Hot Pursuit (30 page)

“Making recombinants is expensive. But I can make more. Ten days—a week,” Rains said eagerly. “I promise. More ricin and the vaccine, too.”

Viktor studied the arsenal of surgical knives on the table beside him and smiled. “Your promises no longer interest me or your employer. Besides, too many people are looking for you.” He picked up a scalpel and turned it thoughtfully. “I wish I had time to take you to my little clinic in Paraguay. It is so much better equipped. But no matter. We're going to take a trip, you and I.”

Harris Rains tried to scuttle away, but he was already flat against the wall. “A trip where?”

Viktor smiled slowly. “To hell, Harris. And I'm afraid that only
one
of us will be coming back.”

 

The pain didn't stop.

He was lying in his blood, gagging. Whenever he fainted, they gave him another shot to wake him up and then they started all over again, asking questions and cutting.

He couldn't take any more pain.

The man with the cold eyes looked down at him. Whistling, always whistling. “Where are your notes? Where are your samples?”

“I didn't have time to—”

“You
did
. I know this because the manager of your lab in Mexico was very happy to tell me all the details about the one complete set of samples you finished before you left.”

Rains thought frantically. He'd planned for this possibility, hiding bits and pieces here and there as protection. “Fine, I'll tell you.” His throat was raw as he stared at his bandaged hand and the stumps of three fingers. “But no more cutting.”

The Albanian leaned closer, turning the scalpel slowly. “Talk.”

Rains blurted all the details of his careful plan.

“When did you give this to her?”

“I can't remember—a week ago, I think.”

“Very stupid.” The Albanian wasn't happy. His lip twitched. “And all of it is there?”

Rains nodded wildly. “Exactly where I told you. She doesn't know anything about it. No one does. It was to be my—escape route.” He was starting to feel hopeful, and then something pricked just above his hairline. He fought, desperate to make Lemka listen. If they gave him a little more time, he could explain and make a new plan. With the Navy scientist they had locked up, Rains could make dozens more samples, enough to incapacitate a major city. What more did they
want
, for God's sake?

A fierce pain knocked him back. He grabbed at the air, feeling something kick deep in his chest while his heart spasmed like a fist jerking closed. Then his vision blurred and the pain tore right through his chest.

Gone, all gone.

Harris Rains felt a brief, savage moment of regret for all the things he hadn't finished, all the schemes, all the plans.

Then he was falling falling falling.

All fall down.

Chapter Thirty-three

Four days later

Taylor was on her seventh cup of coffee, watching rain streak the windows of the dingy hotel where she'd been moved. The soft patter didn't quite muffle the drone of late-night planes roaring in and out of San Jose International Airport, less than two miles away.

Her efficient female agent was sitting near the door, speaking quietly on a cell phone. Taylor knew there were two other agents outside in the parking lot, but no one had given her the reason for the escalating security—or told her where Jack had been for the last twenty-four hours.

She eyed a carton of cold Chinese rice with disgust and turned to pace some more. Since Jack and Izzy had left, she couldn't get the hum of adrenaline out of her system. Now her nerves were on overdrive and the muscles in her neck were screaming. What she needed was a hot bath and some cold champagne. Barring that, she'd settle for some answers about what had happened to Harris Rains and why
she
kept turning up in the middle of things.

She glanced at the agent near the door. Taylor had asked for news a dozen times already, and each time she was given polite smiles and cool evasions.

The agent looked up and gestured to Taylor's untouched dinner. “Would you like something else to eat, Ms. O'Toole? I can order from room service.”

Taylor's stomach rebelled at the thought of greasy fries and rubber chicken. “Maybe some coffee.”

“Any more coffee and you'll burn a hole right through your stomach.”

“I'll risk it. But first, maybe you could check—”

Agent Nancy Rodriguez raised a brow. “The answer is no, nothing new to report. As soon as I hear anything, I'll relay it.”

Muttering, Taylor hit the bathroom, settling for a shower hot enough to leave her skin raw. The pelting spray soothed some of her anxiety, allowing her to think about the days ahead.

Moving from safe house to safe house in the middle of nowhere. Round-the-clock guards and limited contact with family and friends.

And all for what? She didn't
have
anything remotely worth protecting.

She dried her hair and slipped into a pair of jeans two sizes too big, courtesy of the agent outside. When she caught a look at herself in the mirror, she rolled her eyes. Why couldn't she be
smart
about her life? A smarter person would have ignored Candace when she'd asked for help. A smarter person would have backed off and run the other way when that nasty funeral wreath had turned up with her name on it.

So why hadn't she?

Because she was stubborn and obsessive. Because she couldn't get the possibilities out of her head. It hadn't been about Candace or safety or justice. In her heart, Taylor knew it was about sheer, god-awful stubbornness.

And now that stubbornness might get her killed—taking innocent people along with her.

She yanked on a thick sweater, oversized like the jeans. Since she couldn't go back, that left going forward. For starters, she was going to demand some answers. She wasn't a casual bystander they could keep in the dark. She
deserved
an update.

She jammed a brush through her damp hair and grimaced. The fluorescent lights picked out the circles under her eyes, which Taylor knew no amount of cosmetic wizardry would hide. She dragged her hair up into a rubber band and charged outside, temper button set on high.

Before she could fire off her first question, she came to a stop, staring at the tall woman speaking quietly to Agent Rodriguez. The visitor had to be at least six feet tall, wearing a flowing southwestern skirt and cowboy boots that only enhanced her size.

Taylor frowned, unable to pick up their quiet conversation.

Shut out again.

“I want some answers,” she began. “For starters, I want to know where Jack is and what happened to Rains.”

The agent by the door gave a long-suffering sigh. “See what I mean. She never gives up.”

“You're damned right I don't.” Taylor grabbed her purse from the bed. “And unless I have answers in sixty seconds, I'll be walking right out of here.”

“Ms. O'Toole, I told you—”

“That's nonnegotiable.” Taylor's voice was hard.

The agent raised her hands. “Okay, pal, she's all yours. I'm going to find some gut-destroying tacos with all the works. I'll check in with the team outside in fifteen minutes.” She shook her head, closing the door behind her.

What was going on? Taylor watched the woman at the window, who seemed to be moving her shoulders, as if she was shaking.

Or frightened?

Taylor started across the room. A muffled sound made her stop short.

Laughing. The woman was
laughing
at her.

“That does it. I'm out of here.” Taylor headed toward the door, only to find her way blocked by two hundred pounds of male pulchritude with big feet jammed into hand-stitched size 13 cowboy boots.

Her mouth worked vainly. “I-Izzy? What are you doing like . . . like
that
?”

Ishmael Teague's broad shoulders were definitely shaking. “Trying to do my job, but hell, Taylor, you make it hard.”

“I meant what I said, Izzy. No more being pushed around and lied to. I want to know what happened to Rains and who gave me that injection.”

Izzy jammed a finger beneath the Day-Glo orange Afro wig he was wearing. “You have no idea how hard these wigs are to put on. I'm not even going to
start
on the whole panty hose thing.”

He glanced outside, eyes narrowed, and seemed satisfied with what he saw. “Stop thrashing around and I'll fill you in. Just point me to the coffee first, will you? I've had three solicitations in the last ten minutes, and my male pride is damaged.”

Taylor couldn't fight a chuckle. “I can't imagine why. You're a fine figure of a woman, and that orange number on your head is just about impossible to ignore.” She glanced at his chest and ran a tongue across her teeth. “I'd love to know what they said in the lingerie store when they sold you
that
bra.”

Izzy squinted down at his chest. “Too showy?”

“Not if you're center stage in Vegas. Otherwise, let's just say you're hard to overlook.”

“Hell, a woman's got to make a statement on the street. Forget about a classic little black dress and pumps. This body is built for speed,” he said, giving a tug at the impossibly large mounds straining beneath his tight sweater. He took a breath as Taylor handed him a steaming cup of not-quite stomach-scouring coffee from the room's pot. Izzy drank gratefully, then pulled a briefcase from the chair near the door. “Let's get to work.”

“Work?” Taylor blinked. It was a little hard to hold a serious discussion with a six-foot-four-inch cross-dresser in an orange Afro, a concho belt, and a size 46D bra without putting some real effort into it. “Where's Jack?”

“Being debriefed. He'll probably be a couple more hours.” Something crossed his face, but he looked away, punching in a code and shooting the locks on his briefcase. “Current security has been upgraded. I'll give you more on that in a minute.” He tossed a photo on the veneer table. “First, have you seen this man before?”

Taylor stared at the grainy image. Smallish eyes. Narrow jaw. One scar beside his nose and lots of slicked-back hair. “No, definitely not.”

“How about this one?” Izzy tossed down another photo.

There was something familiar about this face. “I've seen him before.” Taylor rubbed her neck. “Don't ask me where.”

Izzy nodded, looking pleased. “We're running his data now. Jack picked him out in the photos taken after the robbery. The man's an Albanian national with a juicy record in Europe. First time he's worked in this county, as far as we can see.”

Taylor frowned. “What about the return call I made? Why did you answer?”

Izzy hesitated. “Rains had made a deal to go into witness protection, but he never got there. Jack and I found his phone, though, and
you
were the last person he called.”

Taylor sat back, looking sick. “Why call me?”

“I still believe he gave you something. Can't you think of any time when you had contact with him?”

Taylor shook her head.

“What about Candace? Did she ever tell you anything?”

“She gave me some photos of my first climb at the gym, but that's all.”

Izzy looked hopeful. “Tell me where and how many. I need to have them analyzed immediately.”

“They're in the front of my desk. You think Rains left information on them? Something like a microdot?”

“Let's leave that to my technical team. What about that wreath you received? Where's that now?”

“With Sunny's uncle. I didn't know who else to give it to,” Taylor said defensively. “I didn't know that you were involved then.”

“Nice of you two to pass on this information,” Izzy said irritably. He punched in numbers on his cell phone and ordered an immediate search of Taylor's desk, then had one of his team contact Vinnie de Vito for the wreath. “Anything else you need to tell me? Keep thinking about anything you may have received, no matter how insignificant. The way we figure it, Rains couldn't hide anything valuable in his lab or his apartment because he was afraid those places would be searched. You were safe territory.”

“Assuming I managed to stay alive.”

“You're one tough customer, in case you don't know it.” Izzy put a bag on the bed. “You've also got dynamite friends. Here's a change of clothes along with some comfortable shoes.” He glanced at the spike heels standing neatly near the closet. “Forget the heels where you're going.”

“But I have plenty of clothes back at my apartment.”

Izzy shook his head. “You won't be going back there until this is settled. It's not safe.”

“Are you trying to frighten me?”

“I'm
trying
to keep you alive.” The orange wig started to slip and Izzy shoved it back in place with a curse. “We're starting to get leads from our South American counterparts, as well as our contacts here in the Albanian community. It's only a matter of time until we locate Rains and his pals. Whether he'll be alive or dead by then is the question. Meanwhile, you're going to be safe where no one can get at you. Jack will see to that.”

Taylor stared at his hard face. “You're worried about something else.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because you're edgy, and nothing makes you edgy.” Taylor sat back, watching his face. “There's a problem. Your security isn't tight enough, is it? I think you're worried you can't keep me safe. That's why you're moving me.”

Izzy swept the photos back into his briefcase and locked it. “Given the situation, staying mobile is prudent.”

Silence fell. “You believe that Rains was working on ricin?”

Izzy rolled his shoulders. “I can't give you details, since everything's level-two classified. But I can tell you a few things.” He stared at the briefcase. “Rains was being paid a lot of money to perfect a ricin vaccine as part of the work for his company, which was a defense contractor. A year ago he had some limited contact with a Navy scientist working along similar lines. Rains asked some questions about bioengineering techniques to increase the toxicity of the basic plant lectins. If he succeeded, he'd have both a superweapon and its only available vaccine.”

“Isn't ricin a vegetable poison?” In her last book Taylor had considered killing a particularly nasty villain with a ricin injection, but she'd done him in with a heart attack during three-way sex instead.

“About a thousand times more toxic than cyanide. Don't let the fact that it comes from a common bean fool you. Properly concentrated and dispersed via air, food, or water—ricin is odorless and colorless—it would kill thousands.”

“And castor beans are just about everywhere.”

“Impossible to lock up. Impossible to outlaw, impossible to track, since they're used for all kinds of legal purposes.”

Taylor frowned. “Did Rains succeed? If so, why am I certain that he sold his research to somebody who isn't exactly concerned with truth, justice, and the American way?”

When Izzy didn't speak, Taylor realized that she had just crossed the line beyond what he was allowed to tell her. But that didn't mean she had to stop speculating.

She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “Candace told me that he was arguing with several men who pushed him around and threatened him. Those could be the ones who wanted that research.”

“I'm not corroborating any of this,” Izzy cut in mildly.

“You don't have to.” Taylor had become fairly good at reading Izzy's face, and his face wasn't denying anything. She stopped, hit by a sudden, arresting thought. “Jack had Rains under surveillance during that convenience store robbery, didn't he? When he realized Rains might be harmed, he was sent in as protection. You've known about Rains from the very start, haven't you?”