Her Own Best Enemy (The Remnants, Book 1) (3 page)

That woman would die for her boy.

Keith blew on his cold hands, trying, unsuccessfully to warm them with his frigid breath; maybe trying to warm his chilly heart as well. He’d never understand that kind of bond between mother and child. His own mother certainly wouldn’t have risked her life to find him. Hell, she probably wouldn’t have noticed if he’d disappeared.

Was Grace for real?

He shrugged. What did it matter? It wasn’t like he wanted to make nice with her. No matter how pretty she was, or how much those expressive eyes of hers hit him in the gut, he had a job to do. That was it. She was nothing more than a means to an end.

He checked his watch again.
12:40 a.m.
He was out of time, damn it. He’d make one pass through the club in case he’d missed her. Then he needed to go.

He shoved the heavily scarred wooden door open with his shoulders, leaving his hands free to tug the brim of his cap lower to shadow his face.

The Cheshire had once been his stomping ground. He’d instigated more than a few scuffles with his fake I.D. at this seedy bar in the past. The club still sported a host of mirrors and neon lights. He grimaced at the drunks vying for the attention of gyrating strippers baring their assets. The loud bass of techno music pounded in his ears and the smell of stale beer mixed with cigarettes assaulted his nostrils.

Tables crowded the floor, overflowing with servings of booze. He weaved in and out of them, lifting his eyes now and again to scan the throng. The double doors behind the long, dark, paneled bar swung open and the portly bartender waddled through, his eyes fixed on Keith.
Good old Mischa Patlovski.
Some things never changed, unless you counted the man’s nose, which looked even more crooked than his shady policies.

Keith shook off the unease of the man’s glinting stare and prayed he wouldn’t be recognized. He reached the back of the room. Empty, except for two men trying to out-drink each other.

He squinted against the fog of cigarette smoke. No Grace. Now what?

A crash rent the air. He pivoted to face the front, tension spiking between his shoulder blades when two men shoved their way through the crowd and headed straight for him.

Cops?

He snorted. No way, baby. Cops didn’t carry submachine guns. He’d bet his lucky ace these boys were pros. Hired guns. The question was, hired by whom?

A shot splintered the ceiling above him. Screams reverberated through the air, glasses crashed to the floor and people dove for cover.

Keith certainly didn’t plan to wait and find out. Blood rushed through his veins, survival instincts kicking in. He sprinted to the men’s bathroom. The john used to have a door that led out back. He hoped to God the owners hadn’t sealed it for some reason.

He shoved the flimsy restroom door with his shoulder, crashing into the murky green tiled space. The dim fluorescent bulb overhead winked off and on in rhythm with his pounding heart. He blinked, searching past the urinals and chipped sinks, his nostrils flaring at the stench emanating from the stalls. And there, just beyond the last stall was the door.

Hot damn and hallelujah. Years of added rust caked the metal door and the doorknob was missing, but he threw his shoulder into the unyielding metal, ramming it again and again until, with a screech, it finally gave.

He dashed out into the night. The rain still pelted the pavement like small shards of ice. He scrambled across the parking lot and almost made it to the desert beyond. Almost.

The crack of metal against the brick building signaled the guns were on his tail. He pumped his legs faster, sweat beading across his lip despite the water that drenched him.

A shot whizzed past his ear.
Oh, shit.

He hit the dirt and rolled. Somewhere along the way he’d lost his hat. Raindrops sluiced over his forehead and dribbled in his eyes. He swiped at them trying to clear his blurred vision.

Deep sucking mud covered the ground. He crawled, his body slogging through the clay like a tiny Gila lizard scrambling across the vast desert.

Damn. Cacti and juniper trees dotted the landscape, but the cover they provided was minimal. Sliding along on his stomach slowed him down. If he hoped to ditch the bastards, he had no choice but to run for it.

He hopped to his feet and shot off into the night. A jagged frisson of lightning burst across the night sky. He threw a glance over his shoulder and glimpsed two shadowy figures in the temporary glow. He’d put some distance between them. But not enough.

Thunder rolled across the sky. No, not thunder. Gunfire. He checked his position with another quick toss over his shoulder. Flash bursts lit up the night like fireflies.

Too far away. His boots pounded at the mud, the tightness in his chest, easing. They’d have to do better than that to catch him. Pitiful bastards.

His right foot caught a rock and twisted, slipping in the mud, and he planted his other foot to catch himself. His feet stopped, but his body kept moving, throwing him sideways. He hit the ground and—damn it all—still didn’t stop.

His fingers tunneled through the wet earth, barely slowing him as he slid down a steep slope. His feet crashed into something solid, halting him as if he’d kissed a brick wall.

He sucked in a deep breath and shook his head to clear it.

What the hell?

Lightning zigzagged across the sky once more. He narrowed his eyes. A ravine. He’d fallen into a damn ravine. Lucky him.

He slapped at the sticky mud, clenching his teeth and emitting a low growl. So much for his big lead on the gunners.

He made a quick evaluation of his surroundings. The scraggly gorge gave him no cover. He might as well paint a target on his forehead. Nope, not gonna happen. He pushed several deep breaths up from his lungs then dragged his mud caked body off the chasm floor.

Keep moving.
The sludge sucked at his boots like quicksand. His legs ached, his chest burned. He clenched his hands and slogged through the muck. Sticks protruded from the clay like knives waiting for him to trip and poke out a damned eye.

He couldn’t hear the gunfire anymore, but edgy tension tightened his spine. They were out there. Waiting. For him to do something stupid, like pop his head up so they could take a huge chunk out of his brain.

Keith trudged on, his breath bursting from him in shallow pants, forcing his legs to move faster. The ravine walls rose higher, ominous mountains of mud, making it harder to distinguish where the ground ended and the sky began.

A low grumble rose above the rain and thunder. Not gunfire. He paused with a frown. What the hell was it?

The noise rolled through the night. Louder this time. His pulse spiked. Shit. What was that sound? It roiled closer. Like a waterfall. Or a—

He turned. An enormous wave of mud and water swelled like a giant sea beast down the middle of the ravine. Straight for him.

It was a friggin’ flash flood.

His heart skipped a beat. Or several. Oh, hell. His throat ached and made it impossible to drag in a breath. But he couldn’t let a little thing like no air in his lungs slow him down. He dashed down the middle of the gorge, praying to spot a low dip in the ravine wall.

There. About thirty feet ahead of him. Water lapped at his heels, making that thirty feet seem like a damn mile. A thick branch hung over the precipice like a rope. He lunged for it, wrapping his hands around the limb. It dipped from his weight, but held. He let out a tense breath, dangling from the branch for a moment’s rest before making fast work of climbing to the top of the mud wall. The rough bark ripped at his palms, stinging his flesh. He pushed the pain aside and pulled himself over the edge, crashing through the cluster of underbrush.

He lost his footing over the steep embankment and slid. His knees hit blacktop.

Blacktop? He blinked, wiped his eyes with the back of his hands to avoid crusting them with mud. Damn it all, he still couldn’t see.

He squinted. Sure enough, two lights winked back at him, steadily growing closer. Were those—? Clarity hit him with the force of a two by four.

Headlights. A car was headed straight for him—with no sign of stopping.

Grace pressed her foot down on the unfamiliar gas pedal. The Jeep shook as it increased speed. The dashboard clock glowed 1:00 a.m. in mocking green. She smashed her palm on the steering wheel. Stupid car. Stupid flat tire. Stupid rusty lug nuts.

A tear splashed her cheek. She wiped it away. She’d finally managed to get the tire changed with a crummy jack and wrench she’d found in the back. But it had wasted so much time.

What if Keith hadn’t waited? Without him, she’d never have the skills to track Mark and Ryker on her own. She hated to admit how much she needed him, how solid he now seemed. The recklessness of his youth was gone, replaced by a control that compelled her to know whether a heart could ‘grow up’ right along with a body. Surely not. An impressive body could still mask a hard heart, and she wouldn’t delude herself by thinking otherwise. Keith wasn’t a knight in shining armor racing to her son’s rescue; he was a man with an agenda.

The highway was deserted at this time of night. She increased the pressure on the gas pedal, desperate to make up for lost time. Her eyes widened as something darted into her lane. An animal? She flicked the high beams to life.

No. Not an animal. A person.

She shrieked and jammed on the brakes. The tires spun, hydroplaning across the slick road. Her heart stuttered, bile rising from the pit of her stomach.
Oh, no. Oh, God. Please
. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. What should she do?

Brakes. Pump the brakes. She eased her foot back on the brake pedal and pressed lightly. Eased, and pressed.

The Jeep slowed, but the figure illuminated in her headlights was still too close.
Move. Get out of the way!

She pumped the brakes faster, hoping to stop in time, but the knot in her stomach warned her of what she already knew: there wasn’t enough time. The hood of the Jeep bumped the person with a sickening thud before grinding to a halt. She threw the gear in park and jumped out without shutting off the engine.

“Oh, God. Are you okay?” She rounded the front of the Jeep at a run, praying the person was all right.

The man hunched his shoulders, his hands splaying across his ribs, and lifted his head. The beam from her headlights sliced across his face, illuminating familiar hazel eyes.

“Keith?” Her hand flew to her mouth.

He sucked in a breath and grimaced. “Where the hell have you been, Grace?”

Her heart pounded with relief. Thank God. She hadn’t lost the one man who could save her son.

She grimaced.
No, she’d just run him over with the Jeep.

“I had a flat. I couldn’t...the bolts were rusty and I...” The frantic words rushed past her lips and she made a turning motion with her hands. “It took me forever to work them loose.”

“What kind of junker did you come up with?”

“It was the best I could get on short notice. You try finding a newer four wheel drive car that—”

He doubled over, gripping his side.

Oh, God, she’d seriously hurt him.

She ran to him and touched his shoulder. “I’m so sorry. Let me see. Are you okay?”

He jerked his head in a terse nod. “We’ve got to get moving.” He shrugged her hand off and hobbled to the passenger side of the Jeep. “People are after us. I managed to lose them for now.”

She hurried after him. “Us? What do you mean,
us
?”

He yanked open the door and hopped inside. She hurried around the Jeep and followed suit.

“If you want my help with your son then we’re no longer a you and me. From now on, we’re an us.”

Us.
A shiver traveled the length of her spine over that tiny two-letter word. She fumbled for a suitable reply; a cutting remark that would clearly draw the boundary between them. To think of her and the man she’d hated for years as an ‘us’ in any way, shape or form, was ludicrous, laughable—and incredibly wrong.

She swallowed.
Say something!
Her eyes clashed with Keith’s solemn ones in the weak glow of the dome light. A muscle pulsed along his jaw, his lips tightened into a hard, thin line. The silence crackled between them, tense and electrically charged.

Grace held Keith’s stare until the heater kicked in and blasted warm air over her chilled body, forcing another shiver out of her. She pressed her dry lips together and clicked her seatbelt into place. “Us it is.”

She threw the Jeep in drive and refused to wonder if those three little words would come back to haunt her.

Chapter Three

He’d earned the nickname “The Keeper” because he was the warden of many things. Drugs, weapons, people, a host of secrets ripe for the selling, heck, you name it he’d done it. He loved having the upper hand. For the last ten years he’d been orchestrating deals and driving others to do his bidding from the comfort of his position as one of the United States Army’s elite. And the government had been none the wiser.