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  Mitch eased around the door, hands raised, keeping his gaze steady on the intruder.

  The man was huge, easily six inches taller than him and probably a hundred pounds heavier. His bulk was clad entirely in black. Even his eyes looked black. His square head was shaved, his neck as thick as a football player's. He held the gun on Alaina with authority, his free hand bracing the forearm of his gun hand, his feet set wide. A professional.

  "Close the door."

  Mitch kicked it shut, keeping his gaze above Alaina's head. But he heard her uneven breathing, sensed fear in her stillness.

  The hit man relaxed a little. "That's better."

  "Who're you looking for?" Mitch asked.

  "Who does it look like?"

  "I'd hate for you to make a mistake."

  The guy chuckled. "Do I look like the kind of guy who makes mistakes?"

  Mitch tried another angle. "Who do you work for?"

  "I hate to cut you off, buddy, but small talk ain't my --"

  The pillow hit the thug square in the face. Mitch leaped across the bed, slamming into the man's middle and landing on top of him on the other bed. The hit man shoved him away, taking a swing at him and missing. Mitch rolled off the end of the bed, grabbed the heavy wooden desk chair and swung it up like a golf club, catching the guy under the chin.

  The man's head snapped back, and for a moment, he seemed unaffected. Then he toppled over backward, unconscious.

  "Nice shot," Alaina said.

  Bending over, Mitch braced his hands on his knees to catch his breath. He'd thought they were both dead. "What the hell was that?" he demanded. "The pillow defense? It was stupid."

  "Maybe you hadn't noticed, but he was going to shoot us. Somebody had to do something."

  He looked at her finally, angry that she hadn't just let him handle it. "I don't suppose you noticed that he's bigger than I am. He could have snapped me in two --" He broke off, narrowing his eyes. "What the hell?"

  She blinked, raising a hand to her face at the same time that he moved closer. As he remembered the sharp report of flesh on flesh, it registered that the dark smear across her jaw was blood. He caught her wrist before she could touch it, his fury drowning in a flood of guilt. "Don't," he said under his breath.

  Without another word, he went into the bathroom and wet a towel. She'd paid for the warning she'd shouted before he could walk, unsuspecting, into the room and a loaded gun. She could have just let him come, let the beefcake kill him, then try to strike a deal with the bad guy. But she had warned him, the man who had cuffed her to a bed, the one who'd terrorized her. The one who worked for her mortal enemy.

  And what had he done? He'd just stood there waiting for the goon to make the next move. If Alaina hadn't taken matters into her own hands, they'd both probably be dead by now.

  As he wrung out the towel, he avoided looking at himself in the mirror.

  Returning to the bed, where she watched him with puzzled eyes, he sat beside her and gently wiped away the blood, relieved to see only a shallow cut along her jaw line. Glancing at the unconscious brute, he noted the onyx ring on his left ring finger. The bastard had backhanded her. Mitch fought the urge to pummel the guy.

  "There are probably others like him," she said.

  He focused on her eyes, so sad, so determined. Life had trained her to act, not wait to see how events might play out. Too often, circumstances hadn't turned in her favor, and she had stopped expecting them to a long time ago. He couldn't imagine what it was like to live like that.

  Forcing his brain to engage, he asked, "Who is he?"

  "He's got to be one of Layton's."

  "That doesn't make sense."

  "What doesn't make sense?" she asked, exasperated. "Layton sent the son of a bitch to kill me. And you, apparently."

  Mitch shook his head, unable to wrap his brain around the rationale. Keller had what he wanted. His son. In less than twenty-four hours, the boy's kidnapper would be in FBI custody. Why kill her, or them, and risk the inevitable scrutiny? The investigation and accompanying suspicion would undo even the most spotless public image.

  But who else knew where to find them?

  Impatient, Alaina took the towel from him and pressed it to the darkening bruise on her jaw. "While you're trying to figure out Layton's twisted logic, would you mind unlocking the cuffs? I'd prefer not to be chained to the bed when the next hit man walks through the door."

  Mitch couldn't argue with that. After unlocking them, he tossed them onto the desk.

  She immediately scooted off the bed and headed for the bathroom. "Where are you going?" he asked, then felt like an idiot. His brain obviously wasn't operating at full steam yet.

  "I think I've earned a visit to the bathroom, don't you?"

  "Hey," he said.

  She paused but didn't turn.

  "Thanks for the warning."

  She resumed her stride. "Don't mention it."

  * * *

  When she left the bathroom, her face washed and her hands steady, she found Mitch throwing his belongings into his suitcase. The gunman was on the floor, his wrists secured behind him with a length of belt.

  "I just talked to my partner," Mitch said. "She's arranging for us to fly tonight to D.C. There's no point in hanging around here waiting for another hit man to find us."

  Leaning against the doorjamb and folding her arms, Alaina couldn't resist needling him. "Don't you want to call Layton and clear it with him?"

  He paused in his packing to glare at her. "I'd say that gloating is highly inappropriate right now and not your style."

  "I think I have a reason to gloat. I've been telling you all along that Layton isn't who you think he is."

  "And what makes you think I believe for a second that your ex hired that guy?"

  She straightened, dropping her arms to her sides where her hands formed fists. "He's not my ex." As soon as she said it, she knew it was beside the point. "Of course he was hired by Layton. Who else would he be working for?"

  "Hell if I know. But chances are good that Keller wasn't the only poor bastard you've screwed over."

  "You are unbelievable," she snapped. Crossing to the fallen intruder, she knelt beside him and worked her hand into one of his back pockets.

  "I'm also out of patience," Mitch said. "So let's make a deal: We'll fly to D.C. tonight, like you wanted, and then I'll give you a choice. I'll turn you over to the FBI, who can offer you protection. Or I'll take you to your dastardly former lover, who can reunite you with your kid. You can make the call."

  She ignored him, checking each of the goon's pockets, hoping for something, anything, that would help her prove to her thick-headed captor that she spoke the truth.

  Mitch sighed. "He's a professional. Professionals don't carry ID or little pieces of paper that say, 'I work for Layton Keller.' "

  "It can't hurt to check, can it?"

  "I already did. There's nothing."

  Sitting back on her heels, she rubbed at her temples. Frustration made her head ache and her chest burn. She wanted to scream, cry, throw something. She wanted Jonah.

  "How about that deal?" Mitch asked.

  She shifted her gaze to him. "There's a problem with it."

  "What?"

  "I can't get a boarding pass without picture ID."

  "Where's your ID?"

  "It's in my purse, which the ER people gave to Rachel."

  "Willowy blond knockout?"

  She started to ask him how he knew, but then she remembered he had followed her around for three weeks, and Rachel was a staple in her life. Or had been. She shoved aside the encroaching despair. "Yes."

  Retrieving the cuffs from the desk, Mitch crossed to her and held out his hand.

  Alaina recoiled. The memory of being trapped while a man pointed a gun at her nose made her shake her head. "You don't need those."

  "Get used to them. I'm not chancing you giving me the slip."

  When she held back, he reached forward and snagged h
er wrist. She tried to jerk away, accomplishing nothing more than sending a jolt into her sore shoulder. Tears of pain and frustration stung her eyes.

  His head down as if he couldn't bring himself to look her in the face, Mitch zipped the steel around her wrist, then his own. "Let's go."

  Chapter 14

  Alaina stared out the passenger window at streets that looked like shiny black metal, trying to figure out how to explain Mitch to Rachel. Her friend wouldn't accept some pithy explanation. She would want answers, and she would be bullheaded about getting them. She'd be protective and demanding and unyielding, the big sister Alaina had never had.

  Beside her, Mitch was silent, as he had been while he had circled several blocks to make sure they weren't being followed. Then he had spoken only curtly to ask for directions to Rachel's and to ask what she wanted to eat when he'd pulled into a McDonald's drive-thru. The cheeseburger she'd wolfed down felt like a thick ball of lead in her stomach now.

  "That's Rachel's on the right," she said.

  Pulling into the drive, Mitch killed the engine, then sat with his fingers wrapped around the gearshift, Alaina's hand dangling inches away. He stared at the front of Rachel's home, as if searching the newly shorn bushes for assailants.

  Alaina also studied the small slate-blue house with black shutters, hoping that Rachel wouldn't be home. They could break in, swipe Alaina's purse, and be gone before her friend returned. But, no, the light that glowed beyond the large picture window wasn't from the hall light that Rachel left on when she wasn't home.

  "I'm going to have a tough time explaining the cuffs," Alaina said.

  Without a word, Mitch worked his hand into his jeans pocket and drew out the key. As he unlocked them, he said, "Make one wrong move in there, and I'm cuffing your hands behind your back until we get to D.C."

  The manacle sprang open, and Alaina gingerly massaged the bracelet of bruises that marred her skin. "And how would you explain cuffs to the flight crew?" she asked, irritated. It was as if he thought he could get away with anything. Shades of Layton.

  He met her eyes, and the look in his was deadly. "Don't fuck with me, lady. I've had a bad day."

  "Really? Because my day has been stellar."

  "I'd say both our days are going to improve tremendously as soon as we have what we came for. All you have to do is follow a few rules. No signals, no going to the bathroom, no secret messages."

  "Rachel isn't stupid. She'll know something is up."

  "Then it's up to you to put her mind at ease. You don't want her ending up like your friend Grant Maxwell, do you?"

  Alarm widened her eyes, sent her pulse tripping. "Are you threatening her?"

  "I'm telling you to protect her. Get the ID, get out. You don't want her involved in any way. Got it?"

  "You don't have to tell me that. I know better than to get her involved."

  "Right," he said. "That's why you've been best buddies for, what, five years? You're lucky that whoever's after you hasn't already tried to get at you through her."

  "He doesn't need to get at me through her," she said. "He's got my kid."

  "So what was Maxwell then? A bonus?"

  She gaped at him. "You son of a bitch."

  "I'm just telling you to keep it light, keep it quick." He checked his watch. "We don't have much time before our flight. Let's go."

  * * *

  From behind Alaina and three steps down, Mitch watched the emotions that flitted across Rachel Boyd's face when she opened the door to her friend's knock. Shock. Worry. Then rampant relief. Whipping open the heavy storm door, she hugged Alaina hard. "I've been worried to death," she said.

  Alaina stiffened visibly, and Rachel drew back, her forehead creasing in concern. "Jesus, you look like shit." She grasped Alaina's hand to draw her inside. "Come in and sit down."

  But Alaina shook her head, bringing Rachel up short. "I just came for my purse."

  Rachel focused on Mitch as he stepped onto the porch. He made it a point to stand close enough to Alaina that their shoulders touched, a subtle warning.

  Rachel's eyes darkened with suspicion. "Who are you?"

  "Please, Ray, I just need my purse, okay?" Alaina said. "I'll explain everything later."

  Rachel held on to Alaina's hand as if to keep her from bolting. "I recognize you," she said to Mitch. "You were there when she got hit by the car."

  "Rachel, please," Alaina said.

  "No," Rachel said, her tone firm as her attention swung back to her friend. "I'm not handing it over until you tell me what the hell's going on."

  Alaina groaned in frustration. "I really don't have time for this --"

  "Then make time," Rachel cut in. "I deserve an explanation, especially after the questioning that I endured. The FBI couldn't be bothered to tell me what was going on either. And you stole my car today, remember? You owe me."

  "I'm sorry, Rachel. I really can't --"

  "Where's Jonah?" Rachel peered past them at Mitch's car in the driveway. "You said he was with you."

  Alaina was silent, and through his shoulder, Mitch felt the shudder that went through her. Rachel must have seen it, because the anger faded, and her expression softened. "Oh God, Alex. How can you expect me to pretend that nothing is wrong? Why don't you trust me to help you?"

  When Alaina covered her face with her hands, Mitch tensed. She was losing it, and he couldn't afford to wait for her to get it back together in time for them to make their flight. "Look," he said to Rachel. "We're in a hurry. She'll explain everything in a few days."

  But Rachel wasn't listening to him. Her hand shook as she reached for Alaina's left wrist. Even in the porch light, the bruises that ringed it were stark. "Have you been tied up?" Horror made Rachel's voice faint. "And your face --"

  The glass in the storm door shattered.

  Rachel dropped back with a shriek, and Mitch shoved Alaina into the house and slammed the door behind them.

  "What the hell was that?" Rachel demanded.

  "Gunshot," Mitch said. "We need to kill the lights."

  But Alaina was already hitting the switch near the door. The room went only semi dark as light seeped from a room down the hall. "Get down, Ray," Alaina said.

  Rachel, frozen in fear, gawked at her. "Someone shot at us?"

  The bay window exploded inward, and Alaina dove for Rachel as glass rained over all three of them. As the women tumbled to the carpet out of harm's way, Mitch dropped to a squat, grabbing the gun from the holster under his arm. With the wall supporting his back, he kept an eye on the front door. "Is there a back way out?"

  "Oh shit."

  He turned his head to see Rachel leaning over Alaina, who was curled on her side, a hand clutched to her shoulder. Her head was back, the tendons in her neck taut, her lips white. His heart stuttered. "Is she hit?"

  Rachel shook her head. "There's no blood."

  Pocketing the gun, he crawled to them, keeping his head down. No more shots had been fired, which probably meant the gunman, or men, were trying to find a way into the house. "Is there a room without windows?"

  "The bathroom," Rachel said. "Down the hall, second door on the right."

  Seizing the gun strapped to his ankle, Mitch shoved it into her trembling hands. "Do you know how to use it?"

  Rachel, her breathing labored, her face pale, nodded.

  "Shoot anyone who comes through any of these doors," he said, sweeping the room with a hand to indicate the three passages into the living room. "I'm not kidding."

  "Who's shooting at us?"

  Ignoring the question, he bent and lifted Alaina into his arms. She released a ragged moan and stiffened. "Don't fight me," he growled. To Rachel, he said, "Come with me."

  He carried Alaina down the hall and into the bathroom. After lowering her to the floor so that she could lean back against the tub, he faced Rachel. "Lock the door and don't open it for anyone but me. If anyone who isn't the police or the feds kicks in the door, shoot them. Got it?"

  Rac
hel hesitated, her face glistening with perspiration.

  Mitch grasped her shoulders. "Rachel, I swear to you, I'm the good guy."

  With that, he slammed the door behind him and waited to hear the lock engage. Then, gun in hand, he eased down the hallway toward the living room, praying there was only one gunman.

  * * *

  Alaina couldn't think, couldn't breathe. The agony slicing through her shoulder told her it was dislocated again, and she had to force herself not to writhe from the pain.

  Rachel knelt beside her. "What can I do?"

  Alaina tried to school her breathing, tried to think beyond the pain and nausea. "Nothing."

  "Who is he, Alex? Is he the good guy?"

  Alaina couldn't answer as a dull roar filled her ears, and the bathroom started to gray.

  Rachel grasped her cheeks. "Dammit, don't pass out on me. I don't know what the hell I'm dealing with."

  The desperation and terror in her friend's voice snapped her back. And Alaina knew she had to tell her friend the truth. She deserved to know what was happening now that she might die because of it. "I kidnapped Jonah," she whispered, her voice ragged. "Fourteen years ago."

  Rachel sat back on her heels as if she'd been slapped. "You what?"

  A thump outside the bathroom door made them both jerk, and Rachel twisted around, holding the gun with both hands, her back braced against the tub beside Alaina. Running feet pounded down the hall away from the door, followed by silence.

  "Jesus," Rachel breathed. "Oh, Jesus. There's more than one."

  "I'm sorry," Alaina whispered. "I'm sorry I brought them here."

  "Who are they?"

  Alaina leaned her head against the porcelain rim behind her, unable to answer as she fought to keep her head above the waves of pain. Black spots did a merry dance in front of her eyes.

  "Alex," Rachel said, her tone sharp.

  Alaina blinked several times, trying to focus. "My name's not Alex."