Читать книгу: «Carrie's Protector»

The moment their lips met, the kiss turned so hot that it could have started a wildfire.

The morning’s adventure had driven both of them to the edge of desperation.

What she needed was to close her eyes and focus on the man who held her in his arms instead of everything else that was happening to her.

He deepened the kiss. She loved the taste of him, the feel of his body, the way he clasped her tightly. She’d been craving this since last night, and the terror of the past few hours had only intensified her emotions.

She forgot where they were, forgot everything except the need to get close to him—as close as two people could get.

About the Author

Award-winning, USA TODAY bestselling novelist Ruth Glick, who writes as REBECCA YORK, is the author of more than one hundred books, including her popular 43 LIGHT STREET series for Mills & Boon^® Intrigue. Ruth says she has the best job in the world. Not only does she get paid for telling stories, she’s also an author of twelve cookbooks. Ruth and her husband, Norman, travel frequently, researching locales for her novels and searching out new dishes for her cookbooks.

Carrie’s Protector

Rebecca York

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For two little eagles, E12 and E14,

who met untimely deaths in Decorah, Iowa.

Chapter One

Carrie Mitchell had made the biggest mistake of her life. And if she had it to do all over again, her actions would be exactly the same.

“Ready?” the dark-haired man waiting ramrod straight at the bottom of the stairs asked.

She dragged in a breath and let it out before speaking. “As ready as I’m going to be.”

“Then let’s get it over with.”

He stepped outside and motioned for her to wait as he looked around the exterior of the safe house where she’d been staying for the past week.

Really, the visual inspection was unnecessary, she thought. Nobody could get past the electric fence and the motion detectors, or through the main gate without the proper security codes.

Still, he made her linger inside before motioning her out the door, then led the way toward the black town car they were taking into D.C. The car was bulletproof, a precaution Carrie wished they could have done without. But her father, Douglas Mitchell, was rich enough to make his own rules when it came to his daughter’s safety—or anything else. An ordinary man would have relied on the FBI to protect his only child. Dad wanted an armored car and an elite private security team to keep her safe. The driver was already behind the wheel, a guy named Joe Collins, who was one of the guards who had been with her for the past week.

The man who held the car door open was Wyatt Hawk, the one in charge. Carrie didn’t like him much. Maybe that wasn’t fair, because she couldn’t really say she knew him. He kept himself so closed up that she’d had little chance for an in-depth conversation with him.

He was tall and muscular and good-looking in a kind of tough-guy way that she might have admired from a dis-tance—if she’d had the choice. You could imagine him as the bodyguard for a mob boss, although that wasn’t his background. He was supposed to have retired early from the CIA, but he never talked about his former life.

The other security men at the safe house were much more open about their backgrounds. They were all ex-cops, and they’d been friendly, perhaps to counteract Wyatt’s aloof demeanor. Gary Blain was a black man in his fifties, with a shaved head and broad shoulders. Hank Swinton was around the same age, with a bit of gray invading his sandy hair. And Rodrigo Garcia was a little younger, with classic Hispanic features.

They’d made her feel protected as they’d tried to lighten her isolation. In contrast, Wyatt always had an open book in front of him at the dining table, probably to discourage conversation. One of the few things she knew about him was that he liked World War II spy novels.

She’d joined him a time or two in the basement gym. He’d stuck to his routine of weight machines and hard-driving pumping on the elliptical trainer to the sounds of classic rock.

She never pushed herself as far. For her, exercise wasn’t a religion. It was just a way to keep in reasonable shape so she could crawl around in the woods taking pictures of wildlife.

Which was how she’d gotten into the worst trouble of her life.

Last Thursday she’d been practicing her profession, happily eavesdropping on an eagles’ nest in D.C.’s Rock Creek Park, the sprawling wooded area that ran through the northwest section of the city. She’d been using her telephoto lens to capture the family life of the parents and their two babies, photographing them off and on since before they’d hatched.

The photos were to illustrate a piece she was doing for Wildlife Magazine on raptors in urban areas.

She was creeping through the underbrush out of sight of the eagles’ eighty-foot-high, thousand-pound nest when she spotted three young Midwestern-looking men in jeans and T-shirts in a nearby picnic area.

She could see they hadn’t come for a meal. They were sitting at one of the tree-shaded wooden tables, speaking in low voices. Two of them were chain-smoking and littering the ground with the spent butts. Every so often, one of them would look around nervously.

At first she’d paid them only minimal attention. Then, as she moved to get a different angle on the nest, she started to get the gist of their conversation, and the back of her neck began to tingle.

She heard the words bomb, Capitol Police and best place to inflict maximum damage. Her heart was pounding as she swiveled cautiously in her hidden position, switching her camera’s focus from the eagles’ nest to the men. After taking their pictures, she wanted to flee, yet she knew that just their faces might not be enough to identify them. Her every move stealthy, she made her way back toward the road, intent on getting their license plates, as well. Her own car was parked on the other side of the picnic area, because it was a better approach to the eagles’ nest.

Finally she was on the verge of pressing her luck too far. The men were still talking as she circled back the way she’d come, knowing she’d better get out of the woods before they spotted her.

But she realized it was already too late when she heard a shout of alarm.

“Hey, somebody’s spying on us.”

Her heart in her throat, she started running flat out for her car, hearing the crack of twigs and the rustle of underbrush behind her. She fumbled in her bag for the car remote, clicking the lock as she pelted through the woods.

She was only seconds ahead of them as she jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. As she pulled away, she heard the sound of gunfire.

The back window and a taillight shattered as she sped away. But she made it onto Military Road and out of the park, and they didn’t pick up her trail because they’d had to double back and circle around to get to the other parking area. She’d made it to the nearest police station, and the rest was history.

Her attention snapped back to the present when Wyatt spoke.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“The Federal prosecutor has the pictures you took of the men. All you have to do is tell him exactly what you heard and exactly what happened.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to show up in court for Bobby Thompson’s trial.” He was the only one of the men who had been identified and arrested. He was locked up in a maximumsecurity facility while the others were still at large.

“Not for months.”

“Does that mean we’re going to be together for months?” she asked, sorry she couldn’t keep the snappish tone out of her voice.

“NOT NECESSARILY,” WYATT ANSWERED. Not if he could help it. He wanted out of this situation, but not until he got a suitable replacement.

He slid Carrie a sidewise glance, noting the way she was twisting her fingers together in her lap. He wanted to reach over and press his hand over hers, but he kept his arms at his sides because he knew that touching her was a bad idea.

His gaze traveled to her short-cropped dark hair. When they’d first met, it had been long and blond, but he’d made her cut and dye it—to change her appearance. She hadn’t liked it, but she’d done it—then refused contact lenses that would change her blue eyes to brown. And there was no way to disguise her high cheekbones, cute little nose or appealing lips. She was still a very attractive woman, even with the change in her hair and the nondescript clothing he’d purchased for her. As they rode into town, she looked like a Federal employee who’d come in on a Saturday to catch up on her work.

They made the rest of the trip into the District in silence, a silence he’d tried to maintain since he’d first met her. She probably thought he didn’t like her. The problem was just the opposite. He liked her a lot. She had courage and determination, and she wasn’t like a lot of rich women who thought that the world owed them special consideration. She was hardworking, smart and good at her job. She had all the qualities he admired in a woman, which was why he couldn’t allow himself to get close to her.

To his relief, the long ride was almost over. At least they wouldn’t be confined to the backseat of a car for much longer. While she talked with the prosecutor, he could wait in the reception area.

“The building’s just ahead,” he said in a low voice, breaking the silence inside the sedan.

Beside him Carrie sighed. “I guess the sooner I get this over with, the sooner I get my life back.”

“Makes sense,” he answered, wondering if she ever would get her life back. Would she ever feel safe again tramping around in the woods by herself, photographing the subjects she loved to capture in their natural environment? For just a moment he pictured himself going on those expeditions with her, carrying her equipment, making sure that nobody got out of line with her and no wild animals attacked her. Then he ruthlessly cut off that avenue of thought before it could go any further. He and Carrie Mitchell were from two different worlds. She had had every advantage growing up. She could have lived off her dad for the rest of her life, but she was trying to make a name for herself in a difficult profession. He was an ex-spook who came from a family in Alexandria, Virginia, that was barely making it. His dad drove a cab. His mom was a waitress, and he’d known he wanted a different life, which was why he’d joined the army and then the CIA. He’d seen a lot of the world, but he was home now and working private security. And even if their backgrounds matched better, he was too damaged to even think about a relationship with someone like her—or anyone else, for that matter.

They were meeting Skip Gunderson, the Federal prosecutor, in a yellow-brick government building as nondescript as Carrie’s clothing. Five stories tall, with a security barrier at the entrance. As a precaution, it wasn’t the building where Gunderson normally worked. The meeting was at another facility that was off the radar of the D.C. press corps.

That was one of the unfortunate aspects of this whole situation. Although Carrie’s identity was supposed to be confidential, somehow a cable news reporter had gotten wind of her name. Now everyone and his brother knew that she was the woman who had foiled a major terrorist plot. At least they hadn’t been able to ferret out the location of the safe house where she was staying. Or photograph her disguise—he hoped.

“Showtime,” Carrie murmured, as the big car made a right turn and pulled up at the metal stanchions that blocked the entrance to an underground garage. Next to the barrier was a guardhouse, where a man in a blue uniform and policetype cap stood as if he had an iron pipe rammed up his butt. Wyatt watched him. Usually these guys were relaxed, but the guard’s posture pegged him as being on edge.

As their car stopped, he stepped out.

Wyatt hadn’t seen him before, but then, he hadn’t seen a lot of the men assigned to security duty at this place.

“Identification, please,” the guard said to Joe Collins, the driver, who rolled down his window and reached into his pocket for the papers.

Wyatt had heard the request every time they’d arrived here, yet today something was just a bit off—perhaps the hint of edginess in the man’s voice or the way he had his cap pulled down low. That thought had barely crossed Wyatt’s mind when the man raised his arm, aiming an automatic pistol toward the open window of the car.

Acting on instinct and experience, Wyatt pushed Carrie down, blocking her body with his as he pulled out his own weapon and wrenched himself around to face the guard.

He was a split second too late to prevent disaster.

Joe went down in a spray of blood. Wyatt fired at the bogus guard, striking him in the chest and knocking him backward into the glass booth. But undoubtedly, he wasn’t the only threat. Before the man hit the ground, Wyatt lunged across the car and opened the opposite door, pushing Carrie out ahead of him.

She gasped as she came down on the hard cement of the driveway.

“Sorry. We’ve got to get the hell out of here, but not onto the street.”

Looking up, he confirmed that assessment as he saw eight armed men racing down the driveway toward them—men who didn’t look like cops or security guards.

Carrie followed his gaze, gasping as she took in the situation.

Grabbing her hand, he helped her up, leading her toward the right and behind a row of cars in the garage, giving them some cover. But he was badly outnumbered and outgunned. He wasn’t going to shoot it out with these guys in the garage if he could help it.

“This way.”

He’d studied the layout of the building, and he hurried her along the wall and around a corner to a service door and was relieved to find it unlocked.

“We have to call the police,” she whispered when the door closed behind them.

“No. We can’t trust the police or anyone else. Somebody gave up the meeting.”

As he spoke, he considered their options. Going down would trap them in the lower floors of the garage. Which left only one alternative.

“We’re going up.”

They had just reached the third level when Wyatt heard gunfire blasting below.

He led Carrie through a door into the building, then pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed the safe house.

Gary Blain answered. “Wyatt? Is something wrong?”

“Yeah. We’re in the building where Carrie was supposed to meet the prosecutor. Somehow the terrorists knew we were coming.”

“Is she all right?”

“Yes. But there are shooters in here.”

“Where are you?”

“Near the south stairwell. Armed men were blocking the garage entrance. Can you pick us up on the roof?”

“Negative. Unless we get clearance for a helo flight into D.C.”

Wyatt answered with a curse.

A burst of gunfire from below interrupted the conversation.

“Gotta go.”

He led Carrie down the hall to another stairwell then up two more levels. He was pretty sure the attackers had thought they’d get him and Carrie in the garage, which meant they probably hadn’t stationed anyone up here. Yet.

Cautiously he opened the door and looked out into the hallway. Nothing was moving—particularly the dead body lying in a pool of blood in the center of the tile floor.

When he hesitated, Carrie pressed against his back and looked over his shoulder.

“Oh, God,” she breathed as she gazed at Skip Gunderson, the Federal prosecutor she’d been coming to meet.

“We can’t stay here,” Wyatt said.

But when he glanced back at Carrie, he saw the blood had drained from her face and she had gone stock-still.

“Carrie!”

Her gaze stayed on Gunderson. “We have to…” she whispered.

He gripped her arm, squeezing hard. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing you can do for him now.”

When she still didn’t move, he tugged on her arm. “Come on. Before we end up the same way.”

He watched her expression harden as she shook herself into action and let him lead her down the hall, although she kept looking back.

“This is my fault,” she said, as he tried to determine the best place to hide.

“You’re not responsible.”

She made a snorting sound. “Of course I am. He was here to meet me.”

“Because he was doing his job. Maybe you should blame the building security for letting terrorists in here. Or whoever leaked the meeting information.”

He hurried Carrie down the hall, opening doors as they went. Most led to small offices, but one was larger, which had the potential for more hiding places. He stepped inside, looking around. The blinds were partially closed, which would give them more cover. Crouching behind the broad wooden desk was too obvious, but a bank of storage cabinets blocked the view from the door.

“Get back there.”

“What about you?”

“I’m coming.”

Carrie hesitated, then crossed the room and wedged herself into the corner. Crossing to the desk, he opened drawers, looking for anything useful. When he found a box of pushpins, he threw them onto the polished tile floor, watching them scatter. Then he crossed to the cabinets and stepped in front of Carrie, gun drawn.

Of course, if he had to shoot, he’d alert every terrorist in the building.

As he pressed his back to her front, he could feel the tension humming through her.

“Wyatt?”

“I’m here to make sure you get out of this.” He wanted to turn around and take her in his arms. He wanted to stroke her back and hair to comfort her, but he knew that facing the enemy was more important than giving her reassurances.

Down the hall, Wyatt could hear rapid footsteps and doors opening and slamming shut again. When the door to the office where they were hiding opened, every muscle in his body tensed. He saw a shadow flicker on the wall—the shadow of a man holding a machine gun. The guy stood still for a moment, then started across the tile floor toward their hiding place.

Chapter Two

Wyatt waited, his body coiled for action.

In a couple of seconds, if the trap he’d set didn’t work, the invader was going to spot them—and shoot. But before he reached their hiding place, the man stepped on the pushpins and lost his footing.

Wyatt sprang around the corner, reaching for the guy’s gun arm and pulling him forward across the slippery surface. Off balance from the pins and the man yanking on his arm, the gunman scrambled to stay upright while he tried to get his weapon into firing position. Before he could do either, Wyatt kicked him square in the back, sending him sprawling on the tile floor, yelping as the sharp points of the pins dug into his hands and face.

He was a blond guy, young and muscular, and totally unprepared to be attacked by the quarry he was hunting.

Wyatt was on him as he went down. As the guy struggled to respond to the changed circumstances, Wyatt raised his own weapon and bashed the terrorist over the head with the gun butt. The man went still.

“Cover him,” he told Carrie, handing her his Sig while he looked for something to tie the guy up.

She held the weapon in a two-handed grip. He noted that she was savvy enough to stand a couple of yards away so that the man couldn’t grab her leg if he came to and went into attack mode.

Wyatt’s glance raked the desk. Grabbing the phone, he yanked the cord from the wall, then disconnected the cord from the phone to the receiver.

While Carrie kept the gun trained on the guy, Wyatt tied him up using both cords. When he was finished, he took a closer look at the terrorist’s appearance. Definitely not from the Middle East. In fact, he looked like a typical Midwestern farmer with sunburned skin, blond hair and pleasantenough features.

“You know him?” Wyatt asked. “Was he one of the men in the park?”

“No,” Carrie answered.

“Well, that’s a clue to the scope of the organization. Looks like the initial three you spotted in the park weren’t the only ones involved in the plot.”

She nodded.

As Blondie started to stir, Wyatt took back the gun while he debated what to do.

The man’s eyes blinked open. When he tried to move and found that his hands and feet were secured, he swung his murderous gaze from Wyatt to Carrie and back again. Carrie recoiled, but Wyatt ignored the threatening scowl. “How many men are in the building?”

“Enough to kill you and the bitch.”

“I don’t think so.” He wanted to ask how the terrorists had discovered the time and location of Carrie’s meeting with the Federal prosecutor, but he knew that would only be a waste of time.

The guy smirked at him. “You won’t get out of here alive. And once you’re dead, there won’t be anyone to testify against Bobby.”

“They have the pictures she took of your meeting.”

“So what? In this day and age, they could be faked. And—”

To stave off another smart remark, Wyatt bashed him on the head again, and he went still.

Carrie made a low, distressed sound. “Why did you do that?”

“Don’t tell me you wanted to keep listening to his line of crap?”

“No.”

Wyatt found packing tape in one of the desk drawers, and wound it around the guy’s head and over his mouth so he couldn’t call for help. Then he pulled him behind the desk.

“It looked like you handled my gun all right,” he remarked.

“Yes. My father made sure I was able to protect myself.”

“Good.”

He handed her his automatic and took the terrorist’s weapon for himself before crossing to the door and looking out. The hall was clear. But they’d come back when they realized their buddy was missing.

Wyatt led the way, and they sprinted to the end of the hall and into another office.

He locked the door, even knowing it would be a dead giveaway to their position. At least it would buy them a few seconds if somebody tried to get in.

“Up here the windows open. We can get out,” he told Carrie.

“Five stories up?”

“There are step-back roofs.” He hurried to the window and slid the glass open.

Carrie looked out, seeing the roof below them. “It’s pretty far.”

“Not if you lower yourself by your hands. I’ll go first.”

She kept her gaze on him. “You’re all business. All the time. I should be thankful for that.”

He bit back a retort. There was no time for anything but escape from a building that had turned into a death trap.

He slung the weapon over his shoulder, then climbed out the window and lowered himself, thankful that he was in good shape.

Controlling his descent, he eased down the wall, then let himself drop the four feet to the gravel surface of the roof below. Turning, he held up his arms to Carrie.

She shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll catch you. Hurry, before they find us.”

She stuffed the gun into her shoulder bag, which she wrapped across her chest, then maneuvered herself out the window. Turning around, she lowered herself until her body was dangling from the frame. But her grip wasn’t strong enough, and she fell. Wyatt was there to catch her, taking her weight as she came hurtling down.

They both wavered on their feet, then he steadied them.

“Thanks,” she said.

“We’ve got to do that again.”

She made a strangled sound but followed him to the edge of the roof. Again he went first, lowering himself to his full length, then dropping six feet to the roof below.

When he turned and glanced up, he saw Carrie watching him. She looked as if she wanted to protest; instead, she grimly climbed over the edge and lowered herself by her arms. This time she must have made a concerted effort to control her descent. She didn’t let go until her full length was dangling from the edge. Again he caught her and staggered back, almost losing his balance. But he stayed on his feet, then went to check the next drop-off point.

A scuffling sound made him whirl around. He saw that Carrie had turned and was holding the pistol he’d given her in two hands—pointed at a man who was looking over the edge of the roof above, his weapon aimed downward.

Carrie fired, hitting the would-be assassin in the arm. Before he could recover, Wyatt delivered a chest shot, and the man went down, toppling over the edge and landing on the gravel surface a few yards from where they stood.

Carrie gasped as she stared at the body.

Wyatt hurried back to her, catching her look of horror as she realized what she’d done.

“I…I think he couldn’t believe a woman had the guts to fire at him.”

“His mistake,” Wyatt said in a gritty voice. “Thank God you did.”

She stood rigidly, and he reached for her hand.

“Gotta go.”

At his touch, she shook herself into action, and he hustled her to the edge of the roof. This time there was a bonus feature: a ladder leading down to ground level.

Wyatt sent Carrie down first, alternately covering her descent and checking for more pursuers on the roof above. When he joined her, she was shaking, and he knew she was still reacting to what had happened.

“I shot a man,” she whispered as though she were just now taking it in.

He pulled her toward him, at the same time easing her against the side of the building where it would be harder for anyone looking down from above to see them. Wrapping his arms around her, he held her close. “You shot in self-defense. He was going to kill you.”

“It’s not like shooting at a target.”

He didn’t point out that he’d fired the kill shot. Or that he’d killed a lot more men. This was no time for a philosophical discussion on the morality of protecting oneself.

She let her head drop to his shoulder, clinging to him, and he cradled her against himself, breathing in her scent, absorbing the curves of her slender body before easing away.

“We can’t stay here. Another one of them could come across the roof at any minute. And there’s a big clue up there about which way we went.”

She shuddered, then looked around. “Why didn’t we see any cops?”

“They may not know about it yet.”

While he’d been holding her, he’d been thinking about escape routes. Before coming down to the government building with her today, he’d scouted out the area around the building as well as the interior, and he was mentally plotting a route that would get them onto the city streets.

He looked up one more time, scanning the roofline for terrorists before leading Carrie away from the building, toward a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. He was wondering how they were going to get over it when he saw that the lock on the gate was broken and the barrier was open a crack.

“This must be how they were going to get away,” he muttered as he pushed the gate farther open.

She nodded, following him through and into an alley.

He looked at the assault rifle in his hand. “I guess I can’t take this out onto the street.” First he used his shirt to wipe off his fingerprints. Then he set the weapon on the ground before hustling Carrie along the alley.

When they had turned a corner, putting another building between them and the scene of carnage, he called the safe house.

Gary Blain answered again. “Wyatt?”

“Yes. We got out of there. We’re coming back. We won’t have the town car.”

“Thank God you’re okay.” He paused. “What about Collins?”

“He didn’t make it.”

Gary absorbed that bit of bad news, then asked, “What are you going to do for transportation?”

“There’s a Zipcar agency a couple of blocks away. We can rent one of those.”

“Be careful down there, man.”

“I always am.”

When he hung up, Carrie looked at him. “What’s a Zipcar?”

“Cars you can rent by the hour. Like bicycles in Europe.”

“I didn’t know about that, either.”

Probably a function of her living in a million-dollar condo in Columbia Heights with a spectacular view of the city. He was tempted to say something about her dad’s money making it unnecessary for her to rent anything, but he decided there was no point in needling her. Not after they’d narrowly escaped getting killed—and after he’d seen what she was made of. He’d known she had the guts to turn in men plotting against the U.S. government. He hadn’t known the rest.

“Are you going to call the police now?” she asked, breaking into his thoughts.

“We still can’t trust them. We still don’t have a handle on how those guys found out about your meeting. For all we know, the terrorists have a spy in the D.C. police department.”

She winced. “How would that be possible?”

“It just takes one bad cop who wants to supplement his income.”

“But he’d know he’d be setting us up to get killed.”

“Some people will do just about anything for money. Do you know how many people got killed because Aldrich Ames, that turncoat in the CIA, blew their cover?”

“I don’t know the exact number, but I get your point.”

“Which means I’m not taking any chances,” he answered as he led her down Tenth Street to the storefront with the Zipcar office.

The blond young man behind the counter, wearing a dress shirt and tie, looked up as they stepped in.

“We’d like a vehicle with four-wheel drive,” Wyatt said. Carrie looked surprised but said nothing.

“How long will you be needing it?”

“At least a day.”

“There will be extra charges if you turn it in later.”

“Understood.”

“Driver’s license?”

Beside him Carrie tensed. He touched her arm reassuringly, then dug into his wallet and pulled out an alternate ID.

He handed over a license that said he was Will Hanks.

The clerk filled out the paperwork, and they were out of the office and on the road in less than fifteen minutes.

Carrie sank into the passenger seat of the Chevy Equinox, leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes. He watched her take a few moments to catch her breath before she turned to him. “You always carry fake ID?”