Exit Strategy (3 page)

“Then you
weren’t
able to get the information?”

“No, I mean, yes, we did. Just not everything we were hoping for. We wanted to retrieve all of the EXIT orders from the past—­”

“But you got the intel on Sabrina Hightower?” he interrupted.

“Yes. Ramsey dropped it off at the cabin. It’s the only useful info we got before a security program closed the firewall again. Or something like that. I’m not the computer whiz. We probably won’t be able to get back in again, and will have to physically break into an EXIT facility and go for the backups, maybe even paper files. Those won’t be as protected because—­”

“Enough.” He tightened his arms around Sabrina. “What did you find out about Sabrina?”

She smiled, not at all put off by his rude interruptions. “You did the right thing, Mason. She’s innocent.”

Innocent. One little word with so much power—­the power to save Sabrina, the power to destroy Mason. His entire world was tilting on its axis. Everything was about to change—­if the information was legit, something he had to confirm for himself. He’d been loyal to EXIT for six years. Turning traitor didn’t sit well with him, not unless there was a solid reason to do so.

“Where is it? This so-­called proof?”

“Still at the cabin. We stopped—­”

“Headlights,” Buchanan announced. “On the hill a quarter mile back. Let’s go.”

Mason glanced down the road. Whoever was behind them was coming up fast, far above the speed limit. Not a good sign. He hopped into the Hummer and settled Sabrina onto the seat beside him before slamming his door shut.

As soon as Emily’s door was closed, her husband floored the gas and the Hummer barreled down the two-­lane highway.

“Would you fasten Sabrina’s seat belt please? And yours?” Emily asked.

He vaguely wondered if she was always this polite as he secured Sabrina. Emily glanced pointedly at his unbuckled seat belt. He had no intention of putting it on. Let her think he was being stubborn. Better that than to admit the real reason: that being restrained in any way would make him bat-­shit crazy. Just the thought of being strapped down had phantom pain shooting through the ridged scars on his back and shadows of memories threatening to overcome him.

Wires crisscrossing over his back held him to the cot, biting into his skin. Sand and grit mixed with blood, setting his open wounds on fire. Mason watched as the Jackal smiled like an old friend, dipped his hand into his cup, and let the salt water dribble onto Mason’s skin, stinging like the bite of a hundred fire ants, burrowing through his flesh.

No!

He shook his head, ruthlessly forcing the memories back into the dark pit from where they’d come. Wear a seat belt? Not in this lifetime. He crossed his arms and defiantly returned Emily’s stare.

She sighed and held out a white cloth as she flicked the dome light on overhead. “For the wound on her arm. She’s very pale. Looks like she’s lost a lot of blood. She can’t afford to lose much more.”

Sabrina’s head had fallen against his shoulder. She
was
much paler than when he’d first seen her. Blood oozed from the deep cut on her arm, which must have happened as a result of the breaking glass he’d heard upstairs when he went into the house. There were dozens of other, shallower cuts on her arms and legs that hadn’t been there when he’d first seen her. Since he’d been careful to keep the branches from brushing against her as he’d carried her through the woods, he could only assume she’d gotten those cuts while running from him. Had he really frightened her so badly that she’d run blindly through the underbrush, hurting herself?

“Mason?” Emily’s voice was soft but insistent.

He hesitated, wary of touching the strangely appealing woman beside him again. He needed his wits about him right now, and touching her seemed to scatter his brain cells faster than a hurricane could rip the roof off a building.

“Just press the damn towel against her arm,” Buchanan interjected. “It’s not that difficult.”

Mason didn’t care one bit for Buchanan’s tone. But he didn’t bother arguing. Taking care of Sabrina was his primary concern right now. He nodded his thanks to Emily and took the cloth, then tied it tightly around Sabrina’s upper arm, careful not to let his fingers linger against her ridiculously soft skin.

Headlights flashed through the rear window. An engine roared behind them.

“That’s not a tourist behind us, ladies and gentlemen. We’ve got company.” Buchanan switched the dome light off.

Emily grabbed binoculars from the console.

Mason plucked them from her hand, ignoring her aggravated look, and swiveled around. “Huh. Haven’t seen
him
around in a while.”

“Who?” Emily asked.

“Another enforcer. I’ve only met him a ­couple of times. Mean son of a bitch. I think he calls himself Ace.”

“Oh no.” Her words left her in an anguished whisper.

Mason glanced back and saw some kind of silent communication pass between her and her husband. Obviously they’d had some kind of run-­in with Ace before. Were the rumors true, then? Was Ace one of the enforcers Buchanan had allegedly tangled with when he’d gone rogue and turned against EXIT?

Rat-­a-­tat-­tat.
The sound of semiautomatic gunfire punctuated the night as bullets pinged off the body of the Hummer. The rear window exploded in a hail of glass.

Mason ducked down and unclipped Sabrina’s seat belt before shoving her to the floorboard.

“Did you bring my bags from the cabin like I asked?”

“In the back,” Emily said.

He reached over the seat and grabbed the one with his ammo and clothing, his go-­bag, always ready for a quick getaway. He pulled out the small, lightweight Kevlar vest that he’d brought after Ramsey first contacted him, and tossed it on top of Sabrina before reaching for his other bag, the one with his crossbow. He could have used his Glock or the Sig Sauer P938 holstered on his ankle but firing a gun inside the confines of the Hummer would be too loud, so his crossbow was their best option.

“Get down!” Emily leaned over her seat with a .357 Magnum and fired several rounds toward the car behind them. Ear-­splitting booms filled the Hummer, leaving both men glaring at her.

Mason jerked the gun out of her hand. His hearing would probably never be the same. She gave him a sheepish look and turned around in her seat.

The headlights behind them had swerved and dropped back but were still following them.

“Hang on, everybody. It’s about to get bumpy.” Buchanan switched the headlights off, plunging the road ahead into darkness. He flipped his night vision goggles down from the top of his head and jerked the wheel, taking the car off road down a steep hill.

There didn’t seem to be any plan to Buchanan’s twists and turns through the tree cover beside the road other than to try to lose Ace—­who was still hugging their trail a hundred yards back, probably guided by the brake lights every time Buchanan was forced to tap them.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Mason shouted to be heard over the scrape of tree branches against the sides of the car.

“How’d you guess?” Buchanan threw back the sarcastic remark, then swerved to avoid something.

“You might as well use the headlights so I can help guide you through this mess,” Mason said. “He’s following your brake lights anyway.”

Buchanan flipped on the lights and tossed his binoculars onto the console.

“Turn there, after that next stand of oak trees.” Mason pointed up ahead.

“You sure?”

“I’ve lived here my whole life. These foothills were my playground.”

Buchanan immediately slowed for the turn, then accelerated around the thick trees. The ground smoothed out and he was able to pick up some speed.

“Hard right,” Mason yelled.

The Hummer took the abrupt turn on two wheels, then plopped back down, kicking up dirt as it dipped down an incline. Buchanan wrestled for control, then gave Mason a crisp nod. “Good call. We haven’t lost him, but we’ve got a good lead now.”

“Not enough. We’ll run out of navigable woods soon and have to hit the highway. His car is faster than this tank. We won’t even make it to the cabin before he overtakes us. And we’ve got the women to worry about.”

Emily waved her gun. “Um, hello. Not exactly helpless here, guys.”

“Sabrina is,” Mason reminded her. “Pull over. I’ll buy us some time.” He slung his quiver of arrows over his shoulder and grabbed his crossbow. He still had his guns too, if he needed them. And a knife in his boot. But he preferred the crossbow for a situation like this. The intimidation factor of a lethal crossbow pointed in someone’s face could turn the bravest enemy into a sniveling coward.

The car didn’t slow. Buchanan’s mouth was set in a firm, hard line.

Mason met his gaze in the rearview mirror. “I trusted you two this far. Trust me on this.”

“If anyone goes after Ace, it’s going to be me,” Buchanan said. “I owe him payback, big time. He nearly killed my father, and sent my little brother to a burn unit. He’s mine.”

Buchanan’s anguish struck a chord with Mason. He was intimately familiar with that deep-­seated desire for vengeance against someone who’d gutted your soul and left a wound that could never heal. But he also knew that keeping a tight rein on that need for revenge was the only way to survive when emotions ran hot. So, instead of trying to talk Buchanan out of his justified rage, he appealed to a completely different set of emotions, using Buchanan’s one obvious weakness against him. His love for Emily.

“You’re going to leave your wife with me then? You trust
me
that much?” Mason challenged, already knowing the answer in the tensing of Buchanan’s shoulders. Buchanan didn’t have any intention of leaving his precious cargo in the hands of an enforcer, even if they were supposedly on the same side now.

“All right. You made your point. Hang on, Em.”

She pulled her seat belt tighter and grabbed the armrest. Mason braced himself against the seat in front of him.

Buchanan slammed the brakes. The Hummer skidded sideways and stopped just inches from another large oak tree.

Mason checked Sabrina. She was still out cold, but appeared to be okay. He hopped out of the Hummer and slammed the door. “Keep going south for another quarter mile, then head due west about three hundred yards. That’ll get you to the parkway. I’ll hike the rest of the way to the cabin and meet you there after I take care of Ace.”

Buchanan still looked like he wanted to argue, but headlights flashed over the rise behind them. He glanced at his wife, as if to remind himself of what was most important, then he maneuvered the Hummer around the oak tree and floored the accelerator, rocks and dirt spitting up from beneath the tires.

Mason rested the end of his bow on the ground and cocked the string back into the firing position. Then he hefted up the bow, notched the arrow into place, and waited for his prey.

Chapter Three

Day Two—­12:00 a.m.

M
ason sprinted through the woods, arms and legs pumping. He leaped over a fallen tree and skirted around a boggy patch of ground more lethal than quicksand. Barely visible through a break in the trees off to Mason’s right, Ace gunned the Chevy. The engine whined in protest as it chugged up an incline.

Headlights danced crazily through the bushes, illuminating an upcoming sharp curve that Mason knew would force Ace to slow down yet again. Mason pushed harder, faster, cutting across a ditch, back toward the car. With seconds to spare, he reached the turn ahead of Ace and hid behind a tree. Chest heaving as he drew deep breaths, he pointed his crossbow up at the sky and edged out just enough to watch the approaching headlights.

Closer, closer, almost there.
Now!

He leaped in front of the car, dropped to his knees, and aimed the crossbow directly at the driver.

The car’s brakes locked up. It skidded sideways, hop-­skipping to a halt as the tires slid, then held. Before the Chevy stopped bouncing on its springs, Mason was at the driver’s side window, pointing the business end of the bow directly at Ace’s head.

Ace blanched and slowly raised his hands from the steering wheel.

Feigning surprise, Mason frowned, as if he hadn’t known that Ace was the one driving. He’d decided to play this very carefully, to keep up the pretext that nothing had changed, that he was still a loyal EXIT enforcer. After all, if the proof Buchanan had promised turned out to be bogus, Mason fully intended to go back to his life the way it had been. But that was only possible if he could convince Ace that he hadn’t gone rogue, that he wasn’t a threat to EXIT or the very ­people he was supposed to be saving. Because going rogue meant putting a target on his back, with every enforcer in the company gunning for him—­not exactly the type of future he wanted.

“Lower the window,” Mason ordered.

Ace complied then put both hands back in the air. “Point that thing somewhere else, Mason.”

He kept the bow steady, his finger resting on the side of the trigger. “Not until you explain why you were shooting at me out on the parkway. And why you’re following me now.”

Ace’s jaw tightened. “I’m just doing my job. You’re the one who went off-­mission and didn’t call in. Miss Hightower should have been dead hours ago.”

“Things happen. Missions get delayed. Are you telling me our boss sent you to terminate me,
because I’m late making a phone call
?” It was a legitimate question. Cyprian might send an enforcer to check on him, to
help
him if things had gone wrong. But it was unlikely he’d immediately assume the worst and declare war on Mason—­not without some other reason.

Ace looked away, as if dismissing him.

Mason tapped the crossbow, regaining his attention. “Meet my lie detector. Unless you can duck faster than four hundred feet per second, you’d better tell the truth. Who sent you after me tonight?”

Ace’s face reddened as if he were struggling to control his temper. But after another glance at the bow, he said, “EXIT. They sent me to check on you.”

“Who specifically? Cyprian?”

He shook his head. “Bishop, Cyprian’s assistant. What difference does that make?”

Probably none. Mason had heard of Bishop—­Cyprian’s replacement for Kelly who’d been killed a few months ago—­allegedly by Buchanan. But he’d yet to meet Bishop. As a new assistant it was unlikely the man would make unilateral decisions about something as critical as a mission. Which meant that Cyprian personally knew that Mason’s mission had encountered some kind of problem. But could he have known about Buchanan contacting Ramsey, and then contacting Mason?

He motioned with the crossbow. “Keep talking. I’m still waiting for that explanation.”

Ace’s eyes flashed with anger. “I saw your tracks behind the Hightower house,” he snapped. “I figured your mark got away and you were chasing her through the woods. I drove behind the property and waited, thinking to
help
you. Then Hightower ran to the road, very much alive, and you put her in that Hummer and rode off with her instead of taking care of business. I knew Cyprian wouldn’t want her to get away so I made an executive decision.” His gaze fell and he lowered his hands to the steering wheel, one small act of defiance to let Mason know he couldn’t completely control him.

The “executive decision” claim didn’t ring true. One of Cyprian’s few, written-­in-­granite rules was that enforcers couldn’t kill other enforcers except in self-­defense, or if an enforcer had been declared rogue. So, what was Ace’s reason for firing at the Hummer? If any tourists had been on that parkway and heard the shots they would have called the police. Cyprian would be furious—­to put it mildly—­if any enforcers attracted the attention of law enforcement by doing something so blatant. No, something else was going on here. And unless Mason was totally misreading Ace’s body language, the motive behind tonight’s shooting rested squarely with Ace.

Mason studied him. With his short dark hair and tall, muscular build, Ace could almost pass for Buchanan—­except for the eyes. Ace’s were darker, almost black. If eyes were the windows to the soul, then this man’s soul was an empty, dark crevasse. And right now, judging by the whitening of Ace’s knuckles against the steering wheel, that crevasse was filled with hate and anger.

Why? Or, at least, why tonight? Mason tried to picture what Ace would have seen on the parkway. He’d probably parked his car back in the trees down the road but he must have had some high-­powered binoculars. With the Hummer’s headlights on, and the full moon, he should have been able to see fairly well. But when Sabrina collapsed into Mason’s arms, could Ace have realized he’d only drugged her, instead of killing her? Doubtful. Mason could just as easily have given Sabrina a lethal dose of some toxin instead of putting her to sleep. Then what else could Ace have seen? What could have upset him so much that he’d reacted the way he had? Besides Mason, Sabrina, and the Hummer, there was just . . .
the Buchanans
. Of course. That was it.

If Ace realized the ­people driving the Hummer were the Buchanans, and not just some low-­life thugs Mason had hired to help him out with the mission, then Mason’s pretext of still being a loyal EXIT enforcer was blown all to hell. “Why didn’t you ask me who was driving the Hummer?”

Ace’s obsidian gaze bored into him. “What?”

“You said you saw me put Sabrina in the Hummer and
ride
away with her, not
drive
away. Why didn’t you ask who was driving?”

Ace smirked, his mouth twisting savagely. His earlier mask dropped away and he was no longer even trying to hide his contempt. “Since when is she
Sabrina
instead of Miss Hightower? Is that something
Buchanan
taught you?” He spit out the name like it was a bitter poison he was trying to get out of his system. “To get cozy with your marks? To
care
about them? If you’re going to kill me, hurry up and do it. But don’t expect any more
explanations
. I’m done talking.”

Mason tightened his hands around his bow, weighing his options. Killing Ace was the sensible thing to do. It would buy Mason some time until he reached the cabin and got the information about Sabrina. But killing Ace only made sense
if
the Buchanans were right,
if
Sabrina was truly innocent,
if
EXIT was
purposely
falsifying EXIT orders and hadn’t just made some kind of horrible mistake with Sabrina’s order, and
if
Ace was in on all of this and knew about EXIT’s deceit.

Those were a lot of “ifs” to consider when deciding whether to take a man’s life. What if the Buchanans were wrong? What if Sabrina was everything her order claimed her to be?

Then killing Ace—­even if he deserved it for the stunt he’d pulled back on the parkway—­would be wrong, plain and simple. Mason wasn’t judge and jury. That role belonged to EXIT’s governing Council and to Cyprian. It was Mason’s job to carry out their verdict, to protect others who would pay the ultimate price if he didn’t act. The line between being a tool of justice and becoming a vigilante might sometimes be thin, but he’d always prided himself on carefully making that distinction with every action that he took. Tonight was no exception.

But even if that weren’t the case, he couldn’t help empathizing with Ace to some degree. The man fervently
believed
Buchanan had betrayed him. Rumors were that Ace had loved Kelly, and that Buchanan had killed her. And even though Kelly had left Ace for someone else—­Cyprian, if the grapevine was to be believed—­Ace still had a close friendship with her and despised Buchanan for his alleged role in her death.

His thirst for revenge had consumed him and caused him to make foolish decisions—­like shooting at the Hummer. Mason too had been driven by a similar thirst for vengeance, after the other soldiers in his unit had been massacred by the Jackal, and the army wouldn’t go after their killer because of political concerns.

If it hadn’t been for EXIT recruiting him after he’d quit the army, he wouldn’t have survived the grief and bitterness that had sucked him into a black hole for months. His EXIT mentors and trainers had taught him that if he couldn’t have justice for his men, and himself, then at least he could seek justice for others. He was one of the lucky ones. He’d learned to redirect his frustrations and had come out the other side with a new sense of purpose. Ace was still caught in the throes of darkness.

He lowered his crossbow to his side. “Go on. Get out of here. If you come after me again, next time I’ll do my talking with a gun.” He lifted the bow. “Or this.”

The glare Ace gave him as he drove away left little doubt that Mason had just made a powerful enemy. As soon as the car was out of sight, Mason took off running, using his knowledge of the area and the constellations overhead to guide him on the shortest route to the cabin. He couldn’t afford to waste any time, not with Ace sniffing after them like a great white shark scenting blood in the water. And once Ace told Cyprian that Mason was working with the Buchanans, Cyprian would likely declare Mason “rogue.” Any enforcers in the area would be told to kill him on sight. This little section of the Blue Ridge Mountains had just become the most dangerous spot in the Carolinas.

S
ABRINA’S EY
ES FLUTTERED
open and she blinked at the dark ceiling above her bed. It looked different, somehow. Alien, not what she was used to seeing when she woke up. Was she even awake? Everything seemed . . . off.

Her thoughts were sluggish, rolling around inside her head, bumping against each other, then floating away, unable to form a cohesive picture.

Her tongue felt thick, her mouth dry as she tried to make sense of her surroundings. The room was dark, but she could still see the lone window on the far wall, and the silhouettes of furniture—­a small nightstand, a rocking chair in the corner, a chest of drawers. Typical furniture for a bedroom.

But none of it was hers.

Panic jolted the fog from her mind, snapping everything into place: the break-­in at her house, being carried into the woods, fleeing to the parkway and asking strangers for help—­strangers who’d done nothing to stop her abductor from drugging her. They’d probably been in league with him all along. And then he must have brought her here. But where was
here
?

She tried to sit up, but all she managed to do was lift a few inches before collapsing against the mattress. Something was holding her down. She raised her head, her eyes widening at the thin rope crisscrossing beneath her breasts, over her hips, her legs. Instead of one of the nightshirts she normally wore to bed, she was dressed in jeans, tennis shoes, and a dark, oddly thick, button-­up shirt with a high neckline. Not her clothes. Not her room.

The fog lowered again, scattering her thoughts. Tired. She was so tired. Her lashes fluttered closed.
No.
She forced her heavy lids open.
Wake up, Sabrina. Fight the drugs. You have to figure out a way to escape
.

She strained against the rope. Sharp pain radiated up her right arm. She sucked in a breath and squinted down at her body again. The silver flash of duct tape shined around her wrists, imprisoning them against her belly. A stark white bandage covered the cut on her right upper arm. She supposed that was a good sign. If her captor wanted her dead, he wouldn’t have worried about her injury, would he?

The sound of muted voices had her turning her head on the pillow. The door to the bedroom was slightly ajar, giving her a limited view of another room. Without her glasses, she couldn’t see much detail beyond the confines of the bedroom, but she could tell there were three ­people standing by a high-­top table—­two men and a woman. And there was no mistaking the guns each of them wore holstered at their sides.

One of the men turned her way, his dark brown, wavy hair brushing the tops of his broad shoulders.
Tall-­Dark-­and-­Deadly.
He started toward her door. The woman hurried after him.

No! It was too soon. She hadn’t figured out a way to escape yet!

Sabrina fought down her panic and did the only thing she could for now. She closed her eyes and regulated her breathing, pretending to be asleep just as they reached the door.

M
ASON HALTED BESIDE
the bed, with Emily hovering by his side, watching him like a mother hen over her chick. He observed Sabrina’s breathing. Was it too shallow? He’d expected her to be awake by the time he made it to the cabin and was alarmed when Emily had told him she was still asleep. Had he drugged her too deeply?

He wrapped his fingers around one of her slender wrists, checking her pulse. Relief eased some of the tension in his shoulders. Her pulse was strong. And fast. Much faster than he’d expect if she were sleeping. Her eyes were closed, but she was either in the process of waking, or was already awake, feigning sleep. He dropped his hand to his side as he noted what she was wearing and the bandage on her arm. More bandages, medical tape, a small pair of sewing scissors, and disinfectant sat on a TV tray near the headboard.