Killjoy (Buchanan-Renard 3)

Thank God she’d decided to bring her hiking shoes. She knew he was watching her every move as she carefully repacked her duffel bag.

“I think it’s crazy to hike in the dark . . . only an idiot would try it, but if that’s what you want to do, then I’m right behind you,” she said.

“You’re staying here,” he said between gritted teeth.

She pretended she hadn’t heard him. “We won’t get far, and one of us might break an ankle or something walking into a hole we can’t see. If I were making the decisions,” she added as she carefully placed her tennis shoes, soles up, on top of her clothes and rezipped the bag, “I’d say we should stay in the car until dawn. Then we hike at a fast clip.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not making the decisions. I am.”

She pushed the duffel bag to the floor, stacked her hands on the headrest, and leaned forward until she was just inches from his face. “Why?”

He couldn’t hold on to his glare or his bad mood when she smiled. Hell, she even batted those big baby blue eyes at him.

“Are all the typists at the Bureau smart-asses like you?”

He was trying to put her on the defensive so she’d stop arguing with him and let him do what he was trained to do. It was a great plan, he thought, but unfortunately she was having none of it.

“Are all burnouts as obnoxious and stubborn as you are?”

He caught himself before he smiled. “Probably,” he allowed.

“Are we going or not? Time’s a-wasting, John Paul.”

“We’re going to wait until dawn,” he said. “Don’t give me that smug look, sugar. I had already decided to wait.”

“Uh-huh.”

He was smart enough to know it was time to stop arguing. Honest to God, she was more stubborn than he was, and in truth, that impressed the socks off him. She wasn’t going to let him win this round, but he already had another plan in mind. He’d sneak away a little before dawn. When she woke up, she’d have to stay in the car and wait for him to come back.

And if he didn’t make it back . . .

“I’m gonna leave the keys in the car.”

“Okay.”

“Get in the front seat so I can fold down the back. I’ve got a sleeping bag,” he added. “You can use it.”

“We’ll both use it.”

“Yeah?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get any fancy ideas, Renard.”

“Fancy?” He laughed.

Avery had already found the latches and unhooked the seat backs. When they were flat, she spread out the sleeping bag. She tucked her hiking shoes under the seat, removed her jacket, and tossed it on the floor. John Paul stretched out on his back with his feet against the dashboard. He looked comfortable, his hands stacked on his chest, his eyes closed.

Shivering from the cold, she had to climb over his legs to get to the other side. Her teeth were chattering as she stretched out beside him. She couldn’t reach her jacket. It was under the seat below him. A gentleman would have put his arms around her to warm the shivers away. He wasn’t a gentleman, she decided, when he completely ignored her.

It had always been a point of pride with her never to complain. She was usually quite good at suffering minor and major ailments in silence. But John Paul brought out the worst in her. She really wanted to whine now, and she was more disgusted with herself than with him. He couldn’t help being a jerk. She could.

Suck it up, she told herself. Then a minute later, when she was sure her toes were frostbitten, she whispered, “Screw this.”

“What?”

“I said it was cold.”

“Huh.”

“Huh, what?”

“I could have sworn I heard you say, ‘Screw this.’?”

He really liked being rude, she supposed, and no wonder, he was so very good at it. She smiled in spite of her misery. “Don’t you think it’s cold?”

“No.”

Ignoring his answer, she said, “We should share our body heat.” He didn’t move a muscle. “Put your damn arms around me, Renard. I’m freezing. For God’s sake, be a gentleman.”

He still didn’t move. She was half on top of him now, trying to steal some of the warmth his body generated. The man was like an electric blanket.

“Move it.” She grimaced after giving the order. She sounded like a drill sergeant.

He was trying hard not to laugh at her. “If I put my arms around you, sugar, I might not remain a gentleman.”

Oh, brother. “I’ll take my chances, sugar,” she drawled back.

She leaned up so he could put his arm out, and the second he did, she cuddled up against his side. John Paul rolled over and enveloped her with his arms.

He felt as if he were hugging an ice cube. The bottom of his chin rubbed the top of her head. Damn, she smelled good. Like peppermint, maybe, he thought as he began to rub her back.

“You’re one big goose bump.”

She didn’t have the energy to talk. His warmth was so comforting, she closed her eyes and let him caress her. Her T-shirt had ridden up above her navel, and too late, she felt his hands slip under the fabric. His fingers splayed wide across her back.

She lurched upward at the same instant he felt the scar tissue, her head slamming into his chin.

“Damn,” he muttered as he dropped back. “What the hell did you do that for?” he asked, rubbing his jaw.

Avery frantically pulled her shirt down and rolled away from him. “Go to sleep.”

She’d closed up on him quicker than he could snap his fingers. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. What in God’s name had happened to her back? He knew what he’d touched was scar tissue. Who had done that to her?

“Leave me the hell alone,” Avery whispered.

She was coiled for a fight. She waited tensely for the questions to start, holding her breath. She expelled it loudly. Why was he silent? Why wasn’t he asking questions?

She told herself she had nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed about, but very few men had ever seen or touched her back, and she had memorized their reactions. The look of shock, and in one instance, disgust. Mostly she remembered how one man she had actually believed wasn’t superficial had visibly shuddered. Then, of course, the sympathy and the questions came . . . the hundreds of questions.

John Paul wasn’t talking, though. She couldn’t stand his silence long. She rolled toward him, propped herself up with her elbow, and glared down at him. The jerk’s eyes were closed, and he looked as if he were sleeping. She knew better.

“Open your eyes, damn it.”

“My name’s John Paul, not Damn It.”

What the hell was the matter with him? Why wasn’t he asking her questions . . . or flinching? She knew he’d felt the knotted scars. “Well?”

He sighed. “Well, what?”

She was getting angrier and angrier by the second. “What are you thinking?”

“Trust me, sugar, you don’t want to know.”

“Oh, yes, I do. Tell me.”

“You sure?”

“Answer me,” she demanded. “I want to know what you’re thinking.”

“Okay. I’m thinking that you’re a real pain in the ass.”

Her mouth dropped open. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. I said you’re a real pain in the ass. You damn near broke my jaw when you jerked up. One second you’re letting me warm you, and the next you’re trying to kill me.”

“I was not trying to kill you.”

He rubbed his jaw. “I could have chipped a tooth.”

Oh, brother. “Look . . . I’m sorry, okay? I was just startled, and I . . . Wait a minute. Why am I apologizing?”

He flashed a devilish grin. Her heartbeat immediately quickened. “’Cause you should,” he drawled in his seductive southern accent.

The big jerk was so aloof and impassive, so why were her senses going berserk now? With the bursts of lightning, she could see his face clearly. The day’s growth of whiskers should

have made him look scruffy, but it didn’t. She had to resist the urge to touch his cheek. His wonderful scent was driving her to distraction too. He smelled like wintergreen and musk and fresh wood shavings. And when he had held her in his arms to warm her, his body had felt like a smooth block of sculptor’s marble. Everything about him was sexy, damn it. He was so masculine, so . . . Get a grip, she told herself. Remember, you’re in charge.

Yeah, right. She put her forefinger and her thumb up in front of his eyes about a half-inch apart and said, “I’m this close to really hating you.”

She’d used just the right amount of anger in her voice. She nodded too, just to let him know she meant every word.

He wasn’t impressed or intimidated. He simply closed his eyes and lazily said, “I can live with that.”

Chapter 18

WE GO THROUGH THE WALL.” ANNE MADE THE announcement and then waited for the women’s reaction to her suggestion. Sara looked incredulous; Carrie looked irritated.

“Yeah, right,” Carrie muttered. “I’ll use my superhuman karate kicks and my X-ray vision . . .”

“Now, Carrie, let’s hear what Anne has to say,” Sara chided.

“I’m telling you, it could work. When I got out of the car, I walked over to the stone wall and looked down. The mountain slopes on this side of the house. It’s not a sheer drop like it is outside the living room windows.”

“Go on,” Sara urged.

“I also noticed the sides of the house are cedar boards, not stone like the front,” she said. “There’s an outside wall in the pantry that’s just on the other side of the stone wall. I suggest we punch a big hole in the Sheetrock near the floor, so that when we do kick the cedar boards out, we won’t be seen from the front.”

“But Anne, there’s more than just Sheetrock and cedar boards,” Sara said.

“I know exactly what’s between those walls,” she boasted. “There’s insulation, but that won’t be difficult to tear out, and maybe wiring too, which we could work around, and a layer of sheathing . . .”

“And what else?” Sara asked. She leaned forward while she considered Anne’s idea.

“Two-by-fours,” Anne said. “Studs are usually about sixteen inches apart. We should all be able to squeeze through.”

“How do we make a hole in the Sheetrock? With our fists?”

“We use the poker from the fireplace,” Anne said. “And knives to widen the hole. I took inventory, and the kitchen knives are still in the drawers. If we started now, who knows? We might be out of here by morning.”

“Time’s running out,” Carrie said. “I say we try to break a window and hope we don’t . . .” She stopped when Sara shook her head.

“Too risky,” Sara said. “I say we go with Anne’s plan.”

“What about the cedar boards?”

“It won’t be as difficult as you think,” Anne said. “They’re nailed in, but if we hit them hard enough or kick them, they’ll eventually pop right out.”

“My goodness, we’ve got a plan,” Sara said. She slapped her hand on the table and smiled. “I’m sure we won’t be able to find any rope to use to climb down, but wouldn’t sheets work?”

“In the movies, they always use sheets to get out,” Carrie said.

“Really?” Anne asked.

Carrie nodded. “You honestly don’t watch television, do you?”

Anne shook her head. “I could work on the sheets. Maybe instead of tying knots, I could figure out a way to braid them together . . . or something.”

“That’s good,” Sara said. “While you’re doing that, Carrie and I will work on the wall. Anne, you’re brilliant. I never would have thought to go out through a wall. I think this is doable.”

“We have to leave during the night,” Carrie said. “I don’t relish the idea of tromping through the wilderness in the dark, but if we make our way downhill until we estimate we’re past the fence, then we could get to the road and follow it back to town.”

She’d made it all sound easy. Was she being naive, or could it be that simple?

“We should probably take a couple of sharp knives with us,” Sara suggested. “Just in case we run into any wild animals.”

“Or Monk,” Carrie said. She shivered then. “I think I’d prefer fighting off a wild animal than running into him. Do you know . . .” She suddenly stopped, embarrassed at what she had almost confessed.

“What?” Sara asked.

“You’ll think I’m gross, but I thought he was handsome.”

Sara snorted with laughter. “I did too. I loved his accent. Do you think it was real?”

“I thought so,” Carrie said. “I thought he was sexy.”

Anne had been listening quietly to the conversation until Carrie made that comment. She couldn’t keep silent any longer; her disapproval was evident. “Shame on you, Carrie. You’re a married woman.”

Carrie defended herself. “I’m married, yes, but I’m not blind, and there isn’t anything wrong with appreciating a great-looking man. Surely you’ve—”

Anne cut her off. “Absolutely not,” she insisted. “I would never insult my Eric by lusting after another man.”

“Did I say I lusted after him?”

“Will you stop bickering,” Sara begged. “You make me want to open a door.”

Chapter 19

JOHN PAUL RETRIEVED THE WATCH THEN HIKED OVER TWELVE miles. He made a wide circle around the perimeter of the location marked on the map looking for signs—anything out of the ordinary, like a sniper hunkered down in the scrub. When he was satisfied he was alone, he planted the watch and backtracked four miles to Coward’s Crossing.

There wasn’t any doubt about being in the right place. There was a crude hand-painted sign nailed to a stake that had recently been pounded into the ground. The white paint with the words “Coward’s Crossing” wasn’t weathered and, therefore, couldn’t have been more than a couple of days old. The arrow on top of the sign pointed to a boarded-up, abandoned mine shaft. There was a woman’s bright red silk scarf nailed to another board above the entrance.

Dawn had arrived, and the mist was being burned by the rising sun. John Paul was safely concealed by the trees and bushes. From where he was positioned, he could see the entrance to the shaft. He didn’t relish the idea of climbing down inside. Were the women there? Doubtful, he thought. Monk wouldn’t have kidnapped them and then given Avery a map showing their location. No, Monk was isolating his prey. No doubt about that.

When would he take his shot? Maybe he thought they would want to go into the shaft. How had Monk planned to kill them? Explosives, he guessed. Yeah, that’s what Monk would do. Clean and neat, an underground explosion no one would hear, and he wouldn’t have to worry about burying what was left of their bodies.

Come on, John Paul urged. Show yourself. There was a good thirty yards of open space between the cover of the trees and the shaft. Check it out, Monk. Let me get one clear shot. He would try to immobilize him so he could question him and, hopefully, find out where the women were.

Someone was out there. The silence in the woods confirmed it. No birds singing, no squirrels scurrying about as they foraged for food. Nothing but the wind whistling a forlorn melody through the branches and an occasional rumble of thunder in the distance.

John Paul was patient. He could wait it out for as long as he needed. But what about Avery? How long would she sleep? And when she woke up and found him gone, would she try to come after him? The possibility sent chills down his back. He pictured her walking into a trap and had to force himself to block the image of her being gunned down.

He thought he heard something and tilted his head, straining to listen. The sound didn’t come again.

What was Avery doing now? Was she still asleep? He’d left her snug as a bug in his sleeping bag with the gun next to her.

Damn, he’d hated leaving her. Knock it off, he told himself. She’s fine. The car’s well hidden and over ten miles away. Yeah, she was okay. Ah,

hell, try as he did, he couldn’t convince himself.

How in God’s name had she worked her way under his skin so quickly? And what the hell was the matter with him to be attracted to her? She was a damn liberal, he reminded himself, one of those “Let’s save the world” types. Worse, she was a team player, and the team she obviously loved playing for was the Bureau.

They were completely, thoroughly, absolutely unsuitable for each other. And yet here he was, worrying himself sick about her.

Monk could have tracked them . . . a twig snapped behind him. Without making a sound, he turned, trying to pinpoint the location. He thought it was maybe thirty or forty feet away, but with the rising wind it was impossible to be accurate.

For over five minutes he didn’t move a muscle. Then he heard another sound, a faint rustling of leaves. Ever so slowly, he eased back on his haunches, zeroed in on the exact spot where the noise had come from, and took aim.

Then he saw those blue eyes staring at him between two little branches she had so painstakingly parted.

He was suddenly livid. He had damn near killed the woman. What could she have been thinking to sneak up on him like that? If she hadn’t stayed perfectly still and let him see her face, if she had made one more little sound, he might have blown her away. Son of a bitch, he silently cursed as he eased up on the trigger. Son of a bitch.

Thank God he hadn’t hurt her. An odd thought, given the fact that he was now contemplating wringing her neck.

He strained from the effort he exerted not to shout at her. He held up one hand, motioning for her to stay put. She slowly shook her head and held up one finger. Then she pointed behind her.

He moved through the brush toward her.

Avery knew he was furious. His jaw was clenched so tight she thought it might shatter. She slowly got up on her knees, leaned into him until her mouth was touching his ear. Then she whispered, “He found the car.”

John Paul heard movement and saw the glint of steel through the trees about fifty feet away. Like a lion, he sprang.

Avery didn’t have time to react. One second she was whispering into his ear, and the next she was flat on her stomach on the ground, her face smashed into dead leaves with John Paul covering her as he fired. The dirt around her head was spitting up into her hair.