Love On the Run Page 17

  Sampson moved quickly down the sidewalk. On the next street, he saw a large, tall building with a cross in front and immediately recognized it as a church. “Of course,” he said aloud. “They’re going to church.” He had been to Mass many times with his mother before she died, but that was a long time ago. Maybe too long.

  Sampson went up the stairs to the door and peered in. Tiles covered the walls, beautifully depicting scenes from the Bible. Some showed saints and told stories Sampson didn’t recognize, though he did understand that they were very old. His mother would have enjoyed seeing them. In the back of the church opposite the front doors, he could see a large statue of Jesus with his arms outstretched on a cross.

  Sampson left the church and sat outside on a stone bench. Shortly he heard singing, and the melody made him feel happy. He wished he could understand the words. He hated not understanding. His father had said that his thirst to know everything was why he was so good with languages. He began to hum along. Pigeons landed at his feet and lurched around as though expecting to be given food. Sampson’s own stomach growled. He scanned the area but couldn’t see any small stores open. That’s right, he thought. Most places in small European towns close on Sunday.

  His father had tried to explain it to him. He said that in Europe, most of the businesses were owned by families who took Sunday off to be with their families. “In America,” he had said, “we have the large corporations that simply hire some person to be there instead. That’s all. As the big corporations take over in Europe, you will see that it will be the same as in America.”

  Sampson’s mother had disagreed. “Many Europeans have faith in God. They know the Sabbath isn’t for working.”

  “Then why don’t more of them go to church?” Sampson’s father had taunted. “They are baptized, married, and buried by the church. That’s about it.”

  “For them it’s enough,” she replied. “Their faith in God is strong. Better they live their religion in their hearts and actions than not at all.”

  At this point Sampson’s father would let the argument drop, but Sampson had always wondered who was right. Maybe a little of both.

  A man sat beside him. With his hat pulled low over his eyes, he seemed very familiar. “You recognize me, huh?” the man said. “From outside the national guard building. Or perhaps from England.”

  Sampson started, realizing the man spoke perfect American English. Before he could leap to his feet, the man’s strong hand closed around his wrist. His blue eyes flashed a warning. “Not so fast, boy. I’ve been waiting for my chance. This time we will get the Landines—using you as bait.” He stood, dragging Sampson with him. He walked over to the edge of the sidewalk and raised an arm. A white limousine pulled away from the curb down the street and drove up to where they stood. The car was incongruous in this quaint setting. Where had it come from?

  As Sampson struggled for freedom, the limousine door opened. The man slapped his face and thrust him inside. Sampson reeled with the impact.

  “Easy, boy,” came a soft, sultry voice. “We’re not going to hurt you. Good work, Taggart.”

  Sampson whirled his head toward the familiar voice. Could his ears be deceiving him? But the woman who had poisoned his dogs had been killed. His father had seen it happen.

  Looking like a figure from the past, she wore a snug, funeral-black suit and a matching hat with a lace veil that partially obscured her face. But there was no mistaking the green eyes and the sleek blond hair. “Laranda?” he choked.

  “Yes, it’s me, Sampson. How nice to see you again.”

  Of all the women his father had dated, Sampson had most hated Laranda. After knowing she had killed his dogs, he had been happy that she had died herself.

  Yet here she was.

  Across from them on the other seat in the limousine, next to the man who had captured him, were two men with large handguns. One with olive skin and black hair and eyes stared at Laranda with mixed amusement and adoration.

  “Did you kill my father?” Sampson demanded of Laranda, fear almost paralyzing his tongue.

  “Now, now. That’s no way to treat an old friend.”

  Sampson couldn’t reply.

  “That’s better. You just sit right there. It won’t be long now until Jared and Cassi join us.” She smiled at him seductively. “It’s all too fitting that this reunion take place at a church. Jared was always so religious.”

  A nervous-looking man on Laranda’s other side watched her anxiously. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Would you shut up?” she sneered, her voice full of venom. “I’ve listened to you for more than long enough. I’m fine. I can do this.” She eyed the olive-skinned man opposite her. “Giorgio, if you can’t control our concerned doctor, I’ll kill him myself.”

  “He’ll behave himself, Laranda. And we might yet need him.”

  Sampson gulped. “Are you Giorgio Donelli?” He prayed it wasn’t true. He knew there was no love between the Donelli family and his father.

  “Yes. That’s me.” The man’s teeth gleamed white in his dark face. Sampson felt all hope drain from him. He was as good as dead.

  * * *

  FRED TRIED TO TELL HIMSELF that he was going to Portugal to find Jared and Cassi, but inside he wondered if Brooke wasn’t a big part of why he was going. He wanted to hear from her own lips why she had lied. Then there was the odd message in the drawer. Had it really been from her?

  The FBI artist’s drawing of the woman in the New York airport didn’t resemble Brooke much, but neither did it look exactly like Laranda. Snatches of video from a security camera in the airport showed a woman who walked with a silky grace and a strange seductiveness. She had the same exceptional figure he vividly remembered as belonging to Brooke, but moved like someone else. It was almost as though Brooke was masquerading as Laranda. But why?

  These were the questions that haunted him as he flew to New York and then waited four hours to catch his plane to Portugal.

  His phone rang and he quickly pulled it out. “Justin?”

  “Yeah, we found Jared. Or rather he found us.”

  “Where is he? Are they safe?”

  “The Landines and the boy are fine. They’re in a little town in the Alentejo. I’ll send the exact address to your phone after we get off. But apparently, what happened at the cabin was pretty bad. They’re scared, and I think they have good reason to be. They verified our agent’s report that Brohaugh is dead or dying. I tried calling London for more information, but they said the agent—Worthington’s his name—is not back yet. They mentioned that he had been wounded. They’re sending someone in after him.”

  “You mean he called in the attack on his cell phone?”

  “Yeah. Just after it happened.”

  “He’s probably with the local police.”

  “National guard,” Justin corrected. “They’re pretty much out in the boonies. No police station. But I’ve talked with the Embassy, and they didn’t know anything about an FBI agent. I did talk to Jared directly. I told him to sit tight until you get there.”

  “Will they be able to protect him?”

  “I hope so. But it’s possible whoever attacked them at the cabin doesn’t know where they are yet. Just hurry up and get there.”

  Fred glanced at his watch in frustration. “My plane’s late, but I’ll be there early in the morning.”

  “That’s what I told Jared. And I’ve informed the boys in London in case they get there sooner.”

  “Did you give Jared my number?”

  “Yeah. He’ll call if he needs something—providing he can find a phone handy.”

  “What about Donelli’s plane?”

  “We couldn’t get someone there in time. Too much red tape.”

  Fred had suspected as much. The FBI Legat office nearest to Portugal was either Madrid or Paris, and it always took some time to coordinate matters with local authorities. “Well, keep me posted.”

  “Wait. I did find out more abou
t Brooke.”

  “What?” Fred’s response was curt.

  “She actually works for the Union-Tribune. She wrote about ten freelance articles that were published under a pseudonym. Some of them she sent in from Salt Lake, but at least the last two were done while she lived here. My guess is that she was trying to get on the paper full time.”

  “And hoped the Big Tommy story would get her there.”

  “Makes sense to me. So I guess she didn’t really lie about the paper.”

  “Well, no. But there’s still your notebook.”

  Justin was quiet for a moment. “Everybody makes mistakes. Don’t be too hard on her. I think she’s one of the victims here.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” Fred had hoped so all along. Wasn’t that why he was here? To save her? Please don’t let me be too late. “Thanks, Justin. You’ve done good work.”

  “Talk to you later.”

  Fred punched the cutoff button on his phone and began to pace within a few steps of his flight bag, his only luggage. Inside, he carried state-of-the-art tracking and listening devices he hoped wouldn’t be necessary, but had brought along just in case. It was his nature to be thorough and prepared.

  At last, he was on the plane and settled down for the nearly seven-hour flight. By the time he had landed in Lisbon early Sunday morning, local time, he was feeling more rested. He hadn’t been home to his own bed for more than a few hours the entire week, and these hours of forced rest were a luxury.

  Maybe I should quit, he thought. Settle down and have a few kids. No woman wanted to be married to a man she rarely saw and who couldn’t be a father to her children.

  He was met by someone from the American Embassy and immediately given a car and a driver. “I’m Alberto Sanchez,” said the short, dark-haired native in excellent English. He put Fred’s flight bag into the car and then drove rapidly, without apparent concern for the local speed limit. For once, Fred blessed the concept of diplomatic immunity.

  Hours passed as Fred worried in silence about the case. Their pace slowed only slightly as they left the smooth roads of the freeway for the smaller rough road that would lead first to the cabin and then on to the bed and breakfast where Jared and Cassi would probably still be sleeping. He thought about bypassing the cabin altogether, but the fact that Worthington was missing tugged at him. The map, brought from San Diego and carefully marked, showed him that the cabin wasn’t much out of the way. Five minutes perhaps.

  The paved road turned into dirt with ample washboards. Alberto scarcely slowed. Fred expected to see police or the national guard or some other sign of life at the cabin, but impossible as it seemed, the entire area was deserted. “Justin said they had no police this far out, but this is odd,” Fred mumbled.

  “What?” asked Alberto.

  “You’d better stay in the car.”

  The man did as he was told. Fred pulled his gun and carefully approached the cabin from the side in case someone was looking out the front window. Birds sang in the trees surrounding the cabin, and the smell of the trees and loam evoked a sense of earthy peace.

  Fred didn’t relax his guard. He knew something terrible had happened here, though the extent of the damage was still hidden from him. His instincts were never wrong. Closer to the porch, he spied two lifeless bodies he had previously thought to be mounds of clothing. One man had no identification; the other was Special Agent Anderson of the FBI. Fred felt a rush of sorrow for the man’s loss, but there was nothing he could do now except see that the agent was shipped home to his family.

  Leaving the bodies, he pushed at the open door with his foot. With no resistance it swung halfway open before hitting into something and stopping. “FBI!” Fred shouted.

  No reply. Nothing in the cabin moved.

  Fred sprang through the door, ready to fire if confronted, but the bodies littering the cabin floor didn’t move. He moved farther inside and saw that one of the corpses blocked the door from opening wider. He glanced at the face, recognizing it. TC Brohaugh. The man had apparently taken at least one fatal wound to the chest. There was no pulse.

  All at once the smell of blood and decay assaulted Fred’s senses, and he had to stifle the urge to be sick. The sound of buzzing flies was louder than his own pounding heart. Breathing deliberately through his mouth, Fred forced himself farther into the cabin, his gun still at the ready. Before checking the inert forms for signs of life, Fred went to the small bedroom in the cabin. It was vacant, but he saw several unopened suitcases. If he didn’t already know, this alone would tell him it was no ordinary robbery. He spied a purse—Cassi’s, he thought—dumped it out and searched it. A few items of makeup, a travel book, keys, a checkbook, cash, credit cards, and even her passport were all intact.

  Fred went back into the room and began checking the bodies, searching for the other FBI agent. He saw a likely man, lying face down by a tall, freestanding cupboard. Fred knelt quickly, feeling for the man’s pulse. He found it, very faint, but discernible. He gently turned the brown-haired man over. A cellular phone, similar to the one Fred carried, lay under the man’s body, spotted with blood. Worthington, he thought. Sure enough, the identification in his wallet verified Fred’s suspicion.

  Rage burned in his heart. Over thirty hours since the shooting, and Worthington was still here waiting for rescue. But no one had come. He searched the cupboard, grateful to find a pair of dusty scissors. With a little more searching, he found a battered chest filled with clean-looking sheets. Letting his training take over, he deftly cut the sheets and made bandages to tie over Worthington’s wounds. In all but the largest one on Worthington’s thigh, the blood had congealed somewhat, but Fred didn’t want to risk any coming open again when he moved the man out to the car. By the appearance of his clothes and the discolored floor around him, he might have already lost too much blood.

  As he double-bandaged Worthington’s thigh, the man’s eyes fluttered open. They were blue. “It took you long enough,” he said, his voice scarcely more than a whisper.

  “I had to come all the way from San Diego.” Fred purposely kept his own voice light.

  “Water. Could you get me some water?”

  “Yeah.” Fred grabbed a cup from the cupboard and headed outside to the pump he had noted earlier. As he filled the cup, breathing in air untainted by death, he glanced at the trees for signs of hidden mobsters.

  Nothing.

  That is, nothing except a few more dark mounds that might just be bodies.

  He waved an arm at Alberto. Slight as the man was, it would be easier for Worthington if there were two of them to move him. Alberto came cautiously. “There’s a wounded man in there. We’ve got to get him to the car and to a doctor. There has to be someone available in one of the nearby towns. We’d better hurry. We might be too late already.” Truth was, Fred felt anxious not only to get help for Worthington, but to find Jared and Cassi. Men who left messes like this behind weren’t likely to respect the local authorities, who certainly weren’t prepared for such a murderous attack. Every second Fred delayed, they were in greater danger. Even so, he was happy he had stopped at the cabin. Worthington could not have survived much longer without help.

  Fred led the way inside the cabin. At Worthington’s side, he knelt and held the man’s head while he gulped the water. “Thanks,” the man gasped.

  “We’re going to move you to the car now,” Fred said. “I wish it wasn’t going to hurt.” Too bad he didn’t carry a painkiller.

  Fred glanced up at Alberto, who had paused by the doorway. The man had an expression of frozen terror on his face as he stared at the wreck of the cabin. He put his hand to his mouth as though gagging and ran outside. Fred heard him heaving.

  “Sorry, Worthington. It looks like I’m going to have to do this myself. At least as far as the door.” Fred struggled to lift the man, his muscles strained at the weight. He had been called burly by some and he was in good shape, but Worthington, though thin, was a tall man who weighed a great deal.r />
  Fred staggered along slowly, but made it to the door. Alberto had his head under a stream of water coming from the pump. “You think you can help me from here?” Fred asked, passing the corpses on the porch.

  Alberto nodded, his face almost as pale as Worthington’s. “I’m sorry,” he muttered as he grabbed Worthington’s legs. “I’m not used to seeing that.”

  “That’s okay. It’s something you never get used to.” But Fred had gotten used to it—at least to some degree. It was his job.

  They balanced Worthington’s body between them. The agent moaned and lost consciousness. It’s just as well, thought Fred. He’s in a lot of pain.

  They carried him to the car and settled him in the back seat. Alberto used his own cell phone to call someone to the cabin. Fred wondered how much longer before they would arrive. Jared had obviously told them about the shooting, but no one in authority had visited it yet. Perhaps Jared’s story had lost something in the translation. It was also possible the Portuguese authorities hadn’t yet learned the location of the cabin.

  In minutes, they were flying over the bumps in the dirt road once more. Fred worried about the rough ride for Worthington, but he dared not ask Alberto to slow. He was relieved when they reached a paved road.

  A shrill ringing cut through Fred’s thoughts. He grabbed his phone from his pocket. Only two people had this number. Of course it would be important. “Fred here.”

  “It’s Jared.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “No, Sampson’s gone. Someone delivered a note just now. It says they have him. They want to trade us for him.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  FROM THE MOMENT HE AWOKE, Jared knew something wasn’t right, but for a moment, it was hard to pinpoint the problem. Cassi’s arms were wrapped around him, and he felt an overwhelming tenderness inside. She was his wife. How could a man be so lucky?

  Then the events of the past week deluged his mind. He immediately noticed Sampson’s empty bed. Fighting a sinking feeling, he shook Cassi gently. Despite his carefulness, she awoke with a start. He wondered if she, too, had been having nightmares.