apparently, she hadn’t seen the news reports of his near demise, either. No dark curiosity marred the delight on her face.

She slapped the arm of her wheelchair. “I was always after Hector to have that memoir published. He had a way with words, you know, and a big ax to grind about how that war was handled. But he insisted no one should see the baring of his soul until he was gone. Well, I took him seriously, and got the thing into print within a year after he passed. There’s been a decent amount of attention paid. More than I thought might come of a book about events that happened decades ago.”

“Congratulations.” His peripheral vision caught Maddie easing into a position nearby, her gaze scanning the neighborhood. Chris kept his attention on the woman before him. “I don’t think this country will ever forget those turbulent years. We’d be foolish if we did. I assume you must be Hector’s sister, Bonita.”

“That I am. And your lady friend?”




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