Exit Strategy (8 page)

“Miss Hightower?”

She turned toward the sound of the bodyguard’s voice. Which one was he again? What was his name? He stood at the end of the foyer, in the opening to the main room at the front of the house, impeccably dressed in an expensive dove-­gray suit. She hesitated, wishing her memory of what she’d
heard
was as good as her memory of what she’d
seen
. Was it really too much to ask that the bodyguards wear name tags?

“Vince,” he said. “My name? That
is
what you were trying so hard to remember just now, right?”

“Vince Barton,” she said, his full name finally coming to her as she headed toward him. “Sorry, it’s late. Or, early, I guess?” She rubbed her temple to ease the pressure there. “What time is it?”

He checked his watch. “Not that early. Nine-­thirty in the morning, ma’am.”

She winced. “I’ve been up all night.”

“If you want to go upstairs and get some sleep, I promise you don’t have to worry about your safety.” He patted the gun holstered at his hip. “I’m armed and dangerous,” he teased. “No one’s getting in on my watch. The other guards are taking turns patrolling the property and checking all the entry points down here. There will be at least two of us inside the house at all times. You’re completely safe.”

His high-­wattage smile had her realizing how completely exhausted she must be. Because if a man as gorgeous and perfect-­looking as Vince Barton had graced her with that smile at any other time, she’d have been blushing like a schoolgirl. Instead, she was just annoyed. He seemed too confident: of his looks, of his abilities, or both. She’d been extremely detailed in her description of what had happened last night and the ­people who’d abducted her. Shouldn’t he be more serious, more alert, more . . . concerned?

Maybe tomorrow she’d hire a different security company, one whose guards weren’t quite so polished or polite or . . . pretty. Maybe they’d send someone taller than Vince Barton, brawnier, with hair that was too long and unkempt, and a hard, angular face that needed a shave. A man who looked like he’d grown up on the wrong side of the tracks and had learned to fight without rules, using whatever means were necessary to survive.

A man like Mason.

She pressed her hand to her temple again.

“Miss Hightower? Do you need me to get you something? Aspirin? A glass of water?”

She forced her hand down. Okay, maybe this bodyguard, Vince, was more observant than she’d given him credit for. Maybe he wasn’t just a pretty face. She
should
trust him and do what he’d suggested, get some sleep. She’d been up over twenty-­four hours straight, and even with her glasses on, she could barely focus anymore.

“I’ve got everything I need upstairs.” It was time for more pain pills anyway, for her bruised ribs. Luckily the hospital pharmacy had filled her prescription before she left.

“Good night, Vince. And thank you, and the others, for rearranging your schedules so you could take me on as a client without any advance notice.”

“It’s our pleasure, ma’am.” Too-­polite Vince stepped back to let her pass.

She headed up the front stairs. But even knowing the house was locked, that the temperamental alarm was set, and that three professional bodyguards had searched from top to bottom for intruders after Detective Donovan drove her home, she couldn’t help the prickle of fear that skittered up her spine.

She reached the top of the stairs and headed toward her bedroom. Everything was neat and clean, like the rest of the house, as if nothing bad had happened. She’d studied the couch downstairs earlier, trying to find a trace of her blood from the cut on her arm, but it was clean, pristine.

When she saw the spot on the table by the bed where the now broken lamp used to sit, she started to shake. In spite of everything else some mysterious person had done to make the house look untouched, they’d been unable to fix the glass in the French door, or glue that lamp back together. For those small favors, she was grateful. It proved she wasn’t going crazy.

Still, knowing someone had been here covering their tracks gave her a bone-­deep chill. It proved how vulnerable she really was. She should leave, move out of this house. But where would she go? She couldn’t just disappear. She still had to keep her investigators and lawyers pushing for answers regarding both her grandfather and her parents. Tomorrow. Or later today, really, she’d make some kind of decision about her future. But right now she needed sleep more than anything else. A shower sounded wonderful, but she was suddenly too tired to even think.

After swallowing some pain pills, she was about to strip down to her underwear and put on a nightshirt, but the thought of going to bed that way again made her feel far too vulnerable. Instead, she wadded up the shirt and jeans that weren’t hers and tossed them in the bedroom trash. She grabbed one of her own shirts from the closet and her own jeans, put them on, and then slid between the sheets fully dressed.

The last thing she saw before she closed her eyes was the five-­by-­seven framed picture on her dresser, the one of her with her parents wearing the green
T-­shirts the tour company had given them. It had been taken just moments before her parents had plunged to their deaths over a gorge because of a faulty zip line.

Unbidden, hot tears coursed down her cheeks. That day had started out as one of the happiest of her life, one of the few times that her parents had actually wanted to include her on one of their adventures. But after the horrible accident, she was left bitterly regretting that she’d surprised her parents by purchasing them an anniversary trip package. She cursed the day she’d ever heard of EXtreme International Tours, Incorporated.

Chapter Seven

Day Two—­5:30 p.m.

C
yprian Cardenas looked over the podium at the crowded lobby of EXIT Incorporated’s newest location just outside of Asheville, North Carolina, carefully maintaining his smile for the reporters. His daughter, Melissa, had basically bribed every newspaper features editor or vacation magazine contributor within a three-­hundred-­mile radius to cover the grand opening. It was costing a fortune in free tours, but Melissa was a savvy businesswoman and Cyprian didn’t doubt that the resulting press coverage would more than make up for the freebies.

The only true downside was that his work was piling up while he had to stand here answering the same lame questions the press asked at nearly every event Melissa put together. One of the more egregious of the reporters today, Kaysen Landry from the
Citizen-­Times
newspaper, was waving her hand with yet another question, probably as juvenile as the last one. When all of the other reporters’ questions were answered and the young woman was still waving her hand, he braced himself and called on her.

“Yes, Miss Landry?”

“Mr. Cardenas, can you tell me again what EXIT stands for?”

The pen in his hand snapped in two. Luckily his hand was hidden from view. What exactly had this woman been doing for the past half hour if she still didn’t know what his company’s acronym stood for?

“EXtreme International Tours.”

The puzzled look on her face had him dreading her next question.

“But you’re opening this facility here in Asheville, offering the same kinds of local tours other companies do—­horseback riding, whitewater rafting, zip lining. How is that extreme or international when your only other office location is in Boulder, Colorado?”

“As I explained earlier,” he reminded her, “our tours provide clients with a more intense experience than other companies. We cater to thrill seekers. We have unique tour experiences that will stretch each client to their physical and mental limitations. And as the ‘international’ portion of our name implies, we offer packages in sixteen countries across four continents through several satellite branches of EXIT Inc. If there’s something you want to do in the wild outdoors anywhere in the world, we’ll make sure you have a safe, exciting adventure.”

He swept his hand to his right, indicating the six men and women in traditional green EXIT tour T-shirts sitting at the table beside the podium. “The real experts of EXIT are right here and can answer—­”

“Mr. Cardenas,” the same reporter called out again.

Something about the barely contained excitement on Kaysen Landry’s face put Cyprian on alert. What was she up to? “Yes?”

“You say that your guides ensure each client’s safety. But there was an accident on one of your tours in Colorado just two months ago that claimed the lives of Mr. and Mrs. John Hightower. Their surviving daughter, Sabrina Hightower, is currently suing both you personally and your corporation for negligence. How can the residents of Asheville feel secure scheduling tours with your company when some clients have actually
died
on previous tours?”

The room grew silent and every eye focused on Cyprian. Even the greeters at the door and the security guards roaming the room had stopped to see how he would respond.

He noted Landry’s smug look. She’d sandbagged him, making him think she was harmless, clueless, when she was actually quite clever. Her earlier questions had done exactly what she’d intended—­made him careless, backed him into a corner, so he looked like a fool when she threw that zinger at him.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, that was a tragic loss, the details of which are in dispute and can’t be discussed because of the ongoing litigation. However, just as someone wouldn’t give up flying on airplanes because of one crash, I think we can agree that one regretful accident out of thousands of successful tours is an impressive record. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment. Please treat yourselves to the dinner buffet we’ve set up in the next room, which includes an open bar. Thank you.”

The near stampede to the other room drowned out the further questions Kaysen Landry was trying to shout at him as he left the podium. The open bar had been his salvation, getting him out of a difficult situation. He’d have to remember to thank his daughter, Melissa, when he called her in Colorado tonight. She’d specifically suggested that he hold the press conference closer to the supper hour so they could offer adult beverages. With the free alcohol and food flowing, the reporters would leave happy and hopefully feeling good about the company. Melissa’s suggestion had been just the thing to divert everyone’s attention from the unpleasantness of Landry’s questions about the Hightower accident.

As he neared the door marked “private” at the back of the room, it opened, held by Bishop, his assistant. Cyprian stepped inside. Bishop immediately shut and locked the door, blocking out the noise from the lobby. The barely perceptible nod of his assistant’s head told Cyprian that he needed to discuss enforcer business.

Cyprian greeted various staff members while he and Bishop headed down the long hall that ran the length of the building. All of these ­people worked to support the tour side of EXIT and thought he was here to establish this new location to expand into another market. While that was certainly true, he had another, far more important reason for being here—­setting up redundancies and backups for the company’s critical enforcer network.

A mainframe mirroring the one in Boulder was now fully functional and operating in the tunnels beneath this office building, ensuring that if something happened to the Boulder location, EXIT’s business would continue uninterrupted. The tunnels had been suggested by the contractor as a way of saving money on utilities, using the cooler temperatures underground to help keep the mainframe from overheating without having to spend so much on air-­conditioning. And of course, Cyprian had immediately seen the benefit of using those tunnels for an entirely different purpose as well—­one which his own
personal
contractor had seen to after the other renovations were complete.

As far as anyone who worked in the tour side of the business was concerned, there were just a few tunnels—­the main one with the computer room opening off it, and some side tunnels with supply rooms. But there were several other tunnels accessible through a hidden panel that only Cyprian and a select few knew about.

To help him with that particular “purpose,” he’d also brought his favorite pit bull enforcer, Ace, and his assistant, Bishop. Which had turned out to be fortuitous once he found out that Sabrina Hightower had followed him from Colorado to North Carolina. But even that was being dealt with. Everything had been going according to plan until that clever reporter had spoiled the press conference.

“I want Kaysen Landry banned from future media events.” He kept his voice low so that only Bishop could hear.

“Done.”

Bishop’s quick response set Cyprian’s teeth on edge. He’d heard the same response before. But with Bishop, the outcome was always an uncertain proposition. Which was why Cyprian had been poised to fire him as an enforcer, and the sole reason Bishop was in Cyprian’s office on that fateful day months ago when Cyprian had lost his customary control and gave an order he later regretted. Now, because of that order, he and Bishop were bound together by a shared secret. And everything Cyprian had done since then was about containment and damage control.

Hiring Bishop as his assistant after Kelly’s death had been an easy way to keep Bishop close while they sorted out this Hightower situation. It had also been a way to keep Bishop employed—­and quiet—­while Cyprian tried to figure out how to end their association without risking Bishop telling anyone what he knew.

Because of EXIT’s secret charter, any enforcer who was fired or chose to leave on their own was closely monitored to ensure that they didn’t disclose any confidences about the company. But in Bishop’s case, Cyprian couldn’t just let him retire and then risk that someone monitoring him might learn Cyprian’s secret. For that reason—­and because it wasn’t Bishop’s fault that he was in this predicament—­Cyprian was torn about what to do about him. Which meant, for now, tolerating him.

They turned at the end of the hall and headed into Cyprian’s office. Or, at least, his
official
office. Enforcer business was conducted in a honeycomb of hidden, soundproofed rooms with dedicated phone and data lines between this location and the one in Colorado to ensure complete privacy.

Bishop locked the office door to keep the admins from wondering why no one was in the outer office after seeing the two of them go inside. Then he keyed the security code into the phone on the desk and a hidden panel slid into the wall. They both headed inside and the panel automatically closed and locked behind them.

Cyprian immediately strode to the bank of windows behind his massive desk—­fake windows, because the walls were actually concrete. But if someone didn’t know it, they’d think they were real, both inside and out. They were actually enormous monitors that could show anything he wanted, from his desktop computer to security camera shots to whatever was playing on TV.

Right now, the incredibly clear picture was a gorgeous, live shot of the Blue Ridge Mountains, courtesy of a camera on a piece of land that he’d purchased for just this reason. He could just as easily switch to a live shot of the Rockies. The illusion of real windows was what made it possible for him to spend hours cooped up inside this fortress without feeling like he was in a prison. And it was this “window,” with its view of the mountains, that helped lower his stress when something like that reporter business set him on edge.

“Cyprian, we need to talk about Sabrina High­tower. She—­”

He held up his hand, demanding silence. The Hightowers were going to be his ruination if he didn’t get this ongoing fiasco resolved soon. And from Bishop’s tone, Cyprian knew he wasn’t going to like whatever his unwanted partner-­in-­crime was about to tell him. Which meant he really needed a moment, or he’d shoot Bishop right here and now. Which would just complicate everything enormously and force him to involve someone else in this mess.

He took in the view of the mountains for several more minutes, watching the leaves blow in the light breeze, finding his center and pushing past his irritation over the press conference.

Finally, he turned around. “Is she dead?”

“No, sir.” Sweat broke out on his forehead. He waved to the bar on the other side of the room. “This is going to take a few minutes to explain. Can I . . . get you a drink first?”

Normally Cyprian wouldn’t brook that type of delay once he was ready to discuss something. But a drink might be just the thing to help him stay calm. He couldn’t afford to lose his cool. Again.

He nodded his permission. Bishop crossed to the bar and began mixing Cyprian’s drink. In spite of Bishop’s eagerness to see to Cyprian’s every need, it did little to atone for his mistakes—­and nothing to ease Cyprian’s grief and sense of loss over the death of his previous assistant.

Of course, Kelly Parker had had other, considerable “talents” he’d fully explored, which made the loss much deeper. Even knowing that it was Kelly’s eclectic . . . tastes . . . that had caused the other unfortunate problems, the ones with Buchanan a few months ago, he could never truly regret their time together.

Bishop handed him the smooth blend of Hennessy whiskey and soda on the rocks and they sat in the seating area in front of the bar. For himself, Bishop had simply grabbed a bottle of Heineken from the mini-­fridge. Low class. Kelly would have shared the Hennessy.

When Cyprian was halfway through with his drink, he decided he was mellow enough to handle whatever news was about to be thrown his way. He set his drink on the granite-­topped bar beside him. “Explain.”

Bishop set his beer down and braced his forearms on his knees. He was a bear of a man, with meaty paws and too much bulk around the middle, which made it all the more telling when his legs began to shake.

Staring at his knees, Bishop said, “Because of what happened last time, I thought it might be better to get help with my assignment.” He risked a quick look up. “I involved Mason Hunt.”

“Excuse me?” Cyprian asked, very softly, trying to hold on to his temper.

The shaking traveled up Bishop’s torso to his hands. “I . . . might have created a fake EXIT order to get Hunt to take care of Miss Hightower for me.” He met Cyprian’s stare and turned pale. “I thought there wouldn’t be any harm. Mason’s one of the best around. He’d take care of it. No one would be the wiser.” He swallowed again, making a choking sound. “But something went wrong.”

Cyprian stared at the other man for a long moment before he could trust himself to speak. “I’m sure I couldn’t have heard you correctly. Because I know that I was extremely clear when I told you that I wanted no one else involved in this situation. Your first attempt to terminate Miss Hightower was disastrous precisely because you involved the tour side of the company. Plus you relied on too many variables. You rigged equipment, hoping a guide wouldn’t notice you’d sabotaged it. Then you didn’t take into account things that could go wrong, like the target getting sick and not completing the anticipated tour. This time you were supposed to keep it simple. You were supposed to shoot her in her home and stage it to look like a burglary gone wrong. Even the greenest recruit could handle something like that.”

Bishop’s complexion turned a sickly shade of gray. “I’m sorry, boss. I was trying to make sure that nothing could possibly go wrong. I thought my plan was failproof.”

Well, it definitely wasn’t
fool
proof. Cyprian pictured his hands closing around Bishop’s neck as he pinned him to the floor, his knee digging into Bishop’s stomach while he choked the life out of him. But he carefully composed himself, holding back his rage and letting none of those thoughts show. Instead, he flicked a piece of imaginary lint off his suit jacket as if he were more concerned with his appearance than the disaster unfolding in front of him.