Baggage Claim (Tru Exceptions - Christian Romantic Suspense Book 1) (6 page)

"Dawson," she breathed softly. "If you kiss me again, I'll save the terrorists the trouble and kill you myself."

Dawson's eyes flew wide with shock, severing their connection and ending the intimate moment.

"I'm sorry for being so blunt, Dawson," Rachel continued, making her voice sound sweet and genuinely contrite. "But, I'm only telling you this for your own protection."

Dawson's blue eyes lit with humor. He threw his head back and laughed. But before he could collect himself enough to speak, his phone beeped.

His laughter stopped abruptly, a serious mask replacing the gorgeous smile, dimples, and sparkling eyes.

"Tell me what you have," Dawson said into the phone, not bothering with any formalities.

Dawson listened for about thirty seconds.

"Okay, got it. We'll be there." He disconnected the call.

"What's going on?" Rachel asked anxiously.

"We have a plan," Dawson reported. "They've figured out early on that the bomb uses a cell phone detonation. They located the phone number and were able to hack in and disable the tracking initially. Unfortunately, the terrorists are doing their best to maintain control, and our resident hackers are still having trouble with the encryption for the detonator. They say they're very close though, and, once they get it, the bomb won't be able to be activated remotely. It will be safe to be transported to a secure location where it can be completely disassembled."

"So, what's the plan? Are they going to come get us?"

"No. As I said, they're close, but they haven't deactivated it yet. We have to buy a little more time and get in position. We're supposed to make our way down to the dock." Dawson gestured back the way they'd come from the nightclub. "It's not very far--within walking distance. Hopefully, we'll time it right so that, when the bomb is neutralized, we'll be met by other agents there at the dock. They'll take possession of the bomb and transport it out of Manhattan."

Dawson stood from the bench, as if ready to get going immediately.

"But how are we going to get from here to the dock?" Rachel asked, feeling a fresh wave of fear wash over her. "If we go that direction, we'll have to pass by the nightclub again. The terrorists are still going to be looking for us."

"Come on," Dawson said, not answering her question. Instead, he gently grasped her elbow and propelled her along beside him as he walked rapidly through the shadows, retracing their steps back the way they had come. They hadn't walked far before Dawson stopped in front of a door.

He turned to Rachel, saying, "They will be looking for people who LOOK like us, but they won't be looking for us."

A bell over the door jingled as Dawson pulled it open. Rachel followed him inside and looked around, trying to figure out where they were and what they were doing here. Dawson wasted no time in moving around the shop, quickly grabbing merchandise seemingly at random.

Rachel felt her eyes grow wide and her mouth gape open. She had never been in a shop like this before. After shuffling through terms from her somewhat limited, sheltered Montana experience, she finally mentally categorized it as an 'adult novelty shop.'

Coming to her senses, Rachel stopped gawking and took off after Dawson.

"Dawson…? Dawson!" She followed on his heels, urgently trying to get his attention, to ask him why they were here. What could he possibly need right now from a shop like this?

She felt her face blushing. Being in a shop like this made her feel very naive and embarrassed. Part of her didn't want to look around, inspect, or even know what 'novelties' the shop boasted. But, despite the strong urge to put her hands over her eyes, she also had an insane curiosity. She was observant enough to realize the shop's merchandise wasn't all of the 'adult' variety. Souvenirs, apparel, and other items catering to tourists were also displayed.

Finally, Dawson turned to Rachel and pushed a large pile of clothes and other items into her arms.

"There's a changing room back there," he said, pointing to the rear of the store. "Go change into these clothes."

The item on the top of the pile was a red wig.

A disguise! Everything suddenly clicked together and made sense. That's how they were going to get to the dock without being recognized.

Dawson didn't wait for Rachel's response, but immediately set off searching for what Rachel assumed would be his own disguise.

She obediently found the little closet they called the fitting room and drew the curtain behind her. It would be so nice to have clothes on that didn't reek of smoke! She only wished she could also get a shower!

She quickly removed her smoke saturated shirt and pulled on the shirt Dawson had given her.

That was strange. It was a classic white 'I Love New York' shirt, but Dawson must have grabbed the wrong size. It was really short and tight, hitting her mid-torso.

Wondering if Dawson's other picks were equally small, she looked through the rest of the pile.

Skirt: short, black, tiny. Though slender, Rachel was tall. She wasn't sure that skirt would fully cover her rear-end.

Black fishnet stockings. Did anyone nowadays wear those things outside of a Broadway musical?

Black boots: ridiculously high-heeled and tall. They looked like the tops would extend at least to her knees.

And, of course, the wig: bright red with long, wavy tresses.

 As she shook out the wig, a makeup kit fell to the floor. The colors were very bold and bright. Normally, she would never willingly use these colors unless she had to dress as a clown for a little kid's birthday.

With everything spread on the floor around her, the light bulb went off in her head, and she realized what it all meant. Shock was quickly followed by red hot anger. Dawson expected her to dress as a hooker.

After sitting on the floor of the fitting room and fuming for several minutes, Rachel's reason prevailed. She jerked on the offensive clothes and slathered on the makeup. As much as she would like to, she couldn't even give Dawson a much deserved tongue-lashing right now. The top priority was getting to the dock safely so they could get the bomb out of their possession and off the island of Manhattan. If she had to dress like a hooker to get that done, she would sacrifice her pride and do it with gusto. She wasn't going to waste precious time arguing with Dawson over his taste in disguises. She may not have a choice at the moment, but that in no way meant the man would escape completely unscathed. She would just have to postpone his punishment.

Clothes on, makeup applied, Rachel finally turned to the wig. Her own blond hair now hung in tangles and mats instead of its usual waves. Gathering it together and fastening it with a few pins included with the wig, she then secured the red mane.

Her ensemble complete, Rachel looked at herself in the mirror and grimaced. Her makeup was heavy, but not grotesque. The bright red lipstick made her pale skin appear almost porcelain, and the red wig stood out like fire. The tight clothes hugged her body, accentuating her long legs and curvy figure.

Rachel felt very self-conscious, especially about her bare abdomen. She wasn't used to exposing her belly button for all to see. She was about as far out of her comfort zone as she could get. Despite her insecurities, Rachel had to admit that, to the casual observer, she probably made a great-looking hooker. Almost too good. Dang that Dawson Tate!

Turning back to gather her stinky clothes, Rachel saw the gun lying on the floor. What was she supposed to do with that? Dawson had insisted she keep it, but it wasn't as if she could hide it under her shirt anymore. Her current disguise allowed no spare inch to hide anything on her person, much less a gun. Turning around the little room, she spotted a black purse on the floor. Dawson must have included it with the other things. She just hadn't noticed it before now. It was small, but the 9mm fit inside perfectly. If she didn't know better, she might accuse Dawson of being very thorough and almost thoughtful. But she definitely knew better. The jerk!

Rachel shoved aside the curtain and stepped out of the changing room.

Dawson was waiting. His eyes flew wide as he very conspicuously looked her over from top to bottom.

"Wow!" he said. "You look…"

"I didn't realize this was your type, Dawson," Rachel interrupted.

"It normally isn't. But, Montana, you are hot!

"I'd take that as a compliment if I wasn't currently dressed as a prostitute!" Rachel pinned him with an accusing glare.

Dawson grinned. "I wasn't even sure you'd put the clothes on."

"I didn't think I had a choice," Rachel replied. "Don't worry, though. I fully intend to get back at you for making me wear this."

"Hey, you're not alone here, I'm not exactly dressed as a missionary either."

"No, you aren't. I think my cornea has been damaged from just trying to look at you in that suit."

Saying the suit was brightly colored was an understatement. Its brilliant lime green color was so intense, it seemed to exude its own glow. As if the suit wasn't bad enough, his head was topped with a matching lime green hat. Rachel had no idea why such an atrocious suit would even be manufactured let alone why someone would buy it, even as a disguise. She understood that she was dressed as a hooker, but what exactly was Dawson supposed to be? Then it suddenly hit her.

"Are you… Are you my pimp?"

Dawson's teeth flashed white in a grin. "Rachel, it's only pretend."

"You are!" Rachel's whisper was still a shriek. "Dawson this is ridiculous!

Dawson shrugged, ignoring her ire. "Come on, let's get going. You'll have to leave your old clothes here. We can't carry them. I've already paid for everything else."

Knowing she needed to put aside her fury at least for now, Rachel dutifully stuck her clothes in the black garbage sack Dawson handed her. She couldn't say she was heartbroken about forever abandoning her smoke damaged clothes.

Sticking the sack behind the counter, Dawson started for the door, pulling the ever-present suitcase behind him.

"Wait, Dawson!" Rachel said, putting her hand on his elbow to stop him. The clerk was across the shop not even looking their direction, but she lowered her voice to a whisper anyway. "That suitcase is a dead giveaway. Even with the best disguises, they'll know it's us as soon as they see that suitcase."

"Lots of people carry suitcases like this around," he objected.

Rachel raised her eyebrows.

"Fine," Dawson said, grabbing a can off a nearby shelf.

Before Rachel could say a word, he was spraying haphazard lines of neon blue paint all over the suitcase.

 "There," Dawson said, finishing and placing the can back on the shelf. "Now maybe it won't be quite as recognizable."

"That's my suitcase! Rachel protested in shock.

"No, it's not," Dawson retorted, his intense whisper not reaching beyond Rachel's ears. "This suitcase and its contents are now the property of the U.S. government."

Rachel opened her mouth to argue, but let it snap shut instead. She had nothing to say. Realistically, after everything that had happened, she wouldn't want it back even if she was given the chance.

Leaning past Dawson, Rachel reached for the can of paint. She aimed at the suitcase and sprayed a few more of the neon streaks into the material, completing their modern art masterpiece.

"There, that's better," she said, tossing the empty can into a nearby trash bin.

"Alright then," Dawson said. Turning back to the clerk, he waved and called across the shop, "Sorry about the smell!"

"Hey, no problem," the clerk replied cheerfully.

Rachel didn't know how much Dawson had paid. The tags on her new clothes and accessories had never been scanned or even glanced at by the clerk. But, judging by the happy smile from the satisfied clerk, the payment had been enough to cover their disguises, the can of paint, and the unpleasant aroma of said spray paint used indoors.

Once outdoors, Dawson put one arm around Rachel and pulled her close. "Okay, Rachel, now you have to play the part. Stick close. We've got to take this a little slow. We don't want to attract any attention by trying to set a speed record."

They set off sauntering westward down the street with Rachel obediently staying nestled under his arm.

"How are we supposed to be inconspicuous when we're dressed like this? Rachel grumbled.

"Sometimes the best way to hide is to be the most visible," Dawson responded. "They certainly aren't going to be looking for two people dressed as we are. They'll be watching for a couple trying to keep to the shadows and blend into the crowd. We are way too flashy and obvious. They won't even take the time to consider us. Besides, in this part of town and at this time of night, we'll fit right in."

Rachel was still doubtful, her anger still seething under the surface. It must have shown.

"Come on, Rachel. It's not like I did this on purpose. I didn't have a choice either. I had to work with what we had on hand. We're almost done with this. You can have the rest of your New York vacation and then head back to home-sweet-home. You can manage to be uncomfortable and dressed like a knock-out hooker for a few blocks until we get rid of this thing. This will work. I know it will. Trust me."

Rachel blew out all the air in her lungs with one big whoosh. "Okay," she relented.

"Good girl. Now we need just one more Oscar-worthy performance, Montana. Pull on your best hooker persona and act like you like me--a lot."

Rachel obediently wrapped her arms around him as they walked.

Every once in a while she'd stand on her tiptoes, press herself close to his side, and whispered sultrily in his ear things like, "You're still a jerk," and, "I'm going to get you back for this."

His eyes were constantly moving, watching for signs of danger, but, for the most part, Dawson played his part cool and in control. She was his possession.

At one point, though, after one of her whispered endearments, he grabbed her close and whispered back. "Careful, Montana, or I just might decide to take the risk and kiss that orneriness right out of you."

She was just choosing what whispered sweet-nothings to challenge him with, when she felt a hand grab her right arm and pull her roughly out of Dawson's hold.

She was suddenly face to face with a large man with bad body odor and equally stinky breath. The light from the streetlights showed him to be fortyish with the face of a thug, but he was surprisingly well-dressed in a polo shirt. Unfortunately, he smelled as if he had already ingested at least one bar's entire stock of whiskey.

"How much for this pretty woman?" he asked, running his rough finger down Rachel's cheek.

Before he even finished his sentence, Rachel was jerked roughly out of the thug's hold and back into Dawson's arms.

"Sorry, dude," Dawson said calmly. "This one isn't available. Tonight she's mine."

"Come on, man," the thug replied. "Have a little love. I won't take her long. There's a place I know right around the corner. Then you can have her back. Just tell me how much."

Two other men behind the thug, apparently his friends, made similar comments showing their support of his plea.

"Sorry," Dawson reiterated. "The answer is no."

Still holding Rachel possessively, Dawson turned to continue on their way.

The man grabbed Dawson's arm, obviously becoming increasingly agitated and angry. "Come on, dude. Let the whore do her job."

Unbuttoning his suit jacket, Dawson replied, his voice deadly calm, "I think you and your friends better move on and find some other entertainment tonight." Slowly, he moved his jacket aside to reveal the gun at his waist.

Instantly, having a chang.e of heart, the man put up his hands and backed away, saying, "Hey, sure, man, I didn't mean anything."

Grumbling, his friends followed suit, backing away before turning to leave.

Rachel hadn't realized how scared she had been until the man left. Then she fell limp against Dawson's side. Supporting her weight, Dawson turned and continued walking west toward the dock.

Rachel was still trying to find her voice to thank Dawson, when he spoke first, "Now I know you could have taken care of those thugs yourself, Montana, but thanks for letting me handle it. It helps a guy's ego if he gets to come to a lady's rescue every once in a while.

"Thank you, Dawson," Rachel said seriously.

"Stay close." he said. "We may not be out of the woods yet. You make way too hot of a prostitute."

Rachel tried to resume her play-acting, but it was difficult. Her senses were on high alert now for two kinds of enemies. Her eyes darted to and fro, searching for both terrorists and men who might be appreciating her a little too much. She had no idea what either of the enemies should look like, but that didn't stop the adrenaline from pouring through her and putting her body on high alert.

At one point, Dawson stopped, backed up against the wall of a building, and pulled her against him. Though he gave no word of explanation and didn't attempt to kiss her, to a passing observer, it would appear as if they were sharing an intimate moment. Rachel was facing Dawson with her back to the street and passing people, but she watched as Dawson's eyes seemed to be following someone. Finally satisfied that the danger had passed, Dawson stepped away from the building and pulled Rachel back down the sidewalk.

Dawson had been right about them blending in even with their outrageous disguises. It seemed like, in at least this part of town, any attire was acceptable. There were fashion examples on every end of the spectrum, many get-ups bordering on the ridiculous. And the people were as diverse as the fashion. There were hookers, street performers, workers, partiers, gang members, men in business suits, and even a preacher. The hour had to be getting late, and yet the sidewalks were packed. There was no sign that the nightlife was going to be winding down anytime soon either.

For the most part, Dawson and Rachel went unnoticed. The only attention they got was from prostitutes who hated Rachel on site, sending evil glares her direction, and from men whose eyes raked over her hungrily. She felt like a high quality cut of steak. A few times, Rachel saw men plot intercept courses, but Dawson shook his head, giving them a negative answer before they even asked. With his fierce look and possessive stance, they seemed to get the message and tried to pass it off as if they had never intended on making a proposition in the first place.

Rachel saw a strip of space devoid of lights up ahead. Assuming that the black abyss was water, Rachel realized they must finally be getting close to the dock. Dawson had said it wasn't far, but, whether due to danger and fear more than actual time, this walk had certainly seemed endless. But while she was wanting to pick up the pace now that their destination was in sight, Dawson seemed to hang back, his steps slowing.

"Is this the dock where we're supposed to meet?" Rachel asked impatiently. "What's wrong? What are we waiting for?