Betrayal on the Border

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.”