Mistaken Identity

Three words and he was gone, slipping soundlessly away while she shivered in his coat.

* * *

Another branch snapped as Mason crept through the heavy underbrush. He followed the sound, honing in on the soft pad of feet on dead leaves.

Whoever was out there, he didn’t know much about being quiet. He also didn’t know much about staying hidden. Mason could see a flashlight beam bouncing along the ground a few yards away. The guy was searching, but he wasn’t even close to where Mason had left the woman.

Trinity Miller.

Interesting that she’d found him.

Most people who looked didn’t.

He had a house in Boston he rented out, and that was where people who were searching for him usually ended up. Somehow Trinity had ended up here. He wanted to know how. He also wanted to know why. She’d said something about a friend’s son and cancer, and he’d cut her off. He didn’t work with kids. There were too many memories there, but he was intrigued by the thought of someone going to such great effort to help a friend. Six hundred miles to see a stranger for a friend’s sake? That was a long way to travel.

If that was really the case, if she’d really driven that far, Trinity was the kind of friend everyone wanted to have.

If her claim was true.

There’d been a lot of activity around his house lately. A few days before he’d left for John’s funeral, government officials paid him a visit. They’d wanted information about one of his clients. He’d refused to give it. The military police had stopped by the next day, demanding that he release confidential information. Mason had refused again.

For all he knew, Trinity worked for the government or was part of the military, sent to do what the other two groups had not—gain access to information about Tate Whitman. Tate had served three tours in Iraq. He’d nearly lost his life there. Two years ago, Mason had fitted his prosthetic leg. Tate was an active guy. When he wasn’t teaching college counterterrorism classes, he was hiking, biking, running and lifting weights.

Unfortunately, he was also the key witness in a court-martial case that had the potential to bring down some very high-level military officials. He’d gone into witness protection six months ago. Apparently, he’d run from it soon after. Now people were looking for him, and that seemed to always lead them to Mason.

It wasn’t surprising. A computer chip Mason built into every prosthesis collected real-time information about the amputee’s movements and muscle strength. The information was sent wirelessly to Mason’s computer system. He used it to create the best prosthetic design possible for the individual. The system had a built-in tracking system that could be used to find the prosthetic if it was stolen or misplaced. In theory, it could also be used to track the amputee who was wearing it.

It would take Mason all of five minutes to figure out where Tate was. He wasn’t going to. He had client confidentially to protect. Plus, he didn’t trust people. Not much, anyway. If Tate had thought he needed to hide from the organization that was supposed to be protecting him, he’d had good reason for it.

It wasn’t Mason’s job to find out what it was. It wasn’t his job to turn him over to the military police, either. Eventually Mason might be subpoenaed. For now, he’d refused the request for information.

Yeah. No. He wasn’t taking Trinity’s story at face-value.

He stepped into the shadow of an old elm, the heavy branches leaning toward the ground and hiding him from whoever was approaching. He could still see the light, and he watched it as it crawled along a fallen log and passed Mason’s hiding place. Finally, a man stepped into sight. Tall. Lean. No weapon that Mason could see. That didn’t mean much.

The perp he’d disarmed had been stupid enough to carry his gun tucked in the pocket of his jeans. This one could be hiding a weapon anywhere.

The man passed, leaves crunching under his feet, his breath heaving. He might be lean, but he wasn’t in good shape. He sounded like a steam engine huffing and puffing his way through the darkness.

A man called out and Mason’s quarry flicked off his light, darting back in the direction he’d come.

Mason sprinted after him, not bothering to be quiet about it. He could hear more voices—several men and at least one woman.

“Police!” one of them called as lights flashed across a nearby tree. They were on the ledge, heading down, and Mason could have stepped back and let them make the apprehension. He was annoyed, though, and just angry enough to want the guy to be stopped sooner rather than later.

He followed the perp onto the path that led to the beach, tackling him as he tried to sprint to a small dock that jutted out into the lake.

“Who are you?” Mason growled as he patted the guy down and found an ankle holster and small pistol. “What are you doing on my property?”

He kept his knee in the center of the guy’s spine and checked the safety. “Did you discharge your weapon tonight?”

The guy remained silent, and Mason added a little extra pressure to his spine.

“You’re going to break my back,” the man gasped, finally struggling. “Get off me. I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Did you fire your weapon?”

The man shook his head.

“That a no?”

“You figure it out,” he gasped.

“I’d rather move on to another question. Where’s your buddy?”

“I don’t have one. I was out walking alone.”

“Walking, huh?”

“It’s not a crime.”

“It is if you’re on private property while you’re doing it. You have a permit for the pistol?”

“In my car. Let me up and I’ll go get it.”

“How about we just wait for the police and they can do it for you?”

They were charging down the slope, crashing through underbrush and thickets.

He glanced toward them, counting half a dozen lights flashing in the darkness.

“Drop the gun! Hands in the air!” one of the officers shouted and Mason did exactly what he’d been told immediately. No way was he going to take a bullet for this guy.

The pistol landed with a soft thud and officers swarmed closer.

“Facedown on the ground! Keep your hands where we can see them!”

Mason followed orders.

The perp was doing the same, staying prone on the ground, one arm straight above his head, the other...

Moving.

Subtly.

Reaching for the gun that was a few feet away.

“Don’t,” Mason warned, but it was too late, the guy lunged toward the weapon, lifting it as he tried to run.