Love On the Run Read online

  Enraged, Jared fought harder. He jabbed his fist at the man’s face and heard something crack. Hoping it wasn’t his own fist, he punched again. A cut appeared on the man’s cheekbone, dripping blood. There, he’s not a machine, he thought. A second later pain exploded in Jared’s shoulder where months ago he’d been shot. Another pain discharged in his head, and he lost his footing and fell. The thug jumped on him, fists swinging. Jared held up his hands to ward off the blows, praying for relief.

  The man raised a massive fist, and Jared knew this one might be the last he could take. Abruptly, the man’s mouth opened and his fist fell, but missed Jared completely. The thug slumped forward, sprawling on top of him.

  Behind the limp body, Jared saw Sampson. The boy was trembling. In his hand he held the needle, its syringe now empty of fluid. Tears flowed down his face.

  Jared turned to search for Cassi, who was moving slowly by the head of the bed. “Cassi?”

  “I’m fine. You?”

  “All right.” Jared heaved the stocky body off him and climbed to his feet, his moves deliberate and exhausted. He pried the needle and syringe from the boy’s fingers. Then he hugged him. “You did good, Sampson. You just saved all of our lives.”

  “Is—is he dead?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When I saw you fighting, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t yell.” The boy’s voice turned ugly. “Then I remembered my dad. I bet this man is the one who killed him, so he deserves to be dead!” Under the ugliness in the childish voice was a terrible emptiness that Jared knew the boy needed desperately to fill.

  He hugged Sampson more tightly. “Come on, let’s go call the policeman.”

  Jared walked weakly to the door and opened it. The officer was farther away from the door than he’d been a few minutes ago, and the group of people in the hallway had grown. No wonder he’d heard nothing. “Come in here! There’s been an attack.”

  Surprise covered the policeman’s face. He stared at the pretty nurse suspiciously before hurrying into the room. The nurse followed him. The policeman bent to check the thug’s pulse while Jared put his arm that wasn’t holding Sampson around Cassi. She clung to him, and Jared uttered a silent prayer of thanks.

  “I’d better call a doctor.” The nurse ran out the door and returned in less than a minute with a doctor and two other nurses.

  “He’s alive, but barely,” Jared heard someone say. “Find out what was in that syringe.”

  Sampson broke away and went to sit on the bed, looking scared, alone, and more than a little defiant. Cassi motioned toward him, and Jared helped her sit next to the boy. She hugged Sampson, and tears began again on the already blotched face.

  They watched as the doctor and his crew worked on the thug for what seemed an eternity. Jared prayed the man wouldn’t die—not only for Sampson’s benefit, but so that perhaps finally they would have some answers. At last someone brought in a stretcher and they took the goon away, still breathing. Sampson began to relax, but his face was dark and sullen.

  The policeman stayed in the room. “I’m sorry. I really am. He looked like he belonged, like he was a doctor.”

  “It’s all over now.” Jared’s initial anger at the man had faded. He kept an arm around Cassi. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked her.

  “Yes. I knocked my head on the wall, but I’m not so dizzy anymore. Your face looks like it could use some stitches, though.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  A nurse they had seen before came in with the doctor who had been taking care of Cassi. Jared waved the nurse’s ministrations aside. “We’re leaving,” he said to the doctor. “I’ve talked to the FBI, and we’re going with them.”

  “In that case, I’ll release her.” The doctor glanced at the policeman. “Is that all right with you?”

  “Yes. We’ll work it out with the Americans.” He turned back to Jared. “I’ll be out in the hall if you need me. I have to call this in.”

  The doctor eyed Jared’s forehead. “You’d better let me stitch that for you.”

  Jared sighed. “Might as well. It seems we have the time.”

  Another hour passed before two well-groomed men in suits showed up at the hospital. One had pale blond hair, the other light brown. Both had blue eyes and were tall and built like runners. “Jared and Cassi Landine?” the blond man asked. At their nods, he continued. “I’m Special Agent Anderson and this is Special Agent Worthington. We’re from the FBI’s Legat office here in London. We’ve been briefed on your case and have cleared things with the local authorities. We can leave whenever you’re ready. Good timing, too, since I hear people around here have been praying for rain.”

  Jared relaxed as the man gave the signal he and Fred and agreed upon. “Yeah, rain makes it quite cold here, I can imagine. We’re ready now.”

  Sampson made a move as if to speak, but ended up saying nothing.

  “How’s that guy?” asked Jared, guessing at the boy’s unvoiced question.

  Agent Anderson responded. “The one who attacked you here? Well, he seems to be in stable condition, but he’s still out, so we haven’t learned anything from him yet. He has a broken knee and a very damaged cheekbone, but the doctors say he has so many drugs in his system to enhance his strength that he wouldn’t have felt the pain at all. He would have kept at you until he succeeded or died trying.” The agent’s face turned grave. “There was enough sleeping drug in that syringe to put you both completely out. If he had given it all to Cassi, she would have died. He didn’t die when Sampson gave him the drug simply because of his size and the strength-enhancing drugs already in his system. Given the earlier attempt at abduction, we think he meant to give a portion of the drug to each of you, contact some hidden associates, and get you out of here.”

  Jared had been watching Sampson as the FBI agent spoke. At the news of the thug’s survival, Sampson’s dark expression lightened. But Jared also saw the guilt in his eyes that testified of conflicting emotions. Was he relieved the man hadn’t died, but also feeling guilty for not managing to kill a man who might have been responsible for his father’s death? What a terrible burden for a child.

  There wasn’t much time now to help Sampson deal with everything that had happened, but perhaps at the cabin they could talk things out. For the first time, Jared began to feel responsibility for the child that might extend beyond a few days. Sampson might need help for years, and Jared could see himself somehow involved. But what about the uncle?

  I won’t let him hurt Sampson, Jared vowed. He didn’t know how he could stop the uncle from taking legal custody now that Holbrooke was dead. He worried that after the transfer was made, Sampson would have an “accident” like the ones that had already claimed many of his relatives. Barring that terrible thought, would his uncle raise him to be a hardened criminal like his father? Jared found he couldn’t deal with that idea either. A child should be loved and nurtured in honesty and truth. Sampson deserved at least that much.

  Jared pulled his thoughts back to what the agent had said. “They certainly aren’t giving up easily,” he observed.

  “No, they’re not.” Special Agent Anderson checked his watch. “That’s why we’re anxious to get you out of here.”

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” With a hand on Sampson’s shoulder, Cassi arose. She stood unsteadily, but with the same determination Jared had seen when she’d thrown the pitcher at the thug. “I’m ready. But I’d like to say good-bye to Grant first.”

  “I’ll bring him here,” Jared said.

  Special Agent Worthington raised a hand to stop him. “I’ll do that, if you don’t mind. We aren’t letting you out of our sight.”

  Jared watched the man leave. He put his arm around Cassi. “Some honeymoon.”

  Her dark eyes regained a spark of amusement. “It’ll be something to tell the grandkids.”

  She was trying to be positive. Jared hugged her, but in his heart he wondered if they would live long enough to h
ave children, much less grandchildren. Someone had it out for them and Sampson—someone who knew them very well. But who? And why?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “SO THEY’RE HEADING TO Portugal!” Brooke exclaimed as Fred hung up the phone with Jared.

  Fred stared up at Brooke in surprise. She peered over his desk at the notes he had written on a sheet of paper. He hadn’t even realized that she’d left her chair in front of the desk. Her motions had been too fluid, too subtle. He placed his hands over the information, sighing in exasperation. “It’s supposed to be top secret. If this information got into the wrong hands, do you realize how much danger Cassi and Jared would be in?”

  “At least tell me what happened to them. Did you say a car bomb?”

  “Brooke, it’s off the record. You have no idea how many regulations I’ve broken even letting you hear part of the conversation at all.”

  “But we’re partners.”

  “We’re helping each other out, that’s all.” Fred saw her defiant expression and relented. “Look, since you already know most of it, I’ll tell you what happened in England. But not a word to the papers yet. And certainly nothing about that cabin in Portugal. We’re trying to keep them safe, not advertise their whereabouts to whoever is trying to kidnap them.”

  “I promise. It’s for the book, that’s all.”

  “For the book?” Justin cast an amused glance at Fred. “I thought you wrote for the newspaper.”

  “I do. But later on, this might make a good book.” She brought out her tape recorder and turned it on. “Now, did you say someone tried to kidnap them?”

  Fred turned the recorder off. “I did. But it’s off the record.”

  “In that case why don’t we talk about it at the café? It wouldn’t take more than a minute to walk over. I haven’t had breakfast yet, and I could eat something.” She smiled at him and he felt himself smiling back. There was nothing more he would like to do at that moment than go somewhere alone with Brooke.

  But there was still the little matter of her ring.

  “I’ll take care of things here,” Justin said. He didn’t laugh, but looked as though he might. “I’ll work things out with the guys from London and call you on your cell phone if anything happens.”

  Fred knew Justin would have everything under control. “Okay. But they’ll need the password, or Jared won’t go with them.”

  “I don’t blame him.”

  The matter settled, Fred walked to the door. Brooke caught up with him and put her hand on his arm. As they walked through the Federal Building and rode down the elevator, Fred felt people watching them. Or rather, watching Brooke. And probably wondering what she saw in him. Let them wonder.

  At the café, they both ordered pancakes, bacon, and eggs—the true American breakfast. The waitress recognized Fred and winked at him. Fred nodded.

  “It’s nice being here with you like this, Fred,” Brooke said. “I don’t know what I expected when I first walked into your office, but you’re different. I mean not bad different. Nice. I enjoy being with you.” She glanced away as though she had said too much. Fred felt a heat begin in his chest that had nothing to do with the warm food he had swallowed.

  “You’re different than I expected, too,” he admitted. In fact, her presence was more intoxicating to him than any wine he’d tasted. “But you are rather insistent.” They laughed together, and an odd sensation of comfort spread through Fred. He wanted to know Brooke. He wanted to find out her deepest thoughts. He wanted to learn what moved her, what was important to her. All these things he communicated to her silently. He thought he saw in her eyes an echoing desire. Given time, perhaps they could become more than good friends.

  There was still the ring.

  Before he could ask, she smiled and spoke. “So tell me what happened in England.”

  Fred swallowed. The other question could wait.

  * * *

  BROOKE ERICKSON WHISTLED AS SHE left the café. She had gathered more information than she had expected to that morning. Too bad her promise to Fred wouldn’t let her use it—yet.

  In her car, she pulled out the small notepad she had seen on Fred’s desk. She was sure it was Justin’s pad from the day before—the one where he’d written the name of the person whose organization Big Tommy was going to turn over as part of his plea bargain. Why it was on the desk she didn’t know, but she hoped Justin wouldn’t miss it soon. Maybe later, when she talked Fred into going out to dinner, she could throw it under his desk or behind a chair.

  Guilt washed over her, but she shoved it away. It wasn’t as if she was going to sell the information. She only wanted to help solve the case as soon as possible, and she knew she could get into places where the FBI wasn’t welcome.

  She flipped through the pad, and almost immediately found the name she was looking for: Nicolas Donelli. She knew the name as anyone interested in organized crime would. He wasn’t as important as Big Tommy had been, but then he wasn’t as free to act because people knew who he was and where he lived. Big Tommy, on the other hand, had been an ingenious front for Quentin Thomas Holbrooke’s operation. Only his closest associates had ever known the identity of Big Tommy, and anyone else unlucky enough to stumble over the information met a sudden demise. After the case had been broken, the world had been shocked—for one day at least—to learn the man’s true identity. For some, like Brooke, who had read about his public persona and ample donations to charitable causes, it had been difficult to believe.

  Is that why I am so fascinated with this case? Perhaps partly. If she could be the first one to print the story of who was behind Holbrooke’s murder, it would most likely make her career. But even more than with Holbrooke, she was intrigued by the woman who had engineered the whole disaster, Laranda Garrettson. What a mind! She was also fascinated with Cassi and Jared, the ordinary couple who had saved the day.

  Brooke now found her thoughts going in quite another direction. Fred Schulte was a nice man, one she found herself strongly drawn to. In the café, she had felt something she had never before let herself experience when it came to a man. Of course, there was no question of a serious relationship between them, given his obvious marriage to his job, but for a moment there, she had wished otherwise.

  Regardless of Fred’s wishes, she wasn’t going to sit on the sidelines, safe and sound, while so much was at stake. No, she would go and see Nicolas Donelli herself and offer him a slim piece of information—that Holbrooke had been going to turn over enough evidence to destroy him—in exchange for any light he could shed on the situation. Brooke didn’t feel guilty for planning to tell this to the mob boss; the FBI would confront him about the matter soon enough. At least this way, she could possibly find out something that would help the case. She would prove to Fred that she could pull her own weight.

  * * *

  “ANY NEWS FROM ENGLAND?” NICOLAS Donelli was usually assured of success from his best operatives, but this time the trail had been rather cold. They might just be on another wild goose chase.

  “No news—yet,” his nephew told him. “I should have gone with them.”

  Nicolas gazed at the boy fondly. If he could have chosen a son, it would have been Giorgio. He was a little hot-headed, but that was to be expected, given his youth and his Italian blood. Giorgio had every quality that would make a good leader—unlike Nicolas’s four daughters. Of course there was still time for a son from his new, young wife, but if that never happened, he would be satisfied with Giorgio.

  Nicolas rubbed his fingers under his tired eyes. “Don’t worry, Giorgio. You will go in the next phase of my plan.” He permitted himself a smile. “Meanwhile, with Holbrooke finally where he belongs, we have a lot of work right here to take care of.”

  There was a knock at the door. “Enter,” Nicolas commanded.

  One of his bodyguards appeared in the doorway. “There’s a woman down at the gate. She says she needs to talk to you. Says it’s urgent. About Holbrooke.”

 
“Who is she?”

  “A reporter. A real gorgeous one at that.”

  Nicolas sighed. “Send her away. We don’t give interviews.”

  “She doesn’t want one. She says she’s been working with the FBI and has some information for you. About who might’ve killed Big Tommy.”

  Nicolas rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He glanced at his nephew, whose heavy-lidded eyes were bright with the desire to act. Nicolas now had the chance to show him firsthand how to deal with the annoying press. Perhaps the display would temporarily satiate Giorgio’s eagerness.

  “Send her in, then,” he directed. “We’ll see how much she has to offer us. I doubt it’ll be worth the time.”

  They received their guest in the drawing room but did not offer her a drink. “Thank you for seeing me,” she said, sitting gracefully on the black leather sofa. “I’m Brooke Erickson of the San Diego Union-Tribune.”

  The woman was indeed beautiful. Her short, golden-blond hair was well-groomed, her skin smooth and flawless, the large pale-blue eyes intense, her figure perfect. Nicolas noticed Giorgio’s interest. How old was the boy now? Thirty? Perhaps it was time to find him a wife.

  “You said you had information for me.”

  The reporter smiled. “I do indeed, but I would like an exchange.”

  “How do I know it’s worth my effort?”

  “The FBI has important information regarding Holbrooke’s death. I tell you how that affects you, and you tell me what you know about the poisoning.”

  As Nicolas stared at her, an idea crept over him. If his operatives in England succeeded, she would be perfect for part two of the plan. The hair was right, the bearing perfect. Of course the eyes were wrong, but that could be fixed. In fact, she was much better for the part than any of the other women his men had turned up. How convenient for her to come to him like this, asking for a deal. He could certainly use her.